Milady breathed a sigh, and opened her eyes.
“Where am I?” said she.
“Saved!” replied the young officer.
“Oh, saved, saved!” cried she. “Yes, there is the sky; here is the sea! The air I breathe is the air of liberty! Ah, thanks, Felton, thanks!”
The young man pressed her to his heart.
“But what is the matter with my hands!” asked Milady; “it seems as if my wrists had been crushed in a vice.”
Milady held out her arms; her wrists were bruised.
“Alas!” said Felton, looking at those beautiful hands, and shaking his head sorrowfully.
“Oh, it’s nothing, nothing!” cried Milady. “I remember now.”
Milady looked around her, as if in search of something.
“It is there,” said Felton, touching the bag of money with his foot.
They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat; the boat replied.
“What vessel is that?” asked Milady.
“The one I have hired for you.”
“Where will it take me?”
“Where you please, after you have put me on shore at Portsmouth.”
“What are you going to do at Portsmouth?” asked Milady.
“Accomplish the orders of Lord de Winter,” said Felton, with a gloomy smile.
“What orders?” asked Milady.
“You do not understand?” asked Felton.
“No; explain yourself, I beg.”
“As he mistrusted me, he determined to guard you himself, and sent me in his place to get Buckingham to sign the order for your transportation.”
“But if he mistrusted you, how could he confide such an order to you?”
“How could I know what I was the bearer of?”
“That’s true! And you are going to Portsmouth?”
“I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third, and Buckingham sets sail tomorrow with his fleet.”
“He sets sail tomorrow! Where for?”
“For La Rochelle.”
“He need not sail!” cried Milady, forgetting her usual presence of mind.
“Be satisfied,” replied Felton; “he will not sail.”
Milady started with joy. She could read to the depths of the heart of this young man; the death of Buckingham was written there at full length.
“Felton,” cried she, “you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If you die, I will die with you; that is all I can say to you.”
“Silence!” cried Felton; “we are here.”
In fact, they touched the sloop.
Felton mounted the ladder first, and gave his hand to Milady, while the sailors supported her, for the sea was still much agitated.
An instant after they were on the deck.
“Captain,” said Felton, “this is person of whom I spoke to you, and whom you must convey safe and sound to France.”
“For a thousand pistoles,” said the captain.
“I have paid you five hundred of them.”
“That’s correct,” said the captain.
“And here are the other five hundred,” replied Milady, placing her hand upon the bag of gold.
“No,” said the captain, “I make but one bargain; and I have agreed with this young man that the other five hundred shall not be due to me till we arrive at Boulogne.”
“And shall we arrive there?”
“Safe and sound, as true as my name’s Jack Butler.”
“Well,” said Milady, “if you keep your word, instead of five hundred, I will give you a thousand pistoles.”
“Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful lady,” cried the captain; “and may God often send me such passengers as your Ladyship!”
“Meanwhile,” said Felton, “convey me to the little bay of–; you know it was agreed you should put in there.”
The captain replied by ordering the necessary maneuvers, and toward seven o’clock in the morning the little vessel cast anchor in the bay that had been named.
During this passage, Felton related everything to Milady–how, instead of going to London, he had chartered the little vessel; how he had returned; how he had scaled the wall by fastening cramps in the interstices of the stones, as he ascended, to give him foothold; and how, when he had reached the bars, he fastened his ladder. Milady knew the rest.
On her side, Milady tried to encourage Felton in his project; but at the first words which issued from her mouth, she plainly saw that the young fanatic stood more in need of being moderated than urged.