It was almost midnight. The moon， hollowed by its waning， and red as blood under the last traces of the storm， was rising behind the little town of Armentières， which outlined against its pallid light the dark silhouette of its houses and the skeleton of its high carved belfry. In front of them the Lys was rolling its waters like a river of molten lead； while on the other bank could be seen a black mass of trees， outlined against a stormy sky， which was invaded by huge coppery clouds， creating a kind of twilight amid the night.
Two of the lackeys dragged milady along， each taking one of her arms. The executioner walked behind them， and Lord Winter，D’Artagnan， Porthos， and Aramis walked behind the executioner.
When they reached the banks of the river the executioner approached milady and bound her hands and her feet.
Athos took a step toward milady.
“I pardon you，” said he， “the ill you have done me； I pardon you for my blasted future， my lost honour， my defiled love， and my salvation for ever compromised by the despair into which you have cast me. Die in peace！”
Lord Winter advanced next.
“I pardon you，” said he， “the poisoning of my brother， the assassination of his Grace the Duke of Buckingham； I pardon you poor Felton’s death； I pardon you the attempts on me personally. Die in peace！”
“And I，” said D’Artagnan—“pardon me， madame， for having by deceit， unworthy of a gentleman， provoked your anger； and in exchange I pardon you the murder of my poor sweetheart and your cruel “I am lost！” murmured milady in English； “I must die！”
Then she rosa of her own accord， and cast around her one of those keen looks which seemed to dart from a flaming eye.
She saw nothing.
She listened； she heard nothing.
She had only enemies around her.
“Where am I to die？” she asked.
“On the other bank，” replied the executioner.
Then he made her enter the boat，
The boat moved off toward the left bank of the Lys， bearing the guilty woman and the executioner. All the others remained on the right bank， where they had fallen on their knees.
The boat glided along the ferry-rope under the gleam of a pale cloud which hung over the water at the moment.
It was seen reaching the opposite bank； the figures were outlined in black against the red-tinted horizon.
Milady during the passage had contrived to untie the cord which fastened her feet； on reaching the bank， she jumped lightly on shore and took to flight.
But the soil was moist. When she reached the top of the bank she slipped and fell on her knees.
A superstitious idea struck her： she realized that Heaven denied its aid， and she remained in the attitude in which she had fallen， with her head drooping and her hands clasped.
Then from the other bank the executioner was seen to raise both his arms slowly. A moonbeam fell on the blade of his broadsword. His two arms fell； they heard the hissing of the scimitar and the victim’s cry， then a truncated mass sank under the blow.
The executioner then took off his red cloak， spread it on the ground， laid the body in it， threw in the head， tied it by the four corners， lifted it on his shoulder， and got into the boat again.
In the middle of the stream he stopped the boat， and holding his burden over the water，
“Let the justice of God be done！” cried he， in a loud voice.
And he let the body drop into the depths of the waters， which closed over it.
Three days later the four musketeers were in Paris again. They had not exceeded their leave of absence， and that same evening went to pay their customary visit to M. de Trèville.
“Well， gentlemen，” asked the excellent captain， “have you enjoyed your excursion？”
“Prodigiously！” replied Athos for himself and his companions.
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Conclusion
On the sixth of the following month the king， in compliance with the promise he had made the cardinal to leave Paris and to return to Rochelle， departed from his capital， unable to recover from his amazement at the news which was just beginning to spread abroad that Buckingham had been assassinated.
The return to Rochelle was profoundly dull. Our four friends in particular astonished their comrades. They travelled together， side by side， with melancholy eyes and hanging heads. Athos alone from time to time raised his broad brow. A flash kindled in his eyes， a bitter smile passed over his lips. Then， like his comrades， he again resumed his reveries.
When the escort arrived in a city， as soon as they had escorted the king to his lodgings the four friends either retired to their own quarters or to some secluded tavern， where they neither drank nor played. They only conversed in a low voice， looking around attentively that no one overheard them.
One day， when the king had halted on the way to fly the magpie， and the four friends， according to their custom， instead of following the sport， had stopped at a tavern on the turnpike， a man， riding full speed from Rochelle， pulled up at the door to drink a glass of wine， and glanced into the room where the four musketeers were sitting at table.
“Hello， Monsieur d’Artagnan！” said he， “isn’t it you I see there？”
D’Artagnan raised his head and uttered a cry of joy. It was the man he had called his phantom； it was the stranger of Meung， of the Rue des Fossoyeurs， and of Arras.
D’Artagnan drew his sword and sprang toward the door.
But this time， instead of eluding him， the stranger leaped from his horse and advanced to meet D’Artagnan.
“Ah， sir！” said the young man， “I meet you， then， at last！ This time you shall not escape me！”
“Neither is it my intention， sir， for this time I was seeking you. I arrest you in the name of the king. I tell you that you must surrender your sword to me， sir， and that without resistance. Your life depends upon it. I warn you.”
“But who are you？” demanded D’Artagnan， lowering the point of his sword， but without yet surrendering it.
“I am the Chevalier de Rochefort.” answered the stranger， “Cardinal Richelieu’s equerry， and I have orders to conduct you to his Eminence.”
