D’Artagnan detained her by her night dress of fine India linen, to implore her pardon; but she, with a strong movement, tried to escape. Then the cambric was torn from her beautiful shoulders; and on one of those lovely shoulders, round and white, D’Artagnan recognized, with inexpressible astonishment, the _fleur-de-lis_—that indelible mark which the hand of the infamous executioner had imprinted. “Great God!” cried D’Artagnan, loosing his hold of her dress, and remaining mute, motionless, and frozen. But Milady felt herself denounced even by his terror. He had doubtless seen all. The young man now knew her secret, her terrible secret—the secret she concealed even from her maid with such care, the secret of which all the world was ignorant, except himself. She turned upon him, no longer like a furious woman, but like a wounded panther. “Ah, wretch!” cried she, “you have basely betrayed me, and still more, you have my secret! You shall die.” And she flew to a little inlaid casket which stood upon the dressing table, opened it with a feverish and trembling hand, drew from it a small poniard, with a golden haft and a sharp thin blade, and then threw herself with a bound upon D’Artagnan. Although the young man was brave, as we know, he was terrified at that wild countenance, those terribly dilated pupils, those pale cheeks, and those bleeding lips. He recoiled to the other side of the room as he would have done from a serpent which was crawling toward him, and his sword coming in contact with his nervous hand, he drew it almost unconsciously from the scabbard. But without taking any heed of the sword, Milady endeavored to get near enough to him to stab him, and did not stop till she felt the sharp point at her throat. She then tried to seize the sword with her hands; but D’Artagnan kept it free from her grasp, and presenting the point, sometimes at her eyes, sometimes at her breast, compelled her to glide behind the bedstead, while he aimed at making his retreat by the door which led to Kitty’s apartment. Milady during this time continued to strike at him with horrible fury, screaming in a formidable way. As all this, however, bore some resemblance to a duel, D’Artagnan began to recover himself little by little. “Well, beautiful lady, very well,” said he; “but, _pardieu_, if you don’t calm yourself, I will design a second _fleur-de-lis_ upon one of those pretty cheeks!” “Scoundrel, infamous scoundrel!” howled Milady.