paces, his enemy bent over the neck of his horse.

There could be no doubt — the shining baldrick, the red cassock — it was a musketeer. Fouquet slackened his hand likewise, and the white horse placed twenty feet more between his adversary and himself.

“Oh, but,” thought D’Artagnan, becoming very anxious, “that is not a common horse M. Fouquet is upon — let us see!” And he attentively examined with his infallible eye the shape and capabilities of the courser. Round full quarters — a thin long tail — large hocks — thin legs, as dry as bars of steel — hoofs hard as marble. He spurred his own, but the distance between the two remained the same. D’Artagnan listened attentively; not a breath of the horse reached him, and yet he seemed to cut the air.