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Updated: June 9, 2025
"Drink, father," said the sire. "You are, s'blood! the finest monk I have ever set eyes on." "Father Amador is a handsome monk," said Perrotte. "An indulgent monk," said the demoiselle. "A beneficent monk," said the little one. "A great monk," said the lady. "A monk who well deserves his name," said the clerk of the castle.
M. de Treville was about to reprehend this breach of the rules of etiquette, when he felt the hand of Athos, who had rallied all his energies to contend against pain, at length overcome by it, fell upon the floor as if he were dead. "A surgeon!" cried M. de Treville, "mine! The king's! The best! A surgeon! Or, s'blood, my brave Athos will die!"
"Treason or not, I vow that if my coach were more handy it would help us vastly. Carrying the girl a few yards were an easy matter and a squeal or two of no consequence, but five hundred yards pest take it." "S'blood, sir, she's no great weight and with so precious a burden in your arms 't'would be but a whet to appetite. Still, if you're unequal to the task, pray command me.
Give the wall!" cries the page. "Give the wall to Lieutenant Blood o' the Tower!" "S'blood," says M. Radisson insolently, "let us send that snipe sprawling!" At that was a mighty awakening on the part of my fine gentleman. "Blood is my name," says he. "Step aside!"
"Drink, father," said the sire. "You are, s'blood! the finest monk I have ever set eyes on." "Father Amador is a handsome monk," said Perrotte. "An indulgent monk," said the demoiselle. "A beneficent monk," said the little one. "A great monk," said the lady. "A monk who well deserves his name," said the clerk of the castle.
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