Porthos turned around like a lion, plunged on the dismounted cavalier, who tried to draw his sword; but before it was out of the scabbard, Porthos, with the hilt of his had struck him such a terrible blow on the head that he fell like an ox beneath the butcher’s knife. Mousqueton, groaning, slipped from his horse, his wound not allowing him to keep the saddle. On perceiving the cavaliers, D’Artagnan had stopped and charged his pistol afresh; besides, his horse, he found, had a carbine on the bow of the saddle. “Here I am!” exclaimed Porthos. “Shall we wait, or shall we charge?” “Let us charge them,” answered the Gascon. “Charge!” cried Porthos. They spurred on their horses; the other cavaliers were only twenty steps from them. “For the king!” cried D’Artagnan. “The king has no authority here!” answered a deep voice, which seemed to proceed from a cloud, so enveloped was the cavalier in a whirlwind of dust. “’Tis well, we will see if the king’s name is not a passport everywhere,” replied the Gascon. “See!” answered the voice. Two shots were fired at once, one by D’Artagnan, the other by the adversary of Porthos. D’Artagnan’s ball took off his enemy’s hat. The ball fired by Porthos’s foe went through the throat of his horse, which fell, groaning. “For the last time, where are you going?” “To the devil!” answered D’Artagnan. “Good! you may be easy, then—you’ll get there.” D’Artagnan then saw a musket-barrel leveled at him; he had no time to draw from his holsters. He recalled a bit of advice which Athos had once given him, and made his horse rear. The ball struck the animal full in front. D’Artagnan felt his horse giving way under him and with his wonderful agility threw himself to one side. “Ah! this,” cried the voice, the tone of which was at once polished and jeering, “this is nothing but a butchery of horses and not a combat between men. To the sword, sir! the sword!” And he jumped off his horse. “To the swords! be it so!” replied D’Artagnan; “that is exactly what I want.” D’Artagnan, in two steps, was engaged with the foe, whom, according to custom, he attacked impetuously, but he met this time with a skill and a strength of arm that gave him pause. Twice he was obliged to step back; his opponent stirred not one inch. D’Artagnan returned and again attacked him. Twice or thrice thrusts were attempted on both sides, without effect; sparks were emitted from the swords like water spouting forth. At last D’Artagnan thought it was time to try one of his favorite feints in fencing. He brought it to bear, skillfully executed it with the rapidity of lightning, and struck the blow with a force which he fancied would prove irresistible. The blow was parried. “’Sdeath!” he cried, with his Gascon accent. At this exclamation his adversary bounded back and, bending his bare head, tried to distinguish in the gloom the features of the lieutenant. As to D’Artagnan, afraid of some feint, he still stood on the defensive.