himself as in war, D’Artagnan, so mild, so kind towards Fouquet, was surprised to find himself become ferocious — almost sanguinary.

For a long time he galloped without catching sight of the white horse. His rage assumed fury, he doubted himself, — he suspected that Fouquet had buried himself in some subterranean road, or that he had changed the white horse for one of those famous black ones, as swift as the wind, which D’Artagnan, at Saint-Mande, had so frequently admired and envied for their vigor and their fleetness.

At such moments, when the wind cut his eyes so as to make the tears spring from them, when the saddle had become burning hot, when the galled and spurred horse reared with pain, and threw behind him a shower of dust and stones, D’Artagnan,