vements were fettered, the weight that clung to him
was too great to bear up against, and little by little he sank. Before
his friends could get to his assistance, his head was under water, and
only his long hair was seen floating; then all disappeared, and a
circle of foam, which in its turn was rapidly obliterated, alone
marked the spot where the two men had been engulfed. Struck dumb by
horror, motionless, and almost suffocated with grief and indignation,
the three guardsmen remained, with dilated eyes and extended arms,
gazing down upon the dark waves that rolled over the body of their
friend, the brave, the chivalrous, the noble-hearted Athos. Porthos
was the first to recover his speech.

"Oh, Athos!" said he, tearing his hair, and with an explosion of grief
doubly affecting in a man of his gigantic frame and iron mould; "Oh,
Athos! are you indeed gone from us?"

At this moment, in the midst of the vast circle which the rays of the
moon lit up, the agitation of the water which had accompanied the
absorption of the two men, was renewed, and there appeared, first a
quantity of fair hair, then a pallid human face, with eyes wide open,
but fixed and glazed, then a body, which, after raising its bust out
of the water, fell softly backwards, and floated upon the surface of
the sea. In the breast of the corpse was buried a dagger, of which the
golden hilt sparkled in the moonbeams.

"Mordaunt! Mordaunt!" cried the three friends; "it is Mordaunt! But
Athos! where is he?"

Just then the boat gave a lurch, and Grimaud uttered an exclamation of
joy. The guardsmen turned, and saw Athos, his face livid with
exhaustion, supporting himself with a trembling hand upon the gunwale
of the boat. In an instant he was lifted in, and clasped in the arms
of his friends.

"You are unhurt?" said D'Artagnan.

"Yes," replied Athos. "And Mordaunt?"

"Oh! thank God, he is dead at last. Look yonder."

And D'Artagnan forced Athos to look in the direction he pointed out,
where the body of Mordaunt, tossed upon the wave, seemed to pursue the
friends with a look of insult and mortal hate. Athos gazed at it with
an expression of mingled pity and melancholy.

"Bravo! Athos," cried Aramis, with a degree of exultation which he
rarely showed.

"A good blow," exclaimed Porthos.

"I have a son," said Athos, "and I wished to live. But it was not I
who killed him. It was the hand of fate."

Soon after the escape of Monsieur de Beaufort, the P