“I see fresh tracks; ‘tis not a quarter of an hour since they passed this place.”

In fact, the road was trodden by horses’ feet, visible even in the approaching gloom of evening.

They set out; after a run of two leagues, Mousqueton’s horse sank.

“Gracious me!” said Porthos, “there’s Phoebus ruined.”

“The cardinal will pay you a hundred pistoles.”

“I’m above that.”

“Let us set out again, at full gallop.”

“Yes, if we can.”

But at last the lieutenant’s horse refused