sprang toward his
sword.

But Felton did not give him time to draw it. He held the knife with
which Milady had stabbed herself, open in his bosom; at one bound he was
upon the duke.

At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying, "A letter from France,
my Lord."

"From France!" cried Buckingham, forgetting everything in thinking from
whom that letter came.

Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into his
side up to the handle.

"Ah, traitor," cried Buckingham, "you have killed me!"

"Murder!" screamed Patrick.

Felton cast his eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door
free, he rushed into the next chamber, in which, as we have said,
the deputies from La Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as
possible, and rushed toward the staircase; but upon the first step he
met Lord de Winter, who, seeing him pale, confused, livid, and stained
with blood both on his hands and face, seized him by the throat,
crying, "I knew it! I guessed it! But too late by a minute, unfortunate,
unfortunate that I am!"

Felton made no resistance. Lord de Winter placed him in the hands of the
guards, who led him, while awaiting further orders, to a little terrace
commanding the sea; and then the baron hastened to the duke's chamber.

At the cry uttered by the duke and the scream of Patrick, the man whom
Felton had met in the antechamber rushed into the chamber.

He found the duke reclining upon a sofa, with his hand pressed upon the
wound.

"Laporte," said the duke, in a dying voice, "Laporte, do you come from
her?"

"Yes, monseigneur," replied the faithful cloak bearer of Anne of
Austria, "but too late, perhaps."

"Silence, Laporte, you may be overheard. Patrick, let no one enter. Oh,
I cannot tell what she says to me! My God, I am dying!"

And the duke swooned.

Meanwhile, Lord de Winter, the deputies, the leaders of the expedition,
the officers of Buckingham's household, had all made their way into the
chamber. Cries of despair resounded on all sides. The news, which filled
the palace with tears and groans, soon became known, and spread itself
throughout the city.

The report of a cannon announced that something new and unexpected had
taken place.

Lord de Winter tore his hair.

"Too late by a minute!" cried he, "too late by a minute! Oh, my God, my
God! what a misfortune!"

He had been informed at seven o'clock in the morning that a rope ladder
floated from one of the windows of