their names. But, after the embrace, came reflection.

“What the devil brings Porthos to Belle-Isle, lifting stones?” said D’Artagnan; only D’Artagnan uttered that question in a low voice. Less strong in diplomacy than his friend, Porthos thought aloud.

“How the devil did you come to Belle-Isle?” asked he of D’Artagnan; “and what do you want to do here?” It was necessary to reply without hesitation. To hesitate in answer to Porthos would have been a check, for which the self-love of D’Artagnan would never have consoled itself.

“Pardieu! my friend, I am at Belle-Isle because you are here.”

“Ah, bah!” said Porthos, visibly stupefied with