He bounded towards D'Artagnan, over whose brain a vertigo was stealing and who staggered as he caught at the door for support.
"_A moi! mousquetaire!_" said he.

"Look us in the face and say which is the paler, he or I!" This cry roused D'Artagnan, and stirred in his heart the fibers of obedience.

He shook his head, and, without more hesitation, he walked straight up to Philippe, on whose shoulder he laid his hand, saying, "Monsieur, you are my prisoner!" Philippe did not raise his eyes towards Heaven, nor stir from the spot, where he seemed nailed to the floor, his eye intently fixed upon the king his brother.

He reproached him with a sublime silence for all misfortunes past, all tortures to come.

Against this language of the soul the king felt he had no power; he cast down his eyes, dragging away precipitately his brother and sister, forgetting his mother, sitting motionless within three paces of the son whom she left a second time to be condemned to death.