him so formidable, he rushed toward the chief of the insurgents, a man who, with a huge sword in his hand, was trying to hew a passage to the coach door through the musketeers.
“Make room!” cried D’Artagnan. “Zounds! give way!”
At these words the man with a pistol and sword raised his head, but it was too late. The blow was sped by D’Artagnan; the rapier had pierced his bosom.
“Ah! confound it!” cried the Gascon, trying in vain, too late, to retract the thrust. “What the devil are you doing here, count?”
“Accomplishing my destiny,” replied Rochefort, falling on one knee. “I have already got up again after three stabs from you, I