The white horse began to rattle in its throat; D'Artagnan gained upon him.

From a trot the exhausted animal sunk to a staggering walk--the foam from his mouth was mixed with blood.
D'Artagnan made a desperate effort, sprang towards Fouquet, and seized him by the leg, saying in a broken, breathless voice, "I arrest you in the king's name! blow my brains out, if you like; we have both done our duty." Fouquet hurled far from him, into the river, the two pistols D'Artagnan might have seized, and dismounting from his horse--"I am your prisoner, monsieur," said he; "will you take my arm, for I see you are ready to faint ?" "Thanks!" murmured D'Artagnan, who, in fact, felt the earth sliding from under his feet, and the light of day turning to blackness around him; then he rolled upon the sand, without breath or strength.

Fouquet hastened to the brink of the river, dipped some water in his hat, with which he bathed the temples of the musketeer, and introduced a few drop between his lips.

D'Artagnan raised himself with difficulty, and looked about him with a wandering eye.

He beheld Fouquet on his knees, with his wet hat in his hand, smiling upon him with ineffable sweetness.