At length a fresh discharge was heard, and this time the balls came rattling among the stones around the four friends, and whistling sharply in their ears. The Rochellais had at last taken possession of the bastion.
“These Rochellais are bungling fellows,” said Athos; “how many have we killed of them—a dozen?”
“Or fifteen.”
“How many did we crush under the wall?”
“Eight or ten.”
“And in exchange for all that not even a scratch! Ah, but what is the matter with your hand, d’Artagnan? It bleeds, seemingly.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said d’Artagnan.
“A spent ball?”
“Not even that.”
“What is it, then?”
We have said that Athos loved d’Artagnan like a child, and this somber and inflexible personage felt the anxiety of a parent for the young man.
“Only grazed a little,” replied d’Artagnan; “my fingers were caught between two stones—that of the wall and that of my ring—and the skin was broken.”
“That comes of wearing diamonds, my master,” said Athos, disdainfully.
“Ah, to be sure,” cried Porthos, “there is a diamond. Why the devil, then, do we plague ourselves about money, when there is a diamond?”