“Consider,” he said, “that these good people may have wives and children dependent upon their efforts. They are probably doing their best.” “And we must do ours,” said D’Artagnan sternly. “We owe it to the Master.” “We are three to one, Athos,” said Porthos. “Aramis, D’Artagnan, and I are all of one mind. Regard your double upon the boards. If he cannot spur you to action, nothing can. For my part, I shall not draw my sword against any man here, because it would be murder, but my namesake on the stage must be whipped--that is, if he shows fight.” “I shall try a pass with this Beerbohm Tree,” said D’Artagnan, “for he numbers twelve good inches more than I do, and would appear to have some slight familiarity with his weapon.” “And I shall prick this Aramis of Sydney Grundy also,” declared the Aramis of Dumas. “Are you ready?” “We are ready.” “Then follow me.” In a moment D’Artagnan had bounded on to the stage. After him came Athos and Aramis, while a moment later, with a sound like thunder, the enormous bulk of Porthos followed. As ill-luck would have it, the giant miscalculated his distance, and fell into the footlights. The shock extinguished half of them, and frightened the orchestra to such an extent that every member of it, with the exception of the conductor, dived like a rabbit and became invisible. “Your swords, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, advancing with a polite bow. “You will hardly refuse. I see by your looks that you know us.” “Make way! make way!” shouted Mousqueton and Grimaud from the pit. Giving and receiving hard blows, they finally reached their masters’ sides. Mr. Beerbohm Tree was in a tight place, according to the modern phrase. The house hung upon his words, and roared with savage delight at the unexpected spectacle. Mr. Tree, we repeat, was in a fix. Should he fight or call for base aid? Pride indicated the first course, prudence prompted the latter. He made a sign to the pretended musketeers behind him. But Aramis and D’Artagnan observed it, and leapt forward with an ancient expletive on their lips. “Treachery! treachery! Then guard yourselves, gentlemen!” they cried. There was a deathlike stillness. Only one sweet female voice cut the heated air like a knife. It was Milady calling for the police. Whistles sounded and the hurried tramp of firemen and mechanics was heard behind the scenes. “A breath of the good past times,” panted D’Artagnan, pinning Mr. Tree to the left upper entrance. “Spirit of the old king!” cried Aramis, as the unfortunate gentleman who impersonated him fell pierced through the left lung. “May we meet in heaven, my unhappy friend,” ejaculated Athos, while the actor who played his part expired in his arms from twenty mortal thrusts. “But where is Monsieur Sydney Grundy?” cried D’Artagnan. “He has escaped!” hissed Aramis. “A vehicle has just hurried from the stage-door.” “We must follow to the world’s end if need be.”