“I want a man to light me,” continued Monk.

“Your honor may depend on us,” said a voice which made Athos start.  “Where do you wish us to go?”

“You shall see.  A light! come, quickly!”

“Yes, your honor.  Does it please your honor that I should accompany you?”

“You or another; it is of very little consequence, provided I have a light.”

“It is strange!” thought Athos; “what a singular voice that man has!”

“Some fire, you fellows!” cried the fisherman; “come, make haste!”

Then addressing his companion nearest to him in a low voice:  — “Get ready a light, Menneville,” said he, “and hold yourself ready for anything.”

One of the fishermen struck light from a stone, set fire to some tinder, and by the aid of a match lit a lantern.  The light immediately spread all over the tent.

“Are you ready, monsieur?” said Monk to Athos, who had turned away, not to expose his face to the light.

“Yes, general,” replied he.

“Ah! the French gentleman!” said the leader of the fishermen to himself. “Peste! I have a great mind to charge you with the commission, Menneville; he may know me.  Light! light!” This dialogue was pronounced at the back of the tent, and in so low a voice that Monk could not hear a syllable of it; he was, besides, talking with Athos.  Menneville got himself ready in the meantime, or rather received the orders of his leader.

“Well?” said Monk.

“I am ready, general,” said the fisherman.

Monk, Athos, and the fisherman left the tent.

“It is impossible!” thought Athos.  “What dream could put that into my head?”

“Go forward; follow the middle causeway, and stretch out your legs,” said Monk to the fisherman.

They were not twenty paces on their way when the same shadow that had appeared to enter the tent came out of it again, crawled along as far as the piles, and, protected by that sort of parapet placed along the causeway, carefully observed the march of the general.  All three disappeared in the night haze.  They were walking towards Newcastle, the white stones of which appeared to them like sepulchers.  After standing for a few seconds under the porch, they penetrated into the interior.  The door had been broken open by hatchets.  A post of four men slept in safety in a corner, so certain were they that the attack would not take place on that side.

“Will not these men be in your way?” said Monk to Athos.

“On the contrary, monsieur, they will assist in rolling out the barrels, if your honor will permit them.”

“You are right.”

The post, though fast asleep, roused up at the first steps of the three visitors amongst the briars and grass that invaded the porch.  Monk gave the password, and penetrated into the interior of the convent, preceded by the light.  He walked last, watching the least movement of Athos, his naked dirk in his sleeve, and ready to plunge it into the back of the gentleman at the first suspicious gesture he should see him make.  But Athos, with a firm and sure step, crossed the chambers and courts.