— it was full of gunpowder.
Convinced that the ship was full of powder instead of having
a cargo of wine, Grimaud hastened to awake D’Artagnan, who
had no sooner beheld him than he perceived that something
extraordinary had taken place. Imposing silence, Grimaud put
out the little night lamp, then knelt down and poured into
the lieutenant’s ear a recital melodramatic enough not to
require play of feature to give it pith.
This was the gist of his strange story:
The first barrel that Grimaud had found on passing into the
compartment he struck — it was empty. He passed on to
another — it, also, was empty, but the third which he tried
was, from the dull sound it gave out, evidently full. At
this point Grimaud stopped and was preparing to make a hole
with his gimlet, when he found a spigot; he therefore placed
his tankard under it and turned the spout; something,
whatever it was the cask contained, fell silently into the
tankard.
Whilst he was thinking that he should first taste the liquor
which the tankard contained before taking it to his
companions, the door of the cellar opened and a man with a
lantern in his hands and enveloped in a cloak, came and
stood just before the hogshead, behind which Grimaud, on
hearing him come in, instantly crept. This was Groslow. He
was accompanied by another man, who carried in his hand
something long and flexible rolled up, resembling a washing
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line. His face was hidden under the wide brim of his hat.
Grimaud, thinking that they had come, as he had, to try the
port wine, effaced himself behind his cask and consoled
himself with the reflection that if he were discovered the
crime was not a great one.
“Have you the wick?” asked the one who carried the lantern.
“Here it is,” answered the other.
At the voice of this last speaker, Grimaud started and felt
a shudder creeping through his very marrow. He rose gently,
so that his head was just above the round of the barrel, and
under the large hat he recognized the pale face of Mordaunt.
“How long will this fuse burn?” asked this person.
“About five minutes,” replied the captain.
That voice also was known to Grimaud. He looked from one to
the other and after Mordaunt he recognized Groslow.
“Then tell the men to be in readiness — don’t tell them why
now. When the clock strikes a quarter after midnight collect
your men. Get down into the longboat.”
“That is, when I have lighted the match?”
“I will undertake that. I wish to be sure of my revenge. Are
the oars in the boat?”
“Everything is ready.”
“‘Tis well.”
Mordaunt knelt down and fastened one end of the train to the
spigot, in order that he might have nothing to do but to set
it on fire at the opposite end with the match.
He then arose.
“You hear me — at a quarter past midnight — in fact, in
twenty minutes.”
“I understand all perfectly, sir,” replied Groslow; “but
allow me to say there is great danger in what you undertake;
would it not be better to intrust one of the men to set fire
to the train?”
“My dear Groslow,” answered Mordaunt, “you know the French
proverb, `Nothing one does not do one’s self is ever well
done.’ I shall abide by that rule.”
Grimaud had heard all this, if he had not understood it. But
what he saw made good what he lacked in perfect
comprehension of the language. He had seen the two mortal
enemies of the musketeers, had seen Mordaunt adjust the
fuse; he had heard the proverb, which Mordaunt had given in
French. Then he felt and felt again the contents of the
tankard he held in his hand; and, instead of the lively
liquor expected by Blaisois and Mousqueton, he found beneath
his fingers the grains of some coarse powder.
Mordaunt went away with the captain. At the door he stopped
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to listen.
“Do you hear how they sleep?” he asked.