like a timid child, arose
shivering from the stone. A Christian does not walk on tombs. But,
though capable of standing, he was not capable of walking. It might
be said that something of dead Porthos had just died within him. His
Bretons surrounded him; Aramis yielded to their kind exertions, and the
three sailors, lifting him up, carried him to the canoe. Then, having
laid him down upon the bench near the rudder, they took to their oars,
preferring this to hoisting sail, which might betray them.

On all that leveled surface of the ancient grotto of Locmaria, one
single hillock attracted their eyes. Aramis never removed his from it;
and, at a distance out in the sea, in proportion as the shore receded,
that menacing proud mass of rock seemed to draw itself up, as formerly
Porthos used to draw himself up, raising a smiling, yet invincible head
towards heaven, like that of his dear old honest valiant friend, the
strongest of the four, yet the first dead. Strange destiny of these men
of brass! The most simple of heart allied to the most crafty; strength
of body guided by subtlety of mind; and in the decisive moment, when
vigor alone could save mind and body, a stone, a rock, a vile material
weight, triumphed over manly strength, and falling upon the body, drove
out the mind.

Worthy Porthos! born to help other men, always ready to sacrifice
himself for the safety of the weak, as if God had only given him
strength for that purpose; when dying he only thought he was carrying
out the conditions of his compact with Aramis, a compact, however, which
Aramis alone had drawn up, and which Porthos had only known to suffer
by its terrible solidarity. Noble Porthos! of what good now are thy
chateaux overflowing with sumptuous furniture, forests overflowing with
game, lakes overflowing with fish, cellars overflowing with wealth! Of
what service to thee now thy lackeys in brilliant liveries, and in the
midst of them Mousqueton, proud of the power delegated by thee! Oh,
noble Porthos! careful heaper-up of treasure, was it worth while to
labor to sweeten and gild life, to come upon a desert shore, surrounded
by the cries of seagulls, and lay thyself, with broken bones, beneath
a torpid stone? Was it worth while, in short, noble Porthos, to heap so
much gold, and not have even the distich of a poor poet engraven upon
thy monument? Valiant Porthos! he still, without doubt, sleeps, lost,
forgotten, beneath the rock the shepherds of the hea