crossing their pikes,
stopped this mad assault. Repulsed by the firm attitude of the
battalion, the Arabs threw themselves with fury towards the
_etat-major_, which was not on its guard at that moment.

"The danger was great; monseigneur drew his sword; his secretaries and
people imitated him; the officers of the suite engaged in combat with
the furious Arabs. It was then M. de Bragelonne was able to satisfy the
inclination he had so clearly shown from the commencement of the action.
He fought near the prince with the valor of a Roman, and killed three
Arabs with his small sword. But it was evident that his bravery did not
arise from that sentiment of pride so natural to all who fight. It was
impetuous, affected, even forced; he sought to glut, intoxicate himself
with strife and carnage. He excited himself to such a degree that
monseigneur called to him to stop. He must have heard the voice of
monseigneur, because we who were close to him heard it. He did not,
however, stop, but continued his course to the intrenchments. As M.
de Bragelonne was a well-disciplined officer, this disobedience to the
orders of monseigneur very much surprised everybody, and M. de Beaufort
redoubled his earnestness, crying, 'Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you
going? Stop,' repeated monseigneur, 'I command you!'

"We all, imitating the gesture of M. le duc, we all raised our hands.
We expected that the cavalier would turn bridle; but M. de Bragelonne
continued to ride towards the palisades.

"'Stop, Bragelonne!' repeated the prince, in a very loud voice, 'stop!
in the name of your father!'

"At these words M. de Bragelonne turned round; his countenance expressed
a lively grief, but he did not stop; we then concluded that his horse
must have run away with him. When M. le duc saw cause to conclude that
the vicomte was no longer master of his horse, and had watched him
precede the first grenadiers, his highness cried, 'Musketeers, kill
his horse! A hundred pistoles for the man who kills his horse!' But who
could expect to hit the beast without at least wounding his rider?
No one dared the attempt. At length one presented himself; he was a
sharp-shooter of the regiment of Picardy, named Luzerne, who took aim
at the animal, fired, and hit him in the quarters, for we saw the blood
redden the hair of the horse. Instead of falling, the cursed jennet was
irritated, and carried him on more furiously than ever. Every Picard who
saw this unfortunate youn