At a hundred paces from the gates of Calais D’Artagnan’s horse sank under him, and could not by any means be made to get up again, the blood flowing from both his eyes and his nose. There still remained Planchet’s horse, but he had stopped short, and could not be started again.

Fortunately, as we have said, they were within a hundred paces of the city. They left their two horses upon the highway, and ran toward the port. Planchet called his master’s attention to a gentleman who had just arrived with his lackey, and who was about fifty paces ahead of them.

They made all haste to come up to this gentleman, who appeared to be in a great hurry. His boots were covered with dust, and he was asking whether he could not instantly cross over to England.

“Nothing would be more easy,” said the captain of a vessel ready to set sail, “but this morning an order arrived that no one should be allowed to cross without express permission from the cardinal.”

“I have that permission,” said the gentleman, drawing a paper from his pocket; “here it is.”

“Have it signed by the governor of the port,” said the captain, “and give me the preference.”

“Where shall I find the governor?”

“At his country house.”

“Where is that situated?”

“A quarter of a league from the city. Look, you may see it from here, at the foot of that little hill, that slated roof.”

“Very well,” said the gentleman.

And with his lackey he started for the governor’s country house.

D’Artagnan and Planchet followed the gentleman at a distance of five hundred paces.

Once outside the city, D’Artagnan quickly overtook the gentleman as he was entering a little wood.

“Planchet,” called out D’Artagnan, “take care of the lackey. I will manage the master.”

Planchet, emboldened by his first exploit, sprang upon Lubin; and being strong and vigorous, he soon got him on his back, and placed his knee on his chest.

“Go on with your affair, sir,” cried Planchet; “I have finished mine.”

Seeing this, the gentleman drew his sword, and sprang upon D’Artagnan; but he had to deal with a tough customer.

In three seconds D’Artagnan had wounded him three times, exclaiming at each thrust,

“One for Athos! one for Porthos! and one for Aramis!”

At the third thrust the gentleman fell like a log.

D’Artagnan believed him to be dead, or at least insensible, and went toward him for the purpose of taking the order. But at the moment he stretched out his hand to search for it, the wounded man, who had not dropped his sword, pricked him in the breast, crying,

“And one for you!”