iers made their appearance, detached, as it
seemed, from the principal group; they again disputed the road.

This time the lieutenant did not wait for the opposite party to speak.

"Stand aside!" he cried; "stand off the road!"

"What do you want?" asked a voice.

"The duke!" Porthos and D'Artagnan roared out both at once.

A burst of laughter was the answer, but finished with a groan.
D'Artagnan had, with his sword, cut in two the poor wretch who had
laughed.

At the same time Porthos and his adversary fired on each other and
D'Artagnan turned to him.

"Bravo! you've killed him, I think."

"No, wounded his horse only."

"What would you have, my dear fellow? One doesn't hit the bull's-eye
every time; it is something to hit inside the ring. Ho! parbleau! what
is the matter with my horse?"

"Your horse is falling," said Porthos, reining in his own.

In truth, the lieutenant's horse stumbled and fell on his knees; then a
rattling in his throat was heard and he lay down to die. He had received
in the chest the bullet of D'Artagnan's first adversary. D'Artagnan
swore loud enough to be heard in the skies.

"Does your honor want a horse?" asked Mousqueton.

"Zounds! want one!" cried the Gascon.

"Here's one, your honor----"

"How the devil hast thou two horses?" asked D'Artagnan, jumping on one
of them.

"Their masters are dead! I thought they might be useful, so I took
them."

Meantime Porthos had reloaded his pistols.

"Be on the qui vive!" cried D'Artagnan. "Here are two other cavaliers."

As he spoke, two horsemen advanced at full speed.

"Ho! your honor!" cried Mousqueton, "the man you upset is getting up."

"Why didn't thou do as thou didst to the first man?" said Porthos.

"I held the horses, my hands were full, your honor."

A shot was fired that moment; Mousqueton shrieked with pain.

"Ah, sir! I'm hit in the other side! exactly opposite the other! This
hurt is just the fellow of the one I had on the road to Amiens."

Porthos turned around like a lion, plunged on the dismounted cavalier,
who tried to draw his sword; but before it was out of the scabbard,
Porthos, with the hilt of his had struck him such a terrible blow on the
head that he fell like an ox beneath the butcher's knife.

Mousqueton, groaning, slipped from his horse, his wound not allowing him
to keep the saddle.

On perceiving the cavaliers, D'Artagnan had stopped and charged his
pistol afresh; besides, his horse, he foun