“What, my horse?”
“Your horse, seven against eight; a point short—you know the proverb.”
“Athos, you are not in your right senses, I swear.”
“My dear lad, that was yesterday, when I was telling you silly stories, it was proper to tell me that, and not this morning. I lost him then, with all his appointments and furniture.”
“Really, this is frightful.”
“Stop a minute; you don’t know all yet. I should make an excellent gambler if I were not too hotheaded; but I was hotheaded, just as if I had been drinking. Well, I was not hotheaded then—”
“Well, but what else could you play for? You had nothing left?”
“Oh, yes, my friend; there was still that diamond left which sparkles on your finger, and which I had observed yesterday.”
“This diamond!” said d’Artagnan, placing his hand eagerly on his ring.
“And as I am a connoisseur in such things, having had a few of my own once, I estimated it at a thousand pistoles.”
“I hope,” said d’Artagnan, half dead with fright, “you made no mention of my diamond?”
“On the contrary, my dear friend, this diamond became our only resource; with it I might regain our horses and their harnesses, and even money to pay our expenses on the road.”
“Athos, you make me tremble!” cried d’Artagnan.