t stone, so that the cord of the crane might be passed under it. The
six men, all on one side of the stone, united their efforts to raise it
to eight or ten inches from the ground, sweating and blowing, whilst a
seventh got ready against there should be daylight enough beneath it to
slide in the roller that was to support it. But the stone had already
twice escaped from their hands before gaining a sufficient height for
the roller to be introduced. There can be no doubt that every time the
stone escaped them, they bounded quickly backwards, to keep their
feet from being crushed by the refalling stone. Every time, the stone,
abandoned by them, sunk deeper into the damp earth, which rendered the
operation more and more difficult. A third effort was followed by no
better success, but with progressive discouragement. And yet, when
the six men were bent towards the stone, the man with the feathers had
himself, with a powerful voice, given the word of command, "Ferme!"
which regulates maneuvers of strength. Then he drew himself up.

"Oh! oh!" said he, "what is all this about? Have I to do with men of
straw? Corne de boeuf! stand on one side, and you shall see how this is
to be done."

"Peste!" said D'Artagnan, "will he pretend to raise that rock? that
would be a sight worth looking at."

The workmen, as commanded by the engineer, drew back with their ears
down, and shaking their heads, with the exception of the one who held
the plank, who prepared to perform the office. The man with the feathers
went up to the stone, stooped, slipped his hands under the face lying
upon the ground, stiffened his Herculean muscles, and without a strain,
with a slow motion, like that of a machine, he lifted the end of the
rock a foot from the ground. The workman who held the plank profited by
the space thus given him, and slipped the roller under the stone.

"That's the way," said the giant, not letting the rock fall again, but
placing it upon its support.

"Mordioux!" cried D'Artagnan, "I know but one man capable of such a feat
of strength."

"Hein!" cried the colossus, turning round.

"Porthos!" murmured D'Artagnan, seized with stupor, "Porthos at
Belle-Isle!"

On his part, the man with the feathers fixed his eyes upon the disguised
lieutenant, and, in spite of his metamorphosis, recognized him.
"D'Artagnan!" cried he; and the color mounted to his face. "Hush!" said
he to D'Artagnan.

"Hush!" in his turn, said the musketeer. In fact