Twenty Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part two

proceed from some phantom of the ocean.

All looked around; Athos himself stared.

“‘Tis he! it is his voice!”

All still remained silent, the eyes of all were turned in

the direction where the vessel had disappeared, endeavoring

in vain to penetrate the darkness. After a minute or two

they were able to distinguish a man, who approached them,

swimming vigorously.

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Athos extended his arm toward him, pointing him out to his

companions.

“Yes, yes, I see him well enough,” said D’Artagnan.

“He — again!” cried Porthos, who was breathing like a

blacksmith’s bellows; “why, he is made of iron.”

“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 setting the example he plowed his oar into the

sea; two strokes took the bark on twenty fathoms further.

“Oh! you will not abandon me! You will not leave me to

perish! You will not be pitiless!” cried Mordaunt.

“Ah! ah!” said Porthos to Mordaunt, “I think we have you

now, my hero! and there are no doors by which you can escape

this time but those of hell.”

“Oh! Porthos!” murmured the Comte de la Fere.

“Oh, pray, for mercy’s sake, don’t fly from me. For pity’s

sake!” cried the young man, whose agony-drawn breath at

times, when his head went under water, under the wave,

exhaled and made the icy waters bubble.

D’Artagnan, however, who had consulted with Aramis, spoke to

the poor wretch. “Go away,” he said; “your repentance is too

recent to inspire confidence. See! the vessel in which you

wished to fry us is still smoking; and the situation in

which you are is a bed of roses compared to that in which

you wished to place us and in which you have placed Monsieur

Groslow and his companions.”

“Sir!” replied Mordaunt, in a tone of deep despair, “my

penitence is sincere. Gentlemen, I am young, scarcely

twenty-three years old. I was drawn on by a very natural

resentment to avenge my mother. You would have done what I

did.”

Mordaunt wanted now only two or three fathoms to reach the

boat, for the approach of death seemed to give him

supernatural strength.

“Alas!” he said, “I am then to die? You are going to kill

the son, as you killed the mother! Surely, if I am culpable

and if I ask for pardon, I ought to be forgiven.”

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Then, as if his strength failed him, he seemed unable to

sustain himself above the water and a wave passed over his

head, which drowned his voice.

“Oh! this is torture to me,” cried Athos.

Mordaunt reappeared.

“For my part,” said D’Artagnan, “I say this must come to an

end; murderer, as you were, of your uncle! executioner, as

you were, of King Charles! incendiary! I recommend you to

sink forthwith to the bottom of the sea; and if you come

another fathom nearer, I’ll stave your wicked head in with

this oar.”

“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried Athos, “my son, I entreat

you; the wretch is dying, and it is horrible to let a man

die without extending a hand to save him. I cannot resist

doing so; he must live.”

“Zounds!” replied D’Artagnan, “why don’t you give yourself

up directly, feet and hands bound, to that wretch? Ah! Comte

de la Fere, you wish to perish by his hands! I, your son, as

you call me — I will not let you!”

‘Twas the first time D’Artagnan had ever refused a request

from Athos.

Aramis calmly drew his sword, which he had carried between

his teeth as he swam.

“If he lays his hand on the boat’s edge I will cut it off,