“It is he!” exclaimed De Winter, seizing the arm of Athos; “it is he! I thought I recognized him and I was not mistaken.” “Whom do you mean?” asked Aramis. “Milady’s son,” replied Athos. “The monk!” exclaimed Grimaud. The young man heard these words and bent so forward over the rock that one might have supposed he was about to precipitate himself from it. “Yes, it is I, my uncle—I, the son of Milady—I, the monk—I, the secretary and friend of Cromwell—_I know you now_, both you and your companions.” In that boat sat three men, unquestionably brave, whose courage no man would have dared dispute; nevertheless, at that voice, that accent and those gestures, they felt a chill access of terror cramp their veins. As for Grimaud, his hair stood on end and drops of sweat ran down his brow. “Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, “that is the nephew, the monk, and the son of Milady, as he says himself.” “Alas, yes,” murmured De Winter. “Then wait,” said Aramis; and with the terrible coolness which on important occasions he showed, he took one of the muskets from Tony, shouldered and aimed it at the young man, who stood, like the accusing angel, upon the rock. “Fire!” cried Grimaud, unconsciously. Athos threw himself on the muzzle of the gun and arrested the shot which was about to be fired. “The devil take you,” said Aramis. “I had him so well at the point of my gun I should have sent a ball into his breast.” “It is enough to have killed the mother,” said Athos, hoarsely. “The mother was a wretch, who struck at us all and at those dear to us.” “Yes, but the son has done us no harm.” Grimaud, who had risen to watch the effect of the shot, fell back hopeless, wringing his hands. The young man burst into a laugh. “Ah, it is certainly you!” he cried. “I know you even better now.” His mocking laugh and threatening words passed over their heads, carried by the breeze, until lost in the depths of the horizon. Aramis shuddered. “Be calm,” exclaimed Athos, “for Heaven’s sake! have we ceased to be men?” “No,” said Aramis, “but that fellow is a fiend; and ask the uncle whether I was wrong to rid him of his dear nephew.” De Winter only replied by a groan. “It was all up with him,” continued Aramis; “ah I much fear that with all your wisdom such mercy yet will prove supernal folly.” Athos took Lord de Winter’s hand and tried to turn the conversation. “When shall we land in England?” he asked; but De Winter seemed not to hear his words and made no reply. “Hold, Athos,” said Aramis, “perhaps there is yet time. See if he is still in the same place.” Athos turned around with an effort; the sight of the young man was evidently painful to him, and there he still was, in fact, on the rock, the beacon shedding around him, as it were, a doubtful aureole. “Decidedly, Aramis,” said Athos, “I think I was wrong not to let you fire.” “Hold your tongue,” replied Aramis; “you would make me weep, if such a thing were possible.”