shall never rise after this fourth.”
“Count!” said D’Artagnan, with some degree of emotion, “I struck without knowing that it was you.
I am sorry, if you die, that you should die with sentiments of hatred toward me.”
Rochefort extended his hand to D’Artagnan, who took it. The count wished to speak, but a gush of blood stifled him. He stiffened in the last convulsions of death and expired.
“Back, people!” cried D’Artagnan, “your leader is dead; you have no longer any business here.”
Indeed, as if De Rochefort had been the very soul of the attack, the crowd who had followed and obeyed him took to flight on