“The day after my return to Lille, my brother in his turn succeeded in making his escape; I was accused of complicity, and was condemned to remain in his place till he should be again a prisoner.  My poor brother was ignorant of this sentence.  He rejoined this woman; they fled together into Berry, and there he obtained a little curacy.  This woman passed for his sister.

“The Lord of the estate on which the chapel of the curacy was situated saw this pretend sister, and became enamoured of her—­amorous to such a degree that he proposed to marry her.  Then she quitted him she had ruined for him she was destined to ruin, and became the Comtesse de la Fere—­”

All eyes were turned towards Athos, whose real name that was, and who made a sign with his head that all was true which the executioner had said.

“Then,” resumed he, “mad, desperate, determined to get rid of an existence from which she had stolen everything, honor and happiness, my poor brother returned to Lille, and learning the sentence which had condemned me in his place, surrendered himself, and hanged himself that same night from the iron bar of the loophole of his prison.

“To do justice to them who had condemned me, they kept their word.  As soon as the identity of my brother was proved, I was set at liberty.

“That is the crime of which I accuse her; that is the cause for which she was branded.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Athos, “what is the penalty you demand against this woman?”

“The punishment of death,” replied d’Artagnan.

“My Lord de Winter,” continued Athos, “what is the penalty you demand against this woman?”

“The punishment of death,” replied Lord de Winter.

“Messieurs Porthos and Aramis,” repeated Athos, “you who are her judges, what is the sentence you pronounce upon this woman?”

“The punishment of death,” replied the Musketeers, in a hollow voice.

Milady uttered a frightful shriek, and dragged herself along several paces upon her knees toward her judges.

Athos stretched out his hand toward her.

“Charlotte Backson, Comtesse de la Fere, Milady de Winter,” said he, “your crimes have wearied men on earth and God in heaven.  If you know a prayer, say it—­for you are condemned, and you shall die.”

At these words, which left no hope, Milady raised herself in all her pride, and wished to speak; but her strength failed her.  She felt that a powerful and implacable hand seized her by the hair, and dragged her away as irrevocably as fatality drags humanity.  She did not, therefore, even attempt the least resistance, and went out of the cottage.

Lord de Winter, d’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, went out close behind her.  The lackeys followed their masters, and the chamber was left solitary, with its broken window, its open door, and its smoky lamp burning sadly on the table.