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; then, 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.
Buckingham tried to smile a last time; but death checked his thought, which remained engraved on his brow like a last kiss of love.
At this moment the duke’s surgeon arrived, quite terrified; he was already on board the admiral’s ship, where they had been obliged to seek him.
He approached the duke, took his hand, held it for an instant in his own, and letting it fall, “All is useless,” said he, “he is dead.”