“Have you the wick?” asked the one who carried the lantern.
“Here it is,” answered the other.
At the voice of this last speaker, Grimaud started and felt a shudder creeping through his very marrow. He rose gently, so that his head was just above the round of the barrel, and under the large hat he recognized the pale face of Mordaunt.
“How long will this fuse burn?” asked this person.
“About five minutes,” replied the captain.
That voice also was known to Grimaud. He looked from one to the other and after Mordaunt he recognized Groslow.
“Then tell the men to be in readiness—don’t tell them why now. When the clock strikes a quarter after midnight collect your men. Get down into the longboat.”
“That is, when I have lighted the match?”
“I will undertake that. I wish to be sure of my revenge. Are the oars in the boat?”
“Everything is ready.”
“ ’Tis well.”
Mordaunt knelt down and fastened one end of the train to the spigot, in order that he might have nothing to do but to set it on fire at the opposite end with the match.
He then arose.
“You hear me—at a quarter past midnight—in fact, in twenty minutes.”
“I understand all perfectly, sir,” replied Groslow; “but allow me to say there is great danger in what you undertake; would it not be better to entrust one of the men to set fire to the train?”
“My dear Groslow,” answered Mordaunt, “you know the French proverb, ‘Nothing one does not do one’s self is ever well done.’ I shall abide by that rule.”
Grimaud had heard all this, if he had not understood it. But what he saw made good what he lacked in perfect comprehension of the language. He had seen the two mortal enemies of the musketeers, had seen Mordaunt adjust the fuse; he had heard the proverb, which Mordaunt had given in French. Then he felt and felt again the contents of the tankard he held in his hand; and, instead of the lively liquor expected by Blaisois and Mousqueton, he found beneath his fingers the grains of some coarse powder.
Mordaunt went away with the captain. At the door he stopped to listen.
“Do you hear how they sleep?” he asked.
In fact, Porthos could be heard snoring through the partition.
“ ’Tis God who gives them into our hands,” answered Groslow.
“This time the devil himself shall not save them,” rejoined Mordaunt.
And they went out together.
LXXII
End of the Port Wine Mystery
Grimaud waited till he heard the bolt grind in the lock and when he was satisfied that he was alone he slowly rose from his recumbent posture.
“Ah!” he said, wiping with his sleeve large drops of sweat from his forehead, “how lucky it was that Mousqueton was thirsty!”
He made haste to pass out by the opening, still thinking himself in a dream; but the sight of the gunpowder in the tankard proved to him that his dream was a fatal nightmare.
It may be imagined that d’Artagnan listened to these details with increasing interest; before Grimaud had finished he rose without noise and putting his mouth to Aramis’s ear, and at the same time touching him on the shoulder to prevent a sudden movement:
“Chevalier,” he said, “get up and don’t make the least noise.”
Aramis awoke. D’Artagnan, pressing his hand, repeated his call. Aramis obeyed.
“Athos is near you,” said d’Artagnan; “warn him as I have warned you.”
Aramis easily aroused Athos, whose sleep was light, like that of all persons of a finely organized constitution. But there was more difficulty in arousing Porthos. He was beginning to ask full explanation of that breaking in on his sleep, which was very annoying to him, when d’Artagnan, instead of explaining, closed his mouth with his hand.
Then our Gascon, extending his arms, drew to him the heads of his three friends till they almost touched one another.
“Friends,” he said, “we must leave this craft at once or we are dead men.”
“Bah!” said Athos, “are you still afraid?”
“Do you know who is captain of this vessel?”
“No.”
“Captain Groslow.”
The shudder of the three musketeers showed to d’Artagnan that his words began to make some impression on them.
“Groslow!” said Aramis; “the devil!”
“Who is this Groslow?” asked Porthos. “I don’t remember him.”
“Groslow is the man who broke Parry’s head and is now getting ready to break ours.”
“Oh! oh!”
“And do you know who is his lieutenant?”
“His lieutenant? There is none,” said Athos. “They don’t have lieutenants in a felucca manned by a crew of four.”
“Yes, but Monsieur Groslow is not a captain of the ordinary kind; he has a lieutenant, and that lieutenant is Monsieur Mordaunt.”
This time the musketeers did more than shudder—they almost cried out. Those invincible men were subject to a mysterious and fatal influence which that name had over them; the mere sound of it filled them with terror.
“What shall we do?” said Athos.
“We must seize the felucca,” said Aramis.
“And kill him,” said Porthos.
“The felucca is mined,” said d’Artagnan. “Those casks which I took for casks of port wine are filled with powder. When Mordaunt finds himself discovered he will destroy all, friends and foes; and on my word he would be bad company in going either to Heaven or to hell.”
“You have some plan, then?” asked Athos.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Have you confidence in me?”
“Give your orders,” said the three musketeers.
“Very well; come this way.”
D’Artagnan went toward a very small, low window, just large enough to let a man through. He turned it gently on its hinges.
“There,” he said, “is our road.”
“The deuce! it is a very cold one, my dear friend,” said Aramis.
“Stay here, if you like, but I warn you ’twill be rather too warm presently.”
“But we
