pointed to the musketeers the gibbets laden with their melancholy fruit. “Poor devils!” said he, “I hope they died blessing me, for I saved them with great difficulty.” These words caught the ear of Menneville at the moment when he himself was breathing his last sigh. A dark, ironical smile flitted across his lips; he wished to reply, but the effort hastened the snapping of the chord of life — he expired.

“Oh! all this is very frightful!” murmured Raoul: “let us begone, monsieur le chevalier.”

“You are not wounded?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Not at all; thank you.”

“That’s well! Thou art a brave fellow, mordioux! The head of the