h concealed
his body, but he did not even touch his holsters. There were not more
than twenty paces between the two.

"_Mordioux!_" said D'Artagnan, "I will not assassinate you; if you will
not fire upon me, surrender! what is a prison?"

"I would rather die!" replied Fouquet; "I shall suffer less."

D'Artagnan, drunk with despair, hurled his pistol to the ground. "I
will take you alive!" said he; and by a prodigy of skill which this
incomparable horseman alone was capable, he threw his horse forward to
within ten paces of the white horse; already his hand was stretched out
to seize his prey.

"Kill me! kill me!" cried Fouquet, "'twould be more humane!"

"No! alive--alive!" murmured the captain.

At this moment his horse made a false step for the second time, and
Fouquet's again took the lead. It was an unheard-of spectacle, this
race between two horses which now only kept alive by the will of their
riders. It might be said that D'Artagnan rode, carrying his horse along
between his knees. To the furious gallop had succeeded the fast trot,
and that had sunk to what might be scarcely called a trot at all.
But the chase appeared equally warm in the two fatigued _athletoe_.
D'Artagnan, quite in despair, seized his second pistol, and cocked it.

"At your horse! not at you!" cried he to Fouquet. And he fired. The
animal was hit in the quarters--he made a furious bound, and plunged
forward. At that moment D'Artagnan's horse fell dead.

"I am dishonored!" thought the musketeer; "I am a miserable wretch! for
pity's sake, M. Fouquet, throw me one of your pistols, that I may blow
out my brains!" But Fouquet rode away.

"For mercy's sake! for mercy's sake!" cried D'Artagnan; "that which you
will not do at this moment, I myself will do within an hour, but here,
upon this road, I should die bravely; I should die esteemed; do me that
service, M. Fouquet!"

M. Fouquet made no reply, but continued to trot on. D'Artagnan began to
run after his enemy. Successively he threw away his hat, his coat, which
embarrassed him, and then the sheath of his sword, which got between his
legs as he was running. The sword in his hand itself became too heavy,
and he threw it after the sheath. The white horse began to rattle in
its throat; D'Artagnan gained upon him. From a trot the exhausted animal
sunk to a staggering walk--the foam from his mouth was mixed with blood.
D'Artagnan made a desperate effort, sprang towards Fouquet, and seized
hi