“What sort of men?”

“Sixteen pioneers, four soldiers.”

“How far distant?”

“Five hundred paces.”

“Good! We have just time to finish this fowl and to drink one glass of wine to your health, d’Artagnan.”

“To your health!” repeated Porthos and Aramis.

“Well, then, to my health! although I am very much afraid that your good wishes will not be of great service to me.”

“Bah!” said Athos, “God is great, as say the followers of Mohammed, and the future is in his hands.”

Then, swallowing the contents of his glass, which he put down close to him, Athos arose carelessly, took the musket next to him, and drew near to one of the loopholes.