THE HALL OF THE UNDERGROUND SACRIFICES
Vorski had never known fear and he was perhaps not yielding to an actual
sense of fear in taking to flight now. But he no longer knew what he was
doing. His bewildered brain was filled with a whirl of contradictory and
incoherent ideas in which the intuition of an irretrievable and to some
extent supernatural defeat held the first place.
Believing as he did in witchcraft and wonders, he had an impression that
Vorski, the man of destiny, had fallen from his mission and been
replaced by another chosen favourite of destiny. There were two
miraculous forces opposed to each other, one emanating from him, Vorski,
the other from the ancient Druid; and the second was absorbing the
first. Veronique's resurrection, the ancient Druid's personality, the
speeches, the jokes, the leaps and bounds, the actions, the
invulnerability of that spring-heeled individual, all this seemed to him
magical and fabulous; and it created, in these caves of the barbaric
ages, a peculiar atmosphere which stifled and demoralized him.
He was eager to return to the surface of the earth. He wanted to breathe
and see. And what he wanted above all to see was the tree stripped of
its branches to which he had tied Veronique and on which Veronique had
expired.
"For she _is_ dead," he snarled, as he crawled through the narrow
passage which communicated with the third and largest of the crypts.
"She _is_ dead. I know what death means. I have often held it in my
hands and I make no mistakes. Then how did that demon manage to bring
her to life again?"
He stopped abruptly near the block on which he had picked up the
sceptre:
"Unless . . ." he said.
Conrad, following him, cried:
"Hurry up, instead of chattering."
Vorski allowed himself to be pulled along; but, as he went, he
continued:
"Shall I tell you what I think, Conrad? Well, the woman he showed us,
the one asleep, wasn't that one at all. Was she even alive? Oh, the old
wizard is capable of anything! He'll have modelled a figure, a wax doll,
and given it her likeness."
"You're mad. Get on!"
"I'm not mad. That woman was not alive. The one who died on the tree is
properly dead. And you'll find her again up there, I warrant you.
Miracles, yes, but not such a miracle as that!"
Having left their lantern behind them, the three accomplices kept
bumping against the wall and the upright stones. Their footsteps echoed
from vault to vault. Conrad never ceased grumbling:
"I warned you . . . . We ought to have broken his head."
Otto, out of breath with walking, said nothing.
Thus, groping their way, they reached the lobby which preceded the
entrance-crypt; and they were not a little surprised to find that this
first hall was dark, though the passage which they had dug in the upper
part, under the roots of the dead oak, ought to have given a certain
amount of light.
"That's funny," said Conrad.
"Pooh!" said Otto. "We've only got to find the ladder hooked to the
wall. Here, I have it . . . here's a step . . . and the next . . . ."
He climbed the rungs, but was pulled up almost at once:
"Can't get any farther . . . . It's as if there had been a fall of
earth."
"Impossible!" Vorski protested. "However, wait a bit, I was forgetting:
I have my pocket-lighter."
He struck a light; and the same cry of anger escaped all three of them:
the whole of the top of the staircase and half the room was buried under
a heap of stones and sand, with the trunk of the dead oak fallen in the
middle. Not a chance of escape remained.
Vorski gave way to a fit of despair and collapsed on the stairs:
"We're tricked. It's that old brute who has played us this trick . . .
which shows that he's not alone."
He bewailed his fate, raving, lacking the strength to continue the
unequal struggle. But Conrad grew angry:
"I say, Vorski, this isn't like you, you know."
"There's nothing to be done against that fellow."
"Nothing to be done! In the first place, there's this, as I've told you
twenty times: wring his neck. Oh, why did I restrain myself?"
"You couldn't even have laid a hand on him. Did any of our bullets touch
him?"
"Our bullets . . . our bullets," muttered Conrad. "All this strikes me
as mighty queer. Hand me your lighter. I have another revolver, which
comes from the Priory: and I loaded it myself yesterday morning. I'll
soon see."
He examined the weapon and was not long in discovering that the seven
cartridges which he had put in the cylinder had been replaced by seven
cartridges from which the bullets had been extracted and which could
therefore fire nothing except blank shots.
"That explains it," he said, "and your ancient Druid is no more of a
wizard than I am. If our revolvers had been really loaded, we'd have
shot him down like a dog."
