“What is he contriving?” asked Aramis.
“Wait,” said Athos.
Porthos said nothing, but he handled in his pocket the fifty pistoles he had gained from Groslow with a degree of satisfaction which betrayed itself in his whole bearing.
Arrived at Ryston, D’Artagnan assembled his friends. His face had lost the expression of careless gayety it had worn like a mask the whole day. Athos pinched Aramis’s hand.
“The moment is at hand,” he said.
“Yes,” returned D’Artagnan, who had overheard him, “to-night, gentlemen, we rescue the king.”
“D’Artagnan,” said Athos,