he was attracted by a moving point then gaining ground upon that road.

“What is that?” said the musketeer to himself; “a horse galloping, — a runaway horse, no doubt. What a rate he is going at!” The moving point became detached from the road, and entered into the fields. “A white horse,” continued the captain, who had just observed the color thrown luminously against the dark ground, “and he is mounted; it must be some boy whose horse is thirsty and has run away with him.”

These reflections, rapid as lightning, simultaneous with visual perception, D’Artagnan had already forgotten when he descended the first steps of the staircase. Some morsels of paper were spread over the stairs, and shone out white against the dirty stones. “Eh! eh!”