“No, try this hare, which I had killed yesterday in one of my warrens.”
“Zounds!
what a flavor!” cried D’Artagnan; “ah! they are fed on thyme only, your hares.”
“And how do you like my wine?” asked Porthos; “it is pleasant, isn’t it?”
“Capital!”
“It is nothing, however, but a wine of the country.”
“Really?”
“Yes, a small declivity to the south, yonder on my hill, gives me twenty hogsheads.”
“Quite a vineyard, hey?”
Porthos sighed for the fifth time —