One night, he dreamt that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent, to go upon an expedition commanded by M.de Beaufort in person.

The young man was sad; he clasped his cuirass slowly, and slowly he girded on his sword.
"What is the matter ?" asked his father, tenderly.
"What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, ever so dear a friend," replied Raoul.

"I suffer here the grief you soon will feel at home." And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos.

At daybreak one of his servants entered his master's apartment, and gave him a letter which came from Spain.
"The writing of Aramis," thought the comte; and he read.
"Porthos is dead!" cried he, after the first lines.

"Oh! Raoul, Raoul! thanks! thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!" And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed, without any other cause than weakness..