Mordaunt answered only by a terrible laugh, threw his torch into the sea and plunged in after it.  The instant Groslow put his foot upon the hatchway steps the ship opened like the crater of a volcano.  A burst of flame rose toward the skies with an explosion like that of a hundred cannon; the air burned, ignited by flaming embers, then the frightful lightning disappeared, the brands sank, one after another, into the abyss, where they were extinguished, and save for a slight vibration in the air, after a few minutes had elapsed one would have thought that nothing had happened.

Only —­ the felucca had disappeared from the surface of the sea and Groslow and his three sailors were consumed.

The four friends saw all this —­ not a single detail of this fearful scene escaped them.  At one moment, bathed as they were in a flood of brilliant light, which illumined the sea for the space of a league, they might each be seen, each by his own peculiar attitude and manner expressing the awe which, even in their hearts of bronze, they could not help experiencing.  Soon a torrent of vivid sparks fell around them —­ then, at last, the volcano was extinguished —­ then all was dark and still —­ the floating bark and heaving ocean.

They sat silent and dejected.

“By Heaven!” at last said Athos, the first to speak, “by this time, I think, all must be over.”

“Here, my lords! save me! help!” cried a voice, whose mournful accents, reaching the four friends, seemed to proceed from some phantom of the ocean.

All looked around; Athos himself stared.

“’Tis he! it is his voice!”

All still remained silent, the eyes of all were turned in the direction where the vessel had disappeared, endeavoring in vain to penetrate the darkness.  After a minute or two they were able to distinguish a man, who approached them, swimming vigorously.

Athos extended his arm toward him, pointing him out to his companions.

“Yes, yes, I see him well enough,” said D’Artagnan.

“He —­ again!” cried Porthos, who was breathing like a blacksmith’s bellows; “why, he is made of iron.”

“Oh, my God!” muttered Athos.

Aramis and D’Artagnan whispered to each other.

Mordaunt made several strokes more, and raising his arm in sign of distress above the waves:  “Pity, pity on me, gentlemen, in Heaven’s name! my strength is failing me; I am dying.”

The voice that implored aid was so piteous that it awakened pity in the heart of Athos.

“Poor fellow!” he exclaimed.

“Indeed!” said D’Artagnan, “monsters have only to complain to gain your sympathy.  I believe he’s swimming toward us.  Does he think we are going to take him in?  Row, Porthos, row.”  And setting the example he plowed his oar into the sea; two strokes took the bark on twenty fathoms further.

“Oh! you will not abandon me!  You will not leave me to perish!  You will not be pitiless!” cried Mordaunt.