heard him speak a thousand times of stages of twenty-five
leagues, he did not wish to fall far short of his model.
D’Artagnan, that man of iron, who seemed to be made of nerve
and muscle only, had struck him with admiration. Therefore,
in spite of Olivain’s remarks, he continued to urge his
steed more and more, and following a pleasant little path,
leading to a ferry, and which he had been assured shortened
the journey by the distance of one league, he arrived at the
summit of a hill and perceived the river flowing before him.
A little troop of men on horseback were waiting on the edge
of the stream, ready to embark. Raoul did not doubt this was
the gentleman and his escort; he called out to him, but they
were too distant to be heard; then, in spite of the
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weariness of his beast, he made it gallop but the rising
ground soon deprived him of all sight of the travelers, and
when he had again attained a new height, the ferryboat had
left the shore and was making for the opposite bank. Raoul,
seeing that he could not arrive in time to cross the ferry
with the travelers, halted to wait for Olivain. At this
moment a shriek was heard that seemed to come from the
river. Raoul turned toward the side whence the cry had
sounded, and shaded his eyes from the glare of the setting
sun with his hand.
“Olivain!” he exclaimed, “what do I see below there?”
A second scream, more piercing than the first, now sounded.
“Oh, sir!” cried Olivain, “the rope which holds the
ferryboat has broken and the boat is drifting. But what do I
see in the water — something struggling?”
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Raoul, fixing his glance on one point
in the stream, splendidly illumined by the setting sun, “a
horse, a rider!”
“They are sinking!” cried Olivain in his turn.
It was true, and Raoul was convinced that some accident had
happened and that a man was drowning; he gave his horse its
head, struck his spurs into its sides, and the animal, urged
by pain and feeling that he had space open before him,
bounded over a kind of paling which inclosed the landing
place, and fell into the river, scattering to a distance
waves of white froth.
“Ah, sir!” cried Olivain, “what are you doing? Good God!”
Raoul was directing his horse toward the unhappy man in
danger. This was, in fact, a custom familiar to him. Having
been brought up on the banks of the Loire, he might have
been said to have been cradled on its waves; a hundred times
he had crossed it on horseback, a thousand times had swum
across. Athos, foreseeing the period when he should make a
soldier of the viscount, had inured him to all kinds of
arduous undertakings.
“Oh, heavens!” continued Olivain, in despair, “what would
the count say if he only saw you now!”
“The count would do as I do,” replied Raoul, urging his
horse vigorously forward.
“But I — but I,” cried Olivain, pale and disconsolate
rushing about on the shore, “how shall I cross?”
“Leap, coward!” cried Raoul, swimming on; then addressing
the traveler, who was struggling twenty yards in front of
him: “Courage, sir!” said he, “courage! we are coming to
your aid.”
Olivain advanced, retired, then made his horse rear —
turned it and then, struck to the core by shame, leaped, as
Raoul had done, only repeating:
“I am a dead man! we are lost!”
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In the meantime, the ferryboat had floated away, carried
down by the stream, and the shrieks of those whom it
contained resounded more and more. A man with gray hair had
thrown himself from the boat into the river and was swimming
vigorously toward the person who was drowning; but being
obliged to go against the current he advanced but slowly.
Raoul continued his way and was visibly gaining ground; but
the horse and its rider, of whom he did not lose sight, were
evidently sinking. The nostrils of the horse were no longer