“Oh! as to you, that is not my concern, and I shall sup either with or without your permission.” The young man’s eyes kindled in secret, but he restrained himself. “Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “you must excuse famished travelers. Besides, our supper can’t delay you much. We will hasten on to the inn; you will meanwhile proceed on foot to the harbor. We will take a bite and shall be there as soon as you are.” “Just as you please, gentlemen, provided we set sail,” he said. “The name of your ship?” inquired D’Artagnan. “The _Standard_.” “Very well; in half an hour we shall be on board.” And the friends, spurring on their horses, rode to the hotel, the “Arms of England.” “What do you say of that young man?” asked D’Artagnan, as they hurried along. “I say that he doesn’t suit me at all,” said Porthos, “and that I feel a strong itching to follow Aramis’s advice.” “By no means, my dear Porthos; that man is a messenger of General Cromwell; it would insure for us a poor reception, I imagine, should it be announced to him that we had twisted the neck of his confidant.” “Nevertheless,” said Porthos, “I have always noticed that Aramis gives good advice.” “Listen,” returned D’Artagnan, “when our embassy is finished——” “Well?” “If it brings us back to France——” “Well?” “Well, we shall see.” At that moment the two friends reached the hotel, “Arms of England,” where they supped with hearty appetite and then at once proceeded to the port. There they found a brig ready to set sail, upon the deck of which they recognized Mordaunt walking up and down impatiently. “It is singular,” said D’Artagnan, whilst the boat was taking them to the _Standard_, “it is astonishing how that young man resembles some one I must have known, but who it was I cannot yet remember.” A few minutes later they were on board, but the embarkation of the horses was a longer matter than that of the men, and it was eight o’clock before they raised anchor. The young man stamped impatiently and ordered all sail to be spread. Porthos, completely used up by three nights without sleep and a journey of seventy leagues on horseback, retired to his cabin and went to sleep. D’Artagnan, overcoming his repugnance to Mordaunt, walked with him upon the deck and invented a hundred stories to make him talk. Mousqueton was seasick. Chapter LV. The Scotchman. And now our readers must leave the _Standard_ to sail peaceably, not toward London, where D’Artagnan and Porthos believed they were going, but to Durham, whither Mordaunt had been ordered to repair by the letter he had received during his sojourn at Boulogne, and accompany us to the royalist camp, on this side of the Tyne, near Newcastle.