The arms of D’Artagnan fell powerless by his side. One might have supposed him thunderstruck; a paleness ran like a cloud over his dark skin, but disappeared immediately.
“A prisoner?” he reiterated.
“A prisoner,” repeated Porthos, quite dejected.
Suddenly D’Artagnan looked up and in his eyes there was a gleam which scarcely even Porthos observed; but it died away and he appeared more sorrowful than before.
“Come, come,” said Comminges, who, since D’Artagnan, on the day of Broussel’s arrest, had saved him from the hands of the Parisians, had entertained a real affection for him, “don’t be unhappy; I never thought of bringing you bad news.