It was a quarter past midday. The sun was in its zenith, and the spot chosen for the scene of the duel was exposed to its full ardor.

“It is very hot,” said Athos, drawing his sword in its turn, “and yet I cannot take off my doublet; for I just now felt my wound begin to bleed again, and I should not like to annoy Monsieur with the sight of blood which he has not drawn from me himself.”

“That is true, Monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan, “and whether drawn by myself or another, I assure you I shall always view with regret the blood of so brave a gentleman. I will therefore fight in my doublet, like yourself.”

“Come, come, enough of such compliments!” cried Porthos. “Remember, we are waiting for our turns.”