“Pooh!” replied Porthos, “I am what I am.” They rode on for an hour, till the horses were covered with foam and dust. “Zounds! what is yonder?” cried D’Artagnan. “You are very lucky if you see anything such a night as this,” said Porthos. “Something bright.” “I, too,” cried Mousqueton, “saw them also.” “Ah! ah! have we overtaken them?” “Good! a dead horse!” said D’Artagnan, pulling up his horse, which shied; “it seems their horses, too, are breaking down, as well as ours.” “I seem to hear the noise of a troop of horsemen,” exclaimed Porthos, leaning over his horse’s mane. “Impossible.” “They appear to be numerous.” “Then ’tis something else.” “Another horse!” said Porthos. “Dead?” “No, dying.” “Saddled?” “Yes, saddled and bridled.” “Then we are upon the fugitives.” “Courage, we have them!” “But if they are numerous,” observed Mousqueton, “’tis not we who have them, but they who have us.” “Nonsense!” cried D’Artagnan, “they’ll suppose us to be stronger than themselves, as we’re in pursuit; they’ll be afraid and will disperse.” “Certainly,” remarked Porthos. “Ah! do you see?” cried the lieutenant. “The lights again! this time I, too, saw them,” said Porthos. “On! on! forward! forward!” cried D’Artagnan, in his stentorian voice; “we shall laugh over all this in five minutes.” And they darted on anew. The horses, excited by pain and emulation, raced over the dark road, in the midst of which was now seen a moving mass, denser and more obscure than the rest of the horizon. Chapter XXVI. The Rencontre. They rode on in this way for ten minutes. Suddenly two dark forms seemed to separate from the mass, advanced, grew in size, and as they loomed up larger and larger, assumed the appearance of two horsemen. “Aha!” cried D’Artagnan, “they’re coming toward us.” “So much the worse for them,” said Porthos. “Who goes there?” cried a hoarse voice. The three horsemen made no reply, stopped not, and all that was heard was the noise of swords drawn from the scabbards and the cocking of the pistols with which the two phantoms were armed. “Bridle in mouth!” said D’Artagnan. Porthos understood him and he and the lieutenant each drew with the left hand a pistol from their bolsters and cocked it in their turn. “Who goes there?” was asked a second time. “Not a step forward, or you’re dead men.” “Stuff!” cried Porthos, almost choked with dust and chewing his bridle as a horse chews his bit. “Stuff and nonsense; we have seen plenty of dead men in our time.” Hearing these words, the two shadows blockaded the road and by the light of the stars might be seen the shining of their arms. “Back!” shouted D’Artagnan, “or you are dead!”