“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.”