“Let us embrace D’Artagnan first.”

“Most certainly.”

“But the horses?”

“Oh! there is no want of them here.

Will you have mine?”

“No; Porthos has his own stud. So adieu! adieu!”

The fugitives mounted their horses beneath the very eyes of the captain of the musketeers, who held Porthos’s stirrup for him, and gazed after them until they were out of sight.

“On any other occasion,” thought the Gascon, “I should say that those gentlemen were making their escape; but in these days politics seem so changed that such an exit is termed going on a mission. I have no objection; let me attend to my own affairs, that is more than enough for me,” — and he philosophically entered his apartments.