by his success. Since everything
was lost, he could risk no more.

D'Artagnan followed Monk through his camp. The return of the general had
produced a marvelous effect, for his people had thought him lost. But
Monk, with his austere look and icy demeanor, appeared to ask of his
eager lieutenants and delighted soldiers the cause of all this joy.
Therefore, to the lieutenants who had come to meet him, and who
expressed the uneasiness with which they had learnt his departure,--

"Why is all this?" said he; "am I obliged to give you an account of
myself?"

"But your honor, the sheep may well tremble without the shepherd."

"Tremble!" replied Monk, in his calm and powerful voice; "ah, monsieur,
what a word! Curse me, if my sheep have not both teeth and claws; I
renounce being their shepherd. Ah, you tremble, gentlemen, do you?"

"Yes, general, for you."

"Oh! pray meddle with your own concerns. If I have not the wit God gave
to Oliver Cromwell, I have that which He has sent to me: I am satisfied
with it, however little it may be."

The officer made no reply; and Monk, having imposed silence on his
people, all remained persuaded that he had accomplished some important
work or made some important trial. This was forming a very poor
conception of his patience and scrupulous genius. Monk, if he had the
good faith of the Puritans, his allies, must have returned fervent
thanks to the patron saint who had taken him from the box of M.
d'Artagnan. Whilst these things were going on, our musketeer could not
help constantly repeating,--

"God grant that M. Monk may not have as much pride as I have; for I
declare that if any one had put me into a coffer with that grating over
my mouth, and carried me packed up, like a calf, across the seas, I
should cherish such a memory of my piteous looks in that coffer, and
such an ugly animosity against him who had inclosed me in it, I should
dread so greatly to see a sarcastic smile blooming upon the face of
the malicious wretch, or in his attitude any grotesque imitation of my
position in the box, that, _Mordioux!_ I should plunge a good dagger
into his throat in compensation for the grating, and would nail him down
in a veritable bier, in remembrance of the false coffin in which I had
been left in to grow moldy for two days."

And D'Artagnan spoke honestly when he spoke thus; for the skin of our
Gascon was a very thin one. Monk, fortunately, entertained other ideas.
He never opened his