D'Artagnan, the King Maker — page 127: what you’re looking at

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

CHAPTER XVI. THE MUSKETEER’S WARRANT. “Now, may all the fiends!” broke out Porthos, looking black at this hindrance to his dining at his friend’s inn. “Do not waste breath in oaths, but let us deliberate.” “Agreeable, but it would be more so in your cellar !” Once ensconced in the rocks, they continued their ob- servation while discussing. ‘What the pest are sentries posted at my tavern for?”’ grumbled Pedro Bitts’ successor. “I left nothing but a fat negress to guard the pots and pans.” “Spain is a kind of enchantment,” Porthos remarked, chewing his drooping mustache, in default of more sub- stantial nourishment, as a horse champs the bit. “Only, it is not two or three strapping varlets who are going to keep a hungry and a tired traveler from an inn, particu- larly when it is a friend’s——” So saying, he drew his long and heavy sword, a little glued in the scabbard by the salt water, which, through all, he had kept with that tenacity distinguishing soldiers when hand-to-hand encounters were common. “I and Balizarde will have a word to say on that head—I mean, on those pikemen’s heads!” He tapped the hilt familiarly. “Stop, stop, friend Porthos! Your precipitancy always ruins things!’ Du Vallon turned to stone at being blamed for headlong ardor. “Even matrimony has not tamed your impetuosity, Hotspur that you are!” “Oh, I am a Hotspur, now!” “Tf only my black stewardess would come out for a stroll, or to gossip with the fishwives, or some of them— _ what do I see!” “The enchantment continues,” murmured the other; “the cave becomes a grotto, and the negress a necro- mancer—at least, that is a fair and young princess!” “My patron, king, and St. Louis!” ejaculated D’Artag- nan, his gaze riveted on the figure enframed in the inn- cave’s entrance; “what is she doing here?” Eomicbookstecom