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It was time to take care of his wound. Fortunately, as d’Artagnan had thought, it was not very dangerous: the point of the sword had hit a rib and glanced off the bone; what’s more, his shirt had become stuck to the wound at once, so that it had shed only a few drops of blood.

D’Artagnan was broken by fatigue. They laid out a mattress for him on the deck; he threw himself down on it and fell asleep.

At dawn the next day, he found himself still three or four leagues from the English coast. The breeze had been weak all night, and they had made little headway.

At ten, the ship dropped anchor in the port of Dover.

At half-past ten, d’Artagnan set foot on English soil, crying out: “Here I am at last!”

But that was not all: he had to get to London. In England, the post roads were rather well served. D’Artagnan and Planchet each took a nag, and a postilion raced ahead of them. In four hours they reached the gates of the capital.

D’Artagnan did not know London, d’Artagnan did not know a word of English, but he wrote the name of Buckingham on a piece of paper, and everyone showed him the way to the duke’s mansion.

The duke was hunting at Windsor with the king.

D’Artagnan asked for the duke’s confidential valet, who had accompanied him on all his travels and spoke perfect French. He told him that he had come from Paris on a matter of life and death, and that he had to speak with his master that very moment.

The confidence with which d’Artagnan spoke convinced Patrick—that was the name of this minister’s minister. He had two horses saddled and took it upon himself to escort the young guard. As for Planchet, he had been taken down from his horse stiff as a pikestaff: the poor lad was at the end of his strength. D’Artagnan was like iron.

They arrived at the castle. There they found out that the king and Buckingham were hawking in the marshes some two or three leagues away.

In twenty minutes they reached the designated spot. Soon Patrick heard the voice of his master, who was calling his falcon.

“Whom should I announce to Milord the duke?” asked Patrick.

“The young man who picked a quarrel with him one night on the Pont Neuf, across from the Samaritaine.”

“A singular introduction!”

“You’ll see it’s as good as any other.”

Patrick set his horse at a gallop, came to the duke, and announced to him in the terms we have just mentioned that a messenger was waiting for him.

Buckingham recognized d’Artagnan instantly, and suspecting that news was being sent to him of something happening in France, took time enough only to ask where the man was who came bearing it; and having recognized the uniform of the guards from far off, he set his horse at a gallop and went straight to d’Artagnan. Patrick, out of discretion, kept himself apart.

“Nothing bad has happened to the queen?” cried Buckingham, pouring all his thought and all his love into the question.

“I believe not. However, I believe she is in some great peril from which Your Grace alone can save her.”

“I?” cried Buckingham. “Why, I would be quite happy to be of some use to her! Speak! Speak!”

“Take this letter,” said d’Artagnan.

“This letter? Who is this letter from?”

“From Her Majesty, I think.”

“From Her Majesty?” said Buckingham, paling so much that d’Artagnan thought he was about to faint.

And he broke the seal.

“Why is it torn here?” he asked, showing d’Artagnan a place where it had been pierced through.

“Ah!” said d’Artagnan. “I hadn’t noticed that. It was the sword of the comte de Wardes that made that neat hole as it went through my chest.”

“You’re wounded?” asked Buckingham as he broke the seal.

“Oh, it’s nothing!” said d’Artagnan. “Just a scratch!”

“Good heavens, what’s this I read!” cried the duke. “Patrick, stay here, or rather, join the king wherever he happens to be, and tell His Majesty that I humbly beg him to excuse me, but a matter of the highest importance calls me back to London. Come, Monsieur, come.”

And they both set off at a gallop on the road to the capital.

XXI

THE COUNTESS DE WINTER

On the way there, the duke informed