ring at the corpses," replied Athos.

"But the dead cannot return their fire."

"Certainly not! They will then fancy it is an ambuscade, they will
deliberate; and by the time they have found out the pleasantry, we shall
be out of the range of their balls. That renders it useless to get a
pleurisy by too much haste."

"Oh, I comprehend now," said the astonished Porthos.

"That's lucky," said Athos, shrugging his shoulders.

On their part, the French, on seeing the four friends return at such a
step, uttered cries of enthusiasm.

At length a fresh discharge was heard, and this time the balls came
rattling among the stones around the four friends, and whistling sharply
in their ears. The Rochellais had at last taken possession of the
bastion.

"These Rochellais are bungling fellows," said Athos; "how many have we
killed of them--a dozen?"

"Or fifteen."

"How many did we crush under the wall?"

"Eight or ten."

"And in exchange for all that not even a scratch! Ah, but what is the
matter with your hand, d'Artagnan? It bleeds, seemingly."

"Oh, it's nothing," said d'Artagnan.

"A spent ball?"

"Not even that."

"What is it, then?"

We have said that Athos loved d'Artagnan like a child, and this somber
and inflexible personage felt the anxiety of a parent for the young man.

"Only grazed a little," replied d'Artagnan; "my fingers were caught
between two stones--that of the wall and that of my ring--and the skin
was broken."

"That comes of wearing diamonds, my master," said Athos, disdainfully.

"Ah, to be sure," cried Porthos, "there is a diamond. Why the devil,
then, do we plague ourselves about money, when there is a diamond?"

"Stop a bit!" said Aramis.

"Well thought of, Porthos; this time you have an idea."

"Undoubtedly," said Porthos, drawing himself up at Athos's compliment;
"as there is a diamond, let us sell it."

"But," said d'Artagnan, "it is the queen's diamond."

"The stronger reason why it should be sold," replied Athos. The queen
saving Monsieur de Buckingham, her lover; nothing more just. The queen
saving us, her friends; nothing more moral. Let us sell the diamond.
What says Monsieur the Abbe? I don't ask Porthos; his opinion has been
given."

"Why, I think," said Aramis, blushing as usual, "that his ring not
coming from a mistress, and consequently not being a love token,
d'Artagnan may sell it."

"My dear Aramis, you speak like theology personified. Your advice, then,
i