“True; but in spite of that, Aramis, grant me, for pity’s sake, one single word of a true friend.”

“A true friend’s word is ever truth itself. If I think of touching, even with my finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true king of this realm of France — if I have not the firm intention of prostrating myself before his throne — if in every idea I may entertain to-morrow, here at Vaux, will not be the most glorious day my king ever enjoyed — may Heaven’s lightning blast me where I stand!” Aramis had pronounced these words with his face turned towards the alcove of his own bedroom, where D’Artagnan, seated with his back towards the alcove, could not suspect that any one was lying concealed.

The earnestness of his words, the