“But let us go,” continued De Winter; “let us be off; the
boat must be waiting for us and there is our sloop at anchor
— do you see it there? I wish I were on board already,” and
he looked back again.
“He has seen him,” said Athos, in a low tone, to Aramis.
They had reached the ladder which led to the boat. De Winter
made the grooms who carried the arms and the porters with
the luggage descend first and was about to follow them.
At this moment Athos perceived a man walking on the seashore
parallel to the jetty, and hastening his steps, as if to
reach the other side of the port, scarcely twenty steps from
the place of embarking. He fancied in the darkness that he
recognized the young man who had questioned him. Athos now
descended the ladder in his turn, without losing sight of
the young man. The latter, to make a short cut, had appeared
on a sluice.
“He certainly bodes us no good,” said Athos; “but let us
embark; once out at sea, let him come.”
And Athos sprang into the boat, which was immediately pushed
off and which soon sped seawards under the efforts of four
stalwart rowers.
But the young man had begun to follow, or rather to advance
before the boat. She was obliged to pass between the point
of the jetty, surmounted by a beacon just lighted, and a
rock which jutted out. They saw him in the distance climbing
the rock in order to look down upon the boat as it passed.
“Ay, but,” said Aramis, “that young fellow is decidedly a
spy.”
“Which is the young man?” asked De Winter, turning around.
“He who followed us and spoke to us awaits us there;
behold!”
De Winter turned and followed the direction of Aramis’s
finger. The beacon bathed with light the little strait
through which they were about to pass and the rock where the
young man stood with bare head and crossed arms.
“It is he!” exclaimed De Winter, seizing the arm of Athos;
“it is he! I thought I recognized him and I was not
mistaken.”
“Whom do you mean?” asked Aramis.
“Milady’s son,” replied Athos.
“The monk!” exclaimed Grimaud.
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The young man heard these words and bent so forward over the
rock that one might have supposed he was about to
precipitate himself from it.
“Yes, it is I, my uncle — I, the son of Milady — I, the
monk — I, the secretary and friend of Cromwell — I know
you now, both you and your companions.”
In that boat sat three men, unquestionably brave, whose
courage no man would have dared dispute; nevertheless, at
that voice, that accent and those gestures, they felt a
chill access of terror cramp their veins. As for Grimaud,
his hair stood on end and drops of sweat ran down his brow.
“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, “that is the nephew, the monk, and
the son of Milady, as he says himself.”
“Alas, yes,” murmured De Winter.
“Then wait,” said Aramis; and with the terrible coolness
which on important occasions he showed, he took one of the
muskets from Tony, shouldered and aimed it at the young man,
who stood, like the accusing angel, upon the rock.
“Fire!” cried Grimaud, unconsciously.
Athos threw himself on the muzzle of the gun and arrested
the shot which was about to be fired.
“The devil take you,” said Aramis. “I had him so well at the
point of my gun I should have sent a ball into his breast.”
“It is enough to have killed the mother,” said Athos,
hoarsely.
“The mother was a wretch, who struck at us all and at those
dear to us.”
“Yes, but the son has done us no harm.”
Grimaud, who had risen to watch the effect of the shot, fell
back hopeless, wringing his hands.
The young man burst into a laugh.
“Ah, it is certainly you!” he cried. “I know you even better
now.”
His mocking laugh and threatening words passed over their
heads, carried by the breeze, until lost in the depths of
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