“Then I shall want another of them if you require a box,” replied the young man. Porthos produced the money, and soon the four friends were comfortably seated in a stage-box. “It is well,” said Athos. “From this place we may make our voices heard among the players, and work our will without shedding of blood; at least, it may be permitted to hope so.” “Let me see,” answered Porthos; “what lies before us?” “’Tis simple. We must put a stop to the performance, and we must secure the person of Sydney Grundy. One does not wish to slay him here in a place of entertainment; but he must be captured and removed,” declared Aramis. “We may safely leave that task to D’Artagnan.” With increasing interest the warriors regarded the incoming audience, and marvelled at the changes Time had wrought upon human costume. “_Pardieu!_ Look at the men!” said Porthos. “They are all attired even as the lackeys at the eating-house.” “The English will never learn how to dress,” declared Aramis. Then the band struck up, and the eyes of D’Artagnan, ranging through the theatre, met those of Mousqueton and Grimaud. He made a secret sign, which they showed was understood by an intelligent gleam in their eyes. Meantime Aramis and Athos carefully studied the programme. Presently the drama began, and from the very commencement roar upon roar of deep, lion-like sound thundered and echoed in the stage-box of the Musketeers. It was Porthos regarding his double on the stage. “It is too droll--these English. Behold the worthy fellow! Look, dear friends, at the English Porthos! Inspect his thews and sinews. _Sang bleu!_ I could eat him like a French roll!” Loud and indignant cries resounded through the theatre, and Mr. Tree, taking the centre of the stage much against his will, gazed inquiringly at the box from which rolled the huge voice of Porthos and drowned those of the performers. The actor-manager’s eyes met those of D’Artagnan, and he turned pale. “They are there, the three Musketeers--the others!” he whispered to Milady in a voice swept by the deepest emotion. “Not Hamilton’s?” asked Milady, her eyes flashing as much with indignation as natural feminine curiosity. “No, no, Dumas’. And D’Artagnan is also there.” “That is different,” she said, and manifested an inclination to retire to her dressing-room. Order was restored, however, and the play progressed. With characteristic bull-dog British courage the gentlemen of the stage struggled through their parts, drew their swords, and fretted their hour, each with an uneasy eye upon the stage-box. But the Musketeers were not patient men, and a moment came, about half-way through the second act, when their eyes sought each other’s faces, and Aramis, without being asked to do so, rose and gathered the four swords, which were placed in a corner of the box. Athos could not conceal the nobility of his character even at this moment.