D’Artagnan continued,

“Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having tried to poison me by wine which she sent me from Villeroi, with a forged letter, purporting that the wine came from my friends. God preserved me, but a man named Brisemont died in my place.”

“We bear witness to this,” said Porthos and Aramis, in the same voice.

“Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having urged me to murder the Baron de Wardes. But as no one is present to bear witness to the truth of this accusation, I attest it myself. I have done.”

And M. d’Artagnan passed to the other side of the room with Porthos and Aramis.

“It is your turn, milord,” said Athos.

The baron came forward.

“Before God and before men,” said he, “I accuse this woman of having caused the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham.”

“The Duke of Buckingham assassinated!” cried all present with one voice.

“Yes,” said the baron, “assassinated. On receiving the warning letter you wrote to me, I had this woman arrested, and put her in the charge of a loyal servant. She corrupted this man, she placed the dagger in his hand, she made him kill the duke. And at this moment, perhaps, Felton is paying with his life for this fury’s crime!”

A shudder crept through the judges at the revelation of these crimes of which they had not yet heard.

“This is not all,” proceeded Lord Winter. “My brother, who made you his heir, died in three hours, of a strange disorder, which left livid traces over all his body. Sister, how did your husband die?”

“Horror!” cried Porthos and Aramis.

“Buckingham’s assassin, Felton’s assassin, my brother’s assassin, I demand justice upon you, and I swear that if it be not granted to me, I will execute it myself.”

And Lord Winter ranged himself by D’Artagnan’s side, leaving his place free for another accuser.

Milady buried her face in her two hands, and tried to recall her ideas, confused in a mortal vertigo.

“It is my turn,” said Athos, himself trembling as the lion trembles at the sight of the serpent—“it is my turn. I married this woman when she was a young girl. I married her in spite of all my family. I gave her my wealth, I gave her my name; and one day I discovered that this woman was branded—this woman was marked with a fleur-de-lis on her left shoulder.”

“Oh,” said milady, “I defy you to find the tribunal which pronounced that infamous sentence upon me. I defy you to find him who executed it.”

“Silence!” said a voice. “It is for me to reply to that!”

And the man in the red cloak came forward in his turn.

“Who is this man? who is this man?” cried milady. She was suffocated by terror; her hair, which had become undone, seemed to stand up over her livid countenance as if it were alive.

All eyes were fixed on this man, for to all except Athos he was unknown.