“Yes.”

“Then I will lay a wager it is with M. de Beaufort.”

“With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend. You always guess correctly.”

“From habit.”

Whilst the two friends were commencing their conversation, Raoul, with his head hanging down and his heart oppressed, seated himself on a mossy rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea — looking at the heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul; he allowed the sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him.

D’Artagnan remarked his absence.

“He has not recovered the blow?” said he to Athos.