They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat; the boat replied.

“What vessel is this?” asked milady.

“One I hired for you.”

“Where is it going to carry me?”

“Wherever you please, after you have landed me at Portsmouth.”

“What are you going to do at Portsmouth?” asked milady.

“Fulfil Lord Winter’s orders,” said Felton, with a gloomy smile.

“What orders?” insisted milady.

“Do you not understand?” asked Felton.

“No; explain yourself, I beg of you.”

“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?”

“Could I be supposed to know what I was the bearer of?”

“True! And you are going to Portsmouth?”

“I have no time to lose. To-morrow is the 23rd, and Buckingham sets sail to-morrow with his fleet.”

“He sets sail to-morrow! Where for?”

“For Rochelle.”

“He must not sail!” cried milady, forgetting her usual presence of mind.

“Do not worry!” replied Felton; “he will not sail.”

Milady started with joy. She had just read to the depths of this young man’s heart: Buckingham’s death was written there at full length.

“Felton,” cried she, “you are as great as Judas Maccabæus! 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 were grazing the sloop.

Felton climbed up the ladder first, and gave milady his hand, while the sailors supported her, for the sea was still very turbulent.

An instant after they were on the deck.

“Captain,” said Felton, “this is the lady of whom I spoke to you, and whom you must convey safe and sound to France.