D’Artagnan turned toward Athos and her friends. “Gentles,” said she. “Allow me to correct your words, if you please. You said you were but three, but it appears to me we are four.”
“Take your leave, ser,” scoffed Porthos. “For your part is done this day. You are not one of us.”
“That’s true,” said d’Artagnan. “But though I have not the uniform, I have the spirit. My heart is that of a musketeer. I feel it, monsieur, and that impels me on.”
“Withdraw, stripling,” called Jussac, who by d’Artagnan’s gestures and expression had guessed at her design. “We consent to your departure. Save your skin and begone quickly.”
But d’Artagnan did not budge.
“Decidedly, you are a brave one,” said Athos, clasping the young Gascon’s shoulder.
“Musketeers, you delay your fate,” called Jussac. “Stand down or we shall charge.”
“Well,” said Porthos to Aramis, “we must do something.”
“This young warrior is most generous,” said Athos, even as she reflected upon the youth of d’Artagnan, and feared her inexperience. “Still, we will be only three experienced blades, one of whom is wounded, even with the addition of a stripling. But believe you that it will be said by all the cardinal’s force that we were four warriors who were overcome, to worsen the indignity.”
“Yes, but instead to yield?” said Porthos angrily.
“That is difficult,” murmured Athos.
“Impossible,” said Aramis.
D’Artagnan well understood the source of their indecision. “Try me, musketeers,” said she in response, “and I swear to you by my honor that I will not leave this place except in victory.”
“What is your name, my brave friend?” said Athos.
“D’Artagnan, madame.”
“Well, then,” said the elder musketeer. “Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan. All for one, one for all.”