But the explanation only increased Vorski's alarm:
"And how did he unload them? At what moment did he manage to take our
revolvers from our pockets and put them back after drawing the charges?
I did not leave go of mine for an instant."
"No more did I," Conrad admitted.
"And I defy any one to touch it without my knowing. So what then?
Doesn't it prove that that demon has a special power? After all, we must
look at things as they are. He's a man who possesses secrets of his own
. . . and who has means at his disposal, means which . . ."
Conrad shrugged his shoulders:
"Vorski, this business has shattered you. You were within reach of the
goal and yet you let go at the first obstacle. You're turned into a
dish-cloth. Well, I don't bow my head like you. Tricked? Why so? If he
comes after us, there are three of us."
"He won't come. He'll leave us here shut up in a burrow with no way out
of it."
"Then, if he doesn't come, I'll go back there, I will! I've got my
knife; that's enough for me."
"You're wrong, Conrad."
"How am I wrong? I'm a match for any man, especially for that old
blighter; and he's only got a sleeping woman to help him."
"Conrad, he's not a man and she's not a woman. Be careful."
"I'm careful and I'm going."
"You're going, you're going; but what's your plan?"
"I've no plan. Or rather, if I have, it's to out that beggar."
"All the same, mind what you're doing. Don't go for him bull-headed; try
to take him by surprise."
"Well, of course!" said Conrad, moving away. "I'm not ass enough to risk
his attacks. Be easy, I've got the bounder!"
Conrad's daring comforted Vorski.
"After all," he said, when his accomplice was gone, "he's right. If that
old Druid didn't come after us, it's because he's got other ideas in his
head. He certainly doesn't expect us to return on the offensive; and
Conrad can very well take him by surprise. What do you say, Otto?"
Otto shared his opinion:
"He has only to bide his time," he replied.
Fifteen minutes passed. Vorski gradually recovered his assurance. He had
yielded to the reaction, after an excess of hope followed by
disappointment too great for him to bear and also because of the
weariness and depression produced by his drinking-bout. But the fighting
spirit stimulated him once more; and he was anxious to have done with
his adversary.
"I shouldn't be surprised," he said, "if Conrad had finished him off by
now."
By this time he had acquired an exaggerated confidence which proved his
unbalanced state of mind; and he wanted to go back again at once.
"Come along, Otto, it's the last trip. An old beggar to get rid of; and
the thing's done. You've got your dagger? Besides, it won't be wanted.
My two hands will do the trick."
"And suppose that blasted Druid has friends?"
"We'll see."
He once more went towards the crypts, moving cautiously and watching the
opening of the passages which led from one to the other. No sound
reached their ears. The light in the third crypt showed them the way.
"Conrad must have succeeded," Vorski observed. "If not, he would have
shirked the fight and come back to us."
Otto agreed.
"It's a good sign, of course, that we don't see him. The ancient Druid
must have had a bad time of it. Conrad is a scorcher."
They entered the third crypt. Things were in the places where they had
left them: the sceptre on the block and the pommel, which Vorski had
unfastened, a little way off, on the ground. But, when he cast his eyes
towards the shadowy recess where the ancient Druid was sleeping when
they first arrived, he was astounded to see the old fellow, not exactly
at the same place, but between the recess and the exit to the passage.
"Hang it, what's he doing?" he stammered, at once upset by that
unexpected presence. "One would think he was asleep!"
The ancient Druid, in fact, appeared to be asleep. Only, why on earth
was he sleeping in that attitude, flat on his stomach, with his arms
stretched out on either side and his face to the floor? No man on his
guard, or at least aware that he was in some sort of danger, would
expose himself in this way to the enemy's attack. Moreover--Vorski's
eyes were gradually growing accustomed to the half-darkness of the end
crypt--moreover the white robe was marked with stains which looked red,
which undoubtedly were red. What did it mean?
Otto said, in a low voice:
"He's lying in a queer attitude."
Vorski was thinking the same thing and put it more plainly:
"Yes, the attitude of a corpse."
"The attitude of a corpse," Otto agreed. "That's it, exactly."
Vorski presently fell back a step:
"Oh," he exclaimed, "can it be?"
"What?" asked the other.
"Between the two shoulders . . . . Look."
"Well?"
