reasonable."

Or from Raoul, "Your Grace is killing your horse."

Buckingham listened patiently to Raoul's remarks, for he instinctively
felt, without having had any proof that such was the case, that Raoul
checked the display of De Guiche's feelings, and that, had it not
been for Raoul, some mad act or proceeding, either of the count, or
of Buckingham himself, would have brought about an open rupture, or a
disturbance--perhaps even exile itself. From the moment of that excited
conversation the two young men had held in front of the tents at Le
Havre, when Raoul made the duke perceive the impropriety of his conduct,
Buckingham felt himself attracted towards Raoul almost in spite of
himself. He often entered into conversation with him, and it was nearly
always to talk to him either of his father or of D'Artagnan, their
mutual friend, in whose praise Buckingham was nearly as enthusiastic as
Raoul. Raoul endeavored, as much as possible, to make the conversation
turn upon this subject in De Wardes's presence, who had, during the
whole journey, been exceedingly annoyed at the superior position taken
by Bragelonne, and especially by his influence over De Guiche. De Wardes
had that keen and merciless penetration most evil natures possess; he
had immediately remarked De Guiche's melancholy, and divined the nature
of his regard for the princess. Instead, however, of treating the
subject with the same reserve which Raoul practiced; instead of
regarding with that respect, which was their due, the obligations
and duties of society, De Wardes resolutely attacked in the count the
ever-sounding chord of juvenile audacity and pride. It happened one
evening, during a halt at Mantes, that while De Guiche and De Wardes
were leaning against a barrier, engaged in conversation, Buckingham and
Raoul were also talking together as they walked up and down. Manicamp
was engaged in devoted attendance on the princess, who already treated
him without reserve, on account of his versatile fancy, his frank
courtesy of manner, and conciliatory disposition.

"Confess," said De Wardes, "that you are really ill, and that your
pedagogue of a friend has not succeeded in curing you."

"I do not understand you," said the count.

"And yet it is easy enough; you are dying of love."

"You are mad, De Wardes."

"Madness it would be, I admit, if Madame were really indifferent to your
martyrdom; but she takes so much notice of it, observes it to such an
ext