The hero fell without a groan--he fell while answering Aramis with words of encouragement and hope, for, thanks to the powerful arch of his hands, for an instant he believed that, like Enceladus, he would succeed in shaking off the triple load.
But by degrees Aramis beheld the block sink; the hands, strung for an instant, the arms stiffened for a last effort, gave way, the extended shoulders sank, wounded and torn, and the rocks continued to gradually collapse.
"Porthos! Porthos!" cried Aramis, tearing his hair.

"Porthos! where are you?
Speak!" "Here, here," murmured Porthos, with a voice growing evidently weaker, "patience! patience!" Scarcely had he pronounced these words, when the impulse of the fall augmented the weight; the enormous rock sank down, pressed by those others which sank in from the sides, and, as it were, swallowed up Porthos in a sepulcher of badly jointed stones.

On hearing the dying voice of his friend, Aramis had sprung to land.

Two of the Bretons followed him, with each a lever in his hand--one being sufficient to take care of the bark.

The dying rattle of the valiant gladiator guided them amidst the ruins.