It was a dark and stormy night. Monstrous clouds were flying across the sky， concealing the light of the stars. The moon would not rise before midnight.
Occasionally， by the light of a lightning flash gleaming along the horizon， the road could be seen stretching before them， white and solitary. Then when the flash became extinct， all relapsed into darkness.
Just as the little troop had passed Goskal， and were approaching the Post， a man sheltered under a tree stepped out from its trunk， with which he had been confounded in the darkness， and advanced into the middle of the road， with his finger on his lips.
Athos recognized Grimaud.
“What’s the matter？” cried Athos； “has she left Armentières？”
Grimaud nodded. At a movement made by D’Artagnan，
“Silence， D’Artagnan！” said Athos. “I have taken this whole affair myself， so it is my right to question Grimaud.
“Where is she？” asked Athos.
Grimaud stretched out his hands in the direction of the Lys.
“Far from here？” asked Athos.
Grimaud showed his master his forefinger bent.
“Alone？” asked Athos.
Grimaud made a sign that she was.
By a flash of lightning they saw the village of Enguinghem.
“Is she there， Grimaud？” asked Athos.
Grimaud shook his head.
And the troop continued their route.
Another flash gleamed. Grimaud stretched out his arm， and by the livid light of the fire-serpent they distinguished a little isolated house on the banks of the river， within a hundred paces of a ferry.
One window was lighted.
“Here we are！” said Athos.
At this moment a man who had been crouching in a ditch jumped up. It was Mousqueton. He pointed his finger to the lighted window.
“She’s there，” said he.
“And Bazin？” asked Athos.
“While I was watching the window， he was watching the door.”
“Good！” said Athos； “you are all faithful servants.”
Athos leaped down from his horse， gave the bridle to Grimaud， and advanced toward the window， after having made a sign to the rest of the troop to go toward the door.
The little house was surrounded by a quickset hedge two or three feet high. Athos sprang over the hedge and went up to the window， which was without shutters， but had the half-curtains closely drawn.
He got upon the stone coping， in order to see over the top of the curtain.
By the light of the lamp he saw a woman wrapped in a dark mantle sitting on a stool near a dying fire. Her elbows rested on a mean table， and she leaned her head on her two hands， which were white as ivory.
Her face was not distinguishable， but an ominous smile passed over Athos’s lips. There was no mistaking. It was indeed she whom he sought.
At this moment a horse neighed. Milady raised her head， saw Athos’s pale face close to the window， and screamed.
Athos saw he was recognized， pushed the window with his knee and hand. It yielded； the panes broke.
And Athos， like the spectre of vengeance， sprang into the room.
Milady ran to the door and opened it； but paler and more threatening still than Athos， D’Artagnan stood on the threshold.
Milady drew back， uttering a cry. D’Artagnan， believing she might have means of flight， and fearing lest she should escape them， drew a pistol from his belt. But Athos raised his hand.
“Put back your weapon， D’Artagnan，” said he； “this woman must be judged and not assassinated. Wait but a moment longer， my friend， and you shall be satisfied. Come in， gentlemen.”
D’Artagnan obeyed， for Athos had the solemn voice and the mighty gesture of a judge sent by the Lord Himself. So behind D’Artagnan entered Porthos， Aramis， Lord Winter， and the man in the red cloak.
The four lackeys guarded the door and the window.
Milady had sunk into a chair， with her hands extended， as if to conjure away this terrible apparition. On perceiving her brother-in-law she uttered a terrible cry.
“What do you want？” screamed milady.
“We want，” said Athos， “Charlotte Backson， who first was called Comtesse de la Fère， and afterwards Lady Winter， Baroness of Sheffield.”
“I am she！ I am she！” murmured she， at the height of terror. “What do you want of me？”
“We intend to judge you according to your crimes，” said Athos. “You shall be free to defend yourself. Justify yourself if you can.—Monsieur d’Artagnan， it is for you to accuse her first.”
D’Artagnan stepped forward.
“Before God and before men，” said he， “I accuse this woman of poisoning Constance Bonacieux， who died yesterday evening.”
He turned to Porthos and Aramis.
“We bear witness to this，” said the two musketeers， with one impulse.
D’Artagnan continued，
“Before God and before men， I accuse this woman of having tried to poison me by wine which she sent me from Villeroi， with a forged letter， purporting that the wine came from my friends. God preserved me， but a man named Brisemont died in my place.”
“We bear witness to this，” said Porthos and Aramis， in the same voice.
“Before God and before men， I accuse this woman of having urged me to murder the Baron de Wardes. But as no one is present to bear witness to the truth of this accusation， I attest it myself. I have done.”
And M. d’Artagnan passed to the other side of the room with Porthos and Aramis.
“It is your turn， milord，” said Athos.
The baron came forward.
“Before God and before men，” said he， “I accuse this woman of having caused the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham.”
“The Duke of Buckingham assassinated！” cried all present with one voice.
“Yes，” said the baron， “assassinated. On receiving the warning letter you wrote to me， I had this woman arrested， and put her in the charge of a loyal servant. She corrupted this man， she placed the dagger in his hand， she made him kill the duke. And at this moment， perhaps， Felton is paying with his life for this fury’s crime！”
A shudder crept through the judges at the revelation of these crimes of which they had not yet heard.
“This is not all，” proceeded Lord Winter. “My brother， who made you his heir， died in three hours， of a strange disorder， which left livid traces over all his body. Sister， how did your husband die？”
“Horror！” cried Porthos and Aramis.