“Oh, my God!” muttered Athos.
Aramis and D’Artagnan whispered to each other.
Mordaunt made several strokes more, and raising his arm in sign of distress above the waves: “Pity, pity on me, gentlemen, in Heaven’s name! my strength is failing me; I am dying.”
The voice that implored aid was so piteous that it awakened pity in the heart of Athos.
“Poor fellow!” he exclaimed.
“Indeed!” said D’Artagnan, “monsters have only to complain to gain your sympathy. I believe he’s swimming toward us. Does he think we are going to take him in? Row, Porthos, row.” And