Laporte broke the seal, and placed the paper before the eyes of the duke; but Buckingham in vain tried to make out the writing.

“Read!” said he, “read!  I cannot see.  Read, then!  For soon, perhaps, I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written to me.”

Laporte made no further objection, and read: 

“My Lord, By that which, since I have known you, have suffered by you and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to countermand those great armaments which you are preparing against France, to put an end to a war of which it is publicly said religion is the ostensible cause, and of which, it is generally whispered, your love for me is the concealed cause.  This war may not only bring great catastrophes upon England and France, but misfortune upon you, my Lord, for which I should never console myself.

“Be careful of your life, which is menaced, 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, he asked, “Have you nothing else to say to me by the living voice, Laporte?”

“The queen charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for she had advice 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!”

Laporte burst into tears.

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

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

“Now the scent bag of white satin, on which her cipher is embroidered in pearls.”

Patrick again obeyed.

“Here, Laporte,” said Buckingham, “these are the only tokens 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—­”

He still sought; but his eyes, darkened by death, encountered only the knife which had fallen from the hand of Felton, still smoking with the blood spread over its blade.

“And you will add to them this knife,” said the duke, pressing the hand of Laporte.  He had just strength enough to place the scent bag at the bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into it, making a sign to Laporte that he was no longer able to speak; than, in a last convulsion, which this time he had not the power to combat, he slipped from the sofa to the floor.

Patrick uttered a loud cry.