"The knife."
"What knife?"
"Conrad's," Vorski declared. "Conrad's dagger. I recognise it. Driven in
between the shoulders." And he added, with a shudder, "That's where the
red stains come from . . . . It's blood . . . blood flowing from the
wound."
"In that case," Otto remarked, "he is dead?"
"He's dead, yes, the ancient Druid is dead . . . . Conrad must have
surprised him and killed him . . . . The ancient Druid is dead."
Vorski remained undecided for a while, ready to fall upon the lifeless
body and to stab it in his turn. But he dared no more touch it now that
it was dead than when it was alive; and all that he had the courage to
do was to run and wrench the dagger from the wound.
"Ah," he cried, "you scoundrel, you've got what you deserve! And Conrad
is a champion. I shan't forget you, Conrad, be sure of that."
"Where can Conrad be?"
"In the hall of the God-Stone. Ah, Otto, I'm itching to get back to the
woman whom the ancient Druid put there and to settle her hash too!"
"Then you believe that she's a live woman?" chuckled Otto.
"And very much alive at that . . . like the ancient Druid! That wizard
was only a fake, with a few tricks of his own, perhaps, but no real
power. There's the proof!"
"A fake, if you like," the accomplice objected. "But, all the same, he
showed you by his signals the way to enter these caves. Now what was his
object in that? And what was he doing here? Did he really know the
secret of the God-Stone, the way to get possession of it and exactly
where it is?"
"You're right. It's all so many riddles," said Vorski, who preferred not
to examine the details of the adventure too closely. "But it's so many
riddles which'll answer themselves and which I'm not troubling about for
the moment, because it's no longer that creepy individual who's putting
them to me."
For the third time they went through the narrow communicating passage.
Vorski entered the great hall like a conqueror, with his head high and a
confident glance. There was no longer any obstacle, no longer any enemy
to overcome. Whether the God-Stone was suspended between the stones of
the ceiling, or whether the God-Stone was elsewhere, he was sure to
discover it. There remained the mysterious woman who looked like
Veronique, but who could not be Veronique and whose real identity he was
about to unmask.
"Always presuming that she's still there," he muttered. "And I very much
suspect that she's gone. She played her part in the ancient Druid's
obscure schemes: and the ancient Druid, thinking me out of the way
. . ."
He stepped forward and climbed a few steps.
The woman was there. She was there, lying on the lower table of the
dolmen, shrouded in veils as before. The arm no longer hung towards the
ground. There was only the hand emerging from the veils. The turquoise
ring was on the finger.
"She hasn't moved," said Otto. "She's still asleep."
"Perhaps she is asleep," said Vorski. "I'll watch her. Leave me alone."
He went nearer. He still had Conrad's dagger in his hand: and perhaps it
was this that suggested killing to him, for his eyes fell upon the
weapon and it was not till then that he seemed to realise that he was
carrying it and that he might make use of it.
He was not more than three paces from the woman, when he perceived that
the wrist which was uncovered was all bruised and as it were mottled
with black patches, which evidently came from the cords with which she
had been bound. Now the ancient Druid had remarked, an hour ago, that
the wrists showed no signs of a bruise!
This detail confounded him anew, first, because it proved to him that
this was really the woman whom he had crucified, who had been taken down
and who was now before his eyes and, secondly, because he was suddenly
reentering the domain of miracles; and Veronique's arm appeared to him,
alternately, under two different aspects, as the arm of a living,
uninjured woman and as the arm of a lifeless, tortured victim.
His trembling hand clutched the dagger, clinging to it, in a manner of
speaking, as the only instrument of salvation. Once more in his confused
brain the idea arose of striking, not to kill, because the woman must be
dead, but of striking the invisible enemy who persisted in thwarting him
and of conjuring all the evil spells at one blow.
He raised his arm. He chose the spot. His face assumed an expression of
extreme savagery, lit up with the joy of murder. And suddenly he swooped
down, striking, like a madman, at random, ten times, twenty times, with
a frenzied unbridling of all his instincts.
"Take that and die!" he spluttered. "Another! . . . Die! . . . And let's
have an end of this . . . . You are the evil genius that's been
resisting me . . . and now I'm killing you . . . . Die and leave me
free! . . . Die so that I shall be the only master!"
He stopped to take breath. He was exhausted. And while his haggard eyes
stared blindly at the horrible spectacle of the lacerated corpse, he
received the strange impression that a shadow was placing itself between
him and the sunlight which came through the opening overhead.
"Do you know what you remind me of?" said a voice.
He was dumbfounded. The voice was not Otto's voice. And the voice
continued, while he stood with his head lowered and stupidly holding his
dagger planted in the dead woman's body:
"Do you know what you remind me of, Vorski? You remind me of the bulls
of my country. Let me tell you that I am a Spaniard and a great
frequenter of the bull-ring. Well, when our bulls have gored some poor
old cab-horse that is only fit for the knacker's yard, they go back to
the body, from time to time, turn it over, gore it again, keep on
killing it and killing it. You're like them, Vorski. You're seeing red.
In order to defend yourself against the living enemy, you fall
desperately on the enemy who is no longer alive; and it is death itself
that you are trying to kill. What a silly beast you're making of
yourself!"
Vorski raised his head. A man was standing in front of him, leaning
against one of the uprights of the dolmen. The man was of the average
height, with a slender, well-built figure, and seemed to be still young,
notwithstanding his hair, which was turning grey at the temples. He wore
a blue-serge jacket with brass buttons and a yachting-cap with a black
peak.
"Don't trouble to rack your brains," he said. "You don't know me. Let me
introduce myself: Don Luis Perenna, grandee of Spain, a noble of many
countries and Prince of Sarek. Yes, don't be surprised: I've taken the
title of Prince of Sarek, having a certain right to it."
Vorski looked at him without understanding. The man continued:
"You don't seem very familiar with the Spanish nobility. Still, just
test your memory: I am the gentleman who was to come to the rescue of
the d'Hergemont family and the people of Sarek, the one whom your son
Francois was expecting with such simple faith . . . . Well, are you
there? . . . Look, your companion, the trusty Otto, he seems to
remember! . . . But perhaps my other name will convey more to you? It is
well and favourably known. Lupin . . . . Arsene Lupin . . . ."
Vorski watched him with increasing terror and with a misgiving which
became more accentuated at each word and movement of this new adversary.
Though he recognized neither the man nor the man's voice, he felt
himself dominated by a will of which he had already felt the power and
lashed by the same sort of implacable irony. But was it possible?
"Everything is possible," Don Luis Perenna went on, "including even what
you think. But I repeat, what a silly beast you're making of yourself!
Here are you playing the bold highwayman, the dashing adventurer; and
you're frightened the moment you set eyes on one of your crimes! As long
as it was just a matter of happy-go-lucky killing, you went straight
ahead. But the first little jolt throws you off the track. Vorski kills;
but whom has he killed? He has no idea. Is Veronique d'Hergemont dead or
alive? Is she fastened to the oak on which you crucified her? Or is she
lying here, on the sacrificial table? Did you kill her up there or down
here? You can't tell. You never even thought, before you stabbed, of
looking to see what you were stabbing. The great thing for you is to
slash away with all your might, to intoxicate yourself with the sight
and smell of blood and to turn live flesh into a hideous pulp. But look,
can't you, you idiot? When a man kills, he's not afraid of killing and
he doesn't hide the face of his victim. Look, you idiot!"
He himself stopped over the corpse and unwrapped the veil around the
head.
Vorski had closed his eyes. Kneeling, with his chest pressed against the
dead woman's legs, he remained without moving and kept his eyes
obstinately shut.
"Are you there now?" chuckled Don Luis. "If you daren't look, it's
because you've guessed or because you're on the point of guessing, you
wretch: am I right? Your idiot brain is working it out: am I right?
There were two women in the Isle of Sarek and two only, Veronique and
the other . . . the other whose name was Elfride, I understand: am I
right? Elfride and Veronique, your two wives, one the mother of
Raynold, the other the mother of Francois. So, if it's not Francois'
mother whom you tied on the cross and whom you've just stabbed, then
it's Raynold's mother. If the woman lying here, with her wrists bruised
by the torture, is not Veronique, then she's Elfride. There's no mistake
possible: Elfride, your wife and your accomplice; Elfride, your willing
and subservient tool. And you know it so well that you would rather take
my word for it than risk a glance and see the livid face of that dead
woman, of your obedient accomplice tortured by yourself. You miserable
poltroon!"
Vorski had hidden his head in his folded arms. He was not weeping.
Vorski could not weep. Nevertheless, his shoulders were jerking
convulsively; and his whole attitude expressed the wildest despair.
This lasted for some time. Then the shaking of the shoulders ceased.
Still Vorski did not stir.
"Upon my word, you move me to pity, you poor old buffer!" said Don Luis.
"Were you so fond of your Elfride as all that? She had become a habit,
what? A mascot? Well, what can I say? People as a rule aren't such fools
as you! They know what they're doing. They look before they leap! Hang
it all, they stop to think! Whereas you go floundering about in crime
like a new-born babe struggling in the water! No wonder you sink and go
to the bottom . . . . The ancient Druid, for instance: is he dead or
alive? Did Conrad stick a dagger into his back, or was I playing the
part of that diabolical personage? In short, are there an ancient Druid
and a Spanish grandee, or are the two individuals one and the same?
This is all a sealed book to you, my poor fellow. And yet you'll want an
explanation. Shall I help you?"
If Vorski had acted without thinking, it was easy to see, when he raised
his head, that on this occasion he had taken time to reflect; that he
knew very well the desperate resolve which circumstances called upon him
to take. He was certainly ready for an explanation, as Don Luis
suggested, but he wanted it dagger in hand, with the implacable
intention of using it. Slowly, with his eyes fixed on Don Luis and
without concealing his purpose, he had freed his weapon and was rising
to his feet.
"Take care," said Don Luis. "Your knife is faked as your revolver was.
It's made of tin-foil."
Useless pleasantry! Nothing could either hasten or delay the methodical
impulse which urged Vorski to the supreme contest. He walked round the
sacred table and took up his stand in front of Don Luis.
"You're sure it's you who have been thwarting all my plans these last
few days?"
"The last twenty-four hours, no longer. I arrived at Sarek twenty-four
hours ago."
"And you're determined to go on to the end?"
"Yes; and farther still, if possible."
"Why? And in what capacity?"
"As a sportsman; and because you fill me with disgust."
"So there's no arrangement to be made?"
"No."
"Would you refuse to go shares with me?"
"Ah, now you're talking!"
"You can have half, if you like."
"I'd rather have the lot."
"Meaning that the God-Stone . . ."
"The God-Stone belongs to me."
Further speech was idle. An adversary of that quality has to be made
away with; if not, he makes away with you. Vorski had to choose between
the two endings; there was not a third.
Don Luis remained impassive, leaning against the pillar. Vorski towered
a head above him: and at the same time Vorski had the profound
impression that he was equally Don Luis' superior in every other
respect, in strength, muscular power and weight. In these conditions,
there was no need to hesitate. Moreover, it seemed out of the question
that Don Luis could even attempt to defend himself or to evade the blow
before the dagger fell. His parry was bound to come late unless he moved
at once. And he did not move. Vorski therefore struck his blow with all
certainty, as one strikes a quarry that is doomed beforehand.
And yet--it all happened so quickly and so inexplicably that he could
not tell what occurred to bring about his defeat--and yet, three or four
seconds later, he was lying on the ground, disarmed, defeated, with his
two legs feeling as though they had been broken with a stick and his
right arm hanging limp and paining him till he cried out.
Don Luis did not even trouble to bind him. With one foot on the big,
helpless body, half-bending over his adversary, he said:
"For the moment, no speeches. I'm keeping one in reserve for you. It'll
strike you as a bit long, but it'll show you that I understand the whole
business from start to finish, that is to say, much better than you do.
There's one doubtful point: and you're going to clear it up. Where's
your son Francois d'Hergemont?"
Receiving no reply, he repeated:
"Where's Francois d'Hergemont?"
Vorski no doubt considered that chance had placed an unexpected trump in
his hands and that the game was perhaps not absolutely lost, for he
maintained an obstinate silence.
"You refuse to answer?" asked Don Luis. "One . . . two . . . three
times: do you refuse? . . . Very well!"
He gave a low whistle.
Four men appeared from a corner of the hall, four men with swarthy
faces, resembling Moors. Like Don Luis, they wore jackets and sailor's
caps with shiny peaks.
A fifth person arrived almost immