m by the leg, saying in a broken, breathless voice, "I arrest you in
the king's name! blow my brains out, if you like; we have both done our
duty."

Fouquet hurled far from him, into the river, the two pistols D'Artagnan
might have seized, and dismounting from his horse--"I am your prisoner,
monsieur," said he; "will you take my arm, for I see you are ready to
faint?"

"Thanks!" murmured D'Artagnan, who, in fact, felt the earth sliding from
under his feet, and the light of day turning to blackness around him;
then he rolled upon the sand, without breath or strength. Fouquet
hastened to the brink of the river, dipped some water in his hat, with
which he bathed the temples of the musketeer, and introduced a few drop
between his lips. D'Artagnan raised himself with difficulty, and looked
about him with a wandering eye. He beheld Fouquet on his knees, with his
wet hat in his hand, smiling upon him with ineffable sweetness. "You are
not off, then?" cried he. "Oh, monsieur! the true king of royalty,
in heart, in soul, is not Louis of the Louvre, or Philippe of
Sainte-Marguerite; it is you, proscribed, condemned!"

"I, who this day am ruined by a single error, M. d'Artagnan."

"What, in the name of Heaven, is that?"

"I should have had you for a friend! But how shall we return to Nantes?
We are a great way from it."

"That is true," said D'Artagnan, gloomily.

"The white horse will recover, perhaps; he is a good horse! Mount,
Monsieur d'Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a little."

"Poor beast! and wounded, too?" said the musketeer.

"He will go, I tell you; I know him; but we can do better still, let us
both get up, and ride slowly."

"We can try," said the captain. But they had scarcely charged the animal
with this double load, when he began to stagger, and then with a great
effort walked a few minutes, then staggered again, and sank down dead by
the side of the black horse, which he had just managed to come up to.

"We will go on foot--destiny wills it so--the walk will be pleasant,"
said Fouquet, passing his arm through that of D'Artagnan.

"_Mordioux!_" cried the latter, with a fixed eye, a contracted brow, and
a swelling heart--"What a disgraceful day!"

They walked slowly the four leagues which separated them from the little
wood behind which the carriage and escort were in waiting. When Fouquet
perceived that sinister machine, he said to D'Artagnan, who cast down
his eyes, ashamed of Louis XIV.,