"For the king!" cried D'Artagnan, to every man he struck at, that is to say, to every man that fell. This cry became the charging word for the musketeers, who, guided by it, joined D'Artagnan. During this time the archers, recovering from the panic they hud undergone, charged the aggressors in the rear, and regular as mill-strokes, overturn or knock down all that oppose them. The crowd, which sees swords gleaming, and drops of blood flying in the air — the crowd falls back and crushes itself. At length cries for mercy and of despair resound; that is, the farewell of the vanquished.
The two condemned are again in tho hands of the archers. D'Artagnan approaches them, and seeing them pale and sinking:
"Console yourselves, poor men," said he, "you will not undergo the frightful torture with which these wretches threaten you. The king has condemned you to be hung; you shall only be hung. Go on; hang them, and it will be over."
There is no longer anything going on at the Image do Notre Dame. The fire has been extinguished with two tuns of wine in default of water. The conspirators have fled by the garden. The archers were dragging the culprits to the gibbets. From this moment the affair did not occupy much time. The executioner, heedless about operating according to the rules of art, made such haste that he dispatched the condemned in a minute In the meantime the people gathered around D'Artagnan — they felicitated, they cheered him. He wiped his brow, streaming with sweat, and his sword, streaming with blood. He shrugged his shoulders tit seeing Menneville writhing at his feet in the last convulsions. And, while Eaoul turned away his eyes in convulsion, he pointed up to the musketeers the gibbets laden with their melancholy fruit.
"Poor devils!" said he, "I hope they died blessing me for I saved them narrowly."
These words caught the ear of Menneville at the moment when he himself was breathing his last sigh. A dark, ironical smile flitted across his lips ; he wished to reply, but the effort hastened the snapping of the chord of life — he expired.
"Oh! all this is very frightful!" murmured Eaoul; "let us be gone, Monsieur le Chevalier."
"You are not wounded?" asked D'Artagnan.
"Not at all, thank you."
