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“I shall not fail to do so.”

Delighted with this assurance, the Governor countersigned the passport and handed it to D’Artagnan. Unwilling to lose a moment of his precious time in idle compliments, the Gascon bowed to the Governor, thanked him and took his leave. Once out of doors, master and lackey set off at top speed; taking a long détour, they skirted the wood, entering the town by another gate. As they reached the harbor, they found the vessel still ready to sail and the skipper awaiting them alongside.

“Well?” he asked as D’Artagnan appeared.

“Here is my pass, signed and countersigned.”

“And the other gentleman?”

“He will not leave today,” D’Artagnan explained. “But never mind: I will pay for both of us.”

“In that case we shall set sail at once.”

“The sooner the better,” D’Artagnan agreed, leaping into the rowboat, Planchet behind him. Five minutes later they were aboard the vessel. It was high time, too, for they were barely half-a-league at sea when D’Artagnan saw a flash and heard a detonation as the cannon announced the closing of the harbor.

At last he had an opportunity to examine his injury. Happily, as he had thought, it was not serious: the point of the sword, striking a rib, had glanced along the bone, and his shirt, matted over the wound, had staunched the blood. But he was exhausted and when they laid out a mattress on deck for him, he sank gratefully upon it and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

At daybreak, the vessel was a few leagues off the English coast; the breeze had been slight all night and the sailing slow. By ten o’clock the craft dropped anchor in Dover harbor. Half an hour later D’Artagnan set foot on English soil, crying:

“Here I am at last!”

But that was not all, they must get to London. In England the post was well organized and post-horses readily available; D’Artagnan and Planchet took advantage of this and, preceded by a postilion, they reached the capital within four hours.

D’Artagnan did not know London and he could not speak one word of English, but he wrote the name of Buckingham on a piece of paper and everyone to whom he showed it, pointed out the way to the Duke’s mansion.

The Duke was at Windsor, hunting with the King. D’Artagnan inquired for the Duke’s confidential valet, who had accompanied him in all his travels and spoke perfect French. He explained that he had come from Paris on a matter of life and death and that he must speak to his master immediately.

The assurance with which D’Artagnan spoke convinced Patrick on the spot. The minister’s minister therefore ordered two horses to be saddled forthwith and himself accompanied the young guardsman. As for Planchet, he had been lifted from his horse stiff as a ramrod; the poor lad’s strength was well-nigh spent. D’Artagnan, on the contrary, seemed fresh as a daisy.

At Windsor Castle they inquired for the Duke and were told that the King and Buckingham were in the marshes two or three leagues distant. As they reached the place twenty minutes later, Patrick recognized his master’s voice, calling his falcon back to him.

“Whom am I to announce to His Grace?” Patrick asked.

“The young man who one evening challenged him on the Pont-Neuf, opposite the Samaritaine.”

“A somewhat peculiar introduction, Monsieur, if I may say so.”

“You will find it as good as any other.”

Patrick rode off, located the Duke, and announced that a messenger awaited him, identifying the messenger as directed.

Buckingham recalled the incident at once. Suspecting that something vital was going on in France, he hastened to ask where the messenger was. Recognizing the uniform of the guards, he rode straight up to D’Artagnan. Patrick kept discreetly in the background. At once, Buckingham, reining in his horse, cast all discretion to the winds. Voicing all his fear and love:

“Has any harm befallen Her Majesty?” he asked.

“I think not, Milord. Nevertheless, I believe Her Majesty to be in great danger from which Your Grace alone can save her.”

“I? God help me, I would be only too happy