out reproach, forgot to take out of the holsters. And the pistols!
Oh, what pistols! I bought them in Germany; and here they are as good as
ever, and with their locks perfect. It was quite enough to kill the poor
little black horse, that was born in England as sure as I was at Tours
in Touraine, without also exposing these valuables to pass into the
hands of the enemy."

While making this lamentation, the worthy man finished saddling the gray
horse. The column was long enough filing out to give him time to pay
scrupulous attention to the length of the stirrups and of the bands, all
the while continuing his harangue.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, for being somewhat slow about this; but I
sprained my arm slightly in lifting Monsieur de Thou, who himself raised
Monsieur le Marquis during the grand scuffle."

"How camest thou there at all, stupid?" said Cinq-Mars. "That is not thy
business. I told thee to remain in the camp."

"Oh, as to remaining in the camp, that is out of the question. I can't
stay there; when I hear a musket-shot, I should be ill did I not see the
flash. As for my business, that is to take care of your horses, and you
are on them. Monsieur, think you I should not have saved, had I been
able, the life of the poor black horse down there in the trench? Ah, how
I loved him!--a horse that gained three races in his time--a time too
short for those who loved him as I loved him! He never would take his
corn but from his dear Grandchamp; and then he would caress me with
his head. The end of my left ear that he carried away one day--poor
fellow!--proves it, for it was not out of ill-will he bit it off; quite
the contrary. You should have heard how he neighed with rage when any
one else came near him; that was the reason why he broke Jean's leg.
Good creature, I loved him so!

"When he fell I held him on one side with one hand and M. de Locmaria
with the other. I thought at first that both he and that gentleman would
recover; but unhappily only one of them returned to life, and that was
he whom I least knew. You seem to be laughing at what I say about your
horse, Monsieur; you forget that in times of war the horse is the
soul of the cavalier. Yes, Monsieur, his soul; for what is it that
intimidates the infantry? It is the horse! It certainly is not the man,
who, once seated, is little more than a bundle of hay. Who is it that
performs the fine deeds that men admire? The horse. There are times when
his master