D'Artagnan, the King Maker — page 125: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

114 Under the Ducal Crown. But on going only a few feet his head swam. Even that iron frame had been strained to the utmost. “Provoking! I cannot go up the highland,” grumbled he. “And there is nothing like a path along the beach.” “How unfortunate! Those brave lads will want all you promise them from the village. And, I own, I could resume the nap I snatched in that pinnace last night!” “A nap of four or five hours’ duration! But, it is true, some one must get to Las Salinas quickly!’ “Are you at home there?” “As much as one can be at home where it is not his country !”’ “Ha, ha! D’Artagnan has his castle in Spain!” “Tf it is not a castle I own, it is an inn!” “Verily, at this pinch, an inn is more to my taste than a castle, for I hear that proud Spain has many a lord indifferently housed.” With knitted brow D’Artagnan drew the lieutenant aside to confer with him. As the result two of the stout- est marines converted two oars into litter poles and slung a strip of canvas between them. It was a sort of portable tenter-bed. In this couch the musketeer laid himself, and, with Du Vallon to relieve one porter at need, they deviously edged the strand. But the sailors did not stumble where the most experi- enced chairman might have done, and no Landes shep- herd on his stilts could have meandered so dexterously among the pools. Though slowly, progress was made surely. Their slight refreshment had alleviated the men’s suf- ferings, and they carried their burden like a porcelain idol, impressed with the belief that the triple power of | premier, duke, and cardinal was lodged in no common individual. Finally the little party came out on the strand of Salinas proper, where D’Artagnan alighted; cramps tor- menting him on the carriage, had vanished by this time. He breathed in relief and gratitude. “T am worth ten dead men yet,” said he, in reply to his companion’s mute and pathetic appeal. ‘Look, that is the signboard of my inn, the Kuril, that is, the Black Petrel.” Eomicbooks sco