“Then you regret that you did not cut your serpent in two morsels?” “Faith, yes, almost,” said Raoul. They had now arrived within sight of the little inn and could see on the opposite side the procession bearing the wounded man and guided by Monsieur d’Arminges. The youths spurred on. “There is the wounded man,” said De Guiche, passing close to the Augustine brother. “Be good enough to hurry yourself a little, monsieur monk.” As for Raoul, he avoided the monk by the whole width of the road and passed him, turning his head away in repulsion. The young men rode up to the wounded man to announce that they were followed by the priest. He raised himself to glance in the direction which they pointed out, saw the monk, and fell back upon the litter, his face illumined by joy. “And now,” said the youths, “we have done all we can for you; and as we are in haste to rejoin the prince’s army we must continue our journey. You will excuse us, sir, but we are told that a battle is expected and we do not wish to arrive the day after it.” “Go, my young sirs,” said the sick man, “and may you both be blessed for your piety. You have done for me, as you promised, all that you could do. As for me I can only repeat, may God protect you and all dear to you!” “Sir,” said De Guiche to his tutor, “we will precede you, and you can rejoin us on the road to Cambrin.” The host was at his door and everything was prepared—bed, bandages, and lint; and a groom had gone to Lens, the nearest village, for a doctor. “Everything,” said he to Raoul, “shall be done as you desire; but you will not stop to have your wound dressed?” “Oh, my wound—mine—’tis nothing,” replied the viscount; “it will be time to think about it when we next halt; only have the goodness, should you see a cavalier who makes inquiries about a young man on a chestnut horse followed by a servant, to tell him, in fact, that you have seen me, but that I have continued my journey and intend to dine at Mazingarbe and to stop at Cambrin. This cavalier is my attendant.” “Would it not be safer and more certain if I should ask him his name and tell him yours?” demanded the host. “There is no harm in over-precaution. I am the Viscount de Bragelonne and he is called Grimaud.” At this moment the wounded man arrived from one direction and the monk from the other, the latter dismounting from his mule and desiring that it should be taken to the stables without being unharnessed. “Sir monk,” said De Guiche, “confess well that brave man; and be not concerned for your expenses or for those of your mule; all is paid.” “Thanks, monsieur,” said the monk, with one of those smiles that made Bragelonne shudder. “Come, count,” said Raoul, who seemed instinctively to dislike the vicinity of the Augustine; “come, I feel ill here,” and the two young men spurred on.