to put an end to a war the ostensible cause of which is publicly said to be religion, and the hidden and real cause of which is privately whispered to be your love for me. This war may bring not only great catastrophes on England and France, but misfortunes on you, milord, for which I should never console myself.

“Be careful of your life, which is threatened, and which will be dear to me from the moment I am not obliged to see an enemy in you.—Your affectionate

“Anne.”

Buckingham collected all his remaining strength to listen to the reading of the letter. Then when it was ended, as if he had met with a bitter disappointment in it,

“Have you nothing else to say to me verbally, La Porte?” asked he.

“Yes, monseigneur. The queen charged me to bid you be on your guard, for she has been informed that your assassination would be attempted.”

“And is that all, is that all?” replied Buckingham impatiently.

“She likewise charged me to tell you that she still loved you.”

“Ah,” said Buckingham, “God be praised! My death, then, will not be to her as the death of a stranger.”

La Porte burst into tears.

“Patrick,” said the duke, “bring me the casket in which the diamond studs were kept.”

Patrick brought the object desired, which La Porte recognized as having belonged to the queen.

“Now the white satin sachet on which her monogram is embroidered in pearls.”

Patrick again obeyed.

“Here, La Porte,” said Buckingham, “these are the only remembrances I ever received from her—this silver casket and these two letters. You will restore them to her Majesty; and as a last memorial” —he looked round for some valuable object—“you will add to them—”

He still looked; but his eyes, darkened by death, saw only the knife which had fallen from Felton’s hand, still steaming with the red blood spread over its blade.

“And you will add to them this knife,” said the duke, pressing the hand of La Porte.

He had just strength enough to place the sachet at the bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into it, making a sign to La Porte that he was no longer able to speak. Then in a last convulsion, which he had no longer the power to resist, he slipped from the sofa to the floor.

Patrick uttered a loud cry.

Buckingham tried to smile a last time, but death checked his wish, which remained graven on his brow like a last kiss of love.

As soon as Lord Winter saw Buckingham was dead he ran to Felton, whom the soldiers were still guarding on the terrace of the palace.

“Miserable wretch!” said he to the young man, who since Buckingham’s death had regained the coolness and self-possession which was never again to abandon him—“miserable wretch! What hast thou done?”