Porthos nodded in sign of agreement. D’Artagnan alone did not seem convinced.
Grimaud no doubt shared the misgivings of the young man, for seeing that they continued to advance toward the bastion—something he had till then doubted—he pulled his master by the skirt of his coat.
“Where are we going?” asked he, by a gesture.
Athos pointed to the bastion.
“But,” said Grimaud, in the same silent dialect, “we shall leave our skins there.”
Athos raised his eyes and his finger toward heaven.
Grimaud put his basket on the ground and sat down with a shake of the head.
Athos took a pistol from his belt, looked to see if it was properly primed, cocked it, and placed the muzzle close to Grimaud’s ear.
Grimaud was on his legs again as if by a spring. Athos then made him a sign to take up his basket and to walk on first. Grimaud obeyed. All that Grimaud gained by this momentary pantomime was to pass from the rear guard to the vanguard.
Arrived at the bastion, the four friends turned round.
More than three hundred soldiers of all kinds were assembled at the gate of the camp; and in a separate group might be distinguished M. de Busigny, the dragoon, the Swiss, and the fourth bettor.
Athos took off his hat, placed it on the end of his sword, and waved it in the air.