riod, happily for yourselves, known to you by
tradition only, at a period when love was not over scrupulous,
when consciences did not distill, as in the present day, poison and
bitterness. We were young soldiers, always fighting, or being attacked,
our swords always in our hands, or at least ready to be drawn from their
sheaths. Death then always stared us in the face, war hardened us, and
the cardinal pressed us sorely. I have repented of it, and more than
that--I still repent it, M. de Wardes."

"I can well understand that, monsieur, for the action itself needed
repentance; but you were not the less the cause of that lady's disgrace.
She, of whom you have been speaking, covered with shame, borne down by
the affront you brought upon her, fled, quitted France, and no one ever
knew what became of her."

"Stay," said the Comte de la Fere, stretching his hand towards De
Wardes, with a peculiar smile upon his face, "you are mistaken; she was
seen; and there are persons even now present, who, having often heard
her spoken of, will easily recognize her by the description I am about
to give. She was about five-and-twenty years of age, slender in form, of
a pale complexion, and fair-haired; she was married in England."

"Married?" exclaimed De Wardes.

"So, you were not aware she was married? You see we are far better
informed than yourself. Do you happen to know she was usually styled 'My
Lady,' without the addition of any name to that description?"

"Yes, I know that."

"Good Heavens!" murmured Buckingham.

"Very well, monsieur. That woman, who came from England, returned to
England after having thrice attempted M. d'Artagnan's life. That was but
just, you will say, since M. d'Artagnan had insulted her. But that which
was not just was, that, when in England, this woman, by her seductions,
completely enslaved a young man in the service of Lord de Winter, by
name Felton. You change color, my lord," said Athos turning to the Duke
of Buckingham, "and your eyes kindle with anger and sorrow. Let your
Grace finish the recital, then, and tell M. de Wardes who this woman was
who placed the knife in the hand of your father's murderer."

A cry escaped from the lips of all present. The young duke passed his
handkerchief across his forehead, which was covered with perspiration. A
dead silence ensued among the spectators.

"You see, M. de Wardes," said D'Artagnan, whom this recital had
impressed more and more, as his own recollec