The horses seemed to become more lively with each successive step; their nostrils reddened like glowing furnaces. D’Artagnan, freely applying his spurs, was in advance of Porthos two feet at the most; Mousqueton followed two lengths behind; the guards were scattered according to the varying excellence of their respective mounts. From the top of an eminence D’Artagnan perceived a group of people collected on the other side of the moat, in front of that part of the donjon which looks toward Saint Maur. He rode on, convinced that in this direction he would gain intelligence of the fugitive. In five minutes he had arrived at the place, where the guards joined him, coming up one by one. The several members of that group were much excited. They looked at the cord, still hanging from the loophole and broken at about twenty feet from the ground. Their eyes measured the height and they exchanged conjectures. On the top of the wall sentinels went and came with a frightened air. A few soldiers, commanded by a sergeant, drove away idlers from the place where the duke had mounted his horse. D’Artagnan went straight to the sergeant. “My officer,” said the sergeant, “it is not permitted to stop here.” “That prohibition is not for me,” said D’Artagnan. “Have the fugitives been pursued?” “Yes, my officer; unfortunately, they are well mounted.” “How many are there?” “Four, and a fifth whom they carried away wounded.” “Four!” said D’Artagnan, looking at Porthos. “Do you hear, baron? They are only four!” A joyous smile lighted Porthos’s face. “How long a start have they?” “Two hours and a quarter, my officer.” “Two hours and a quarter—that is nothing; we are well mounted, are we not, Porthos?” Porthos breathed a sigh; he thought of what was in store for his poor horses. “Very good,” said D’Artagnan; “and now in what direction did they set out?” “That I am forbidden to tell.” D’Artagnan drew from his pocket a paper. “Order of the king,” he said. “Speak to the governor, then.” “And where is the governor?” “In the country.” Anger mounted to D’Artagnan’s face; he frowned and his cheeks were colored. “Ah, you scoundrel!” he said to the sergeant, “I believe you are impudent to me! Wait!” He unfolded the paper, presented it to the sergeant with one hand and with the other took a pistol from his holsters and cocked it. “Order of the king, I tell you. Read and answer, or I will blow out your brains!” The sergeant saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest. “The Vendomois road,” he replied. “And by what gate did they go out?” “By the Saint Maur gate.” “If you are deceiving me, rascal, you will be hanged to-morrow.” “And if you catch up with them you won’t come back to hang me,” murmured the sergeant. D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, made a sign to his escort and started. “This way, gentlemen, this way!” he cried, directing his course toward the gate that had been pointed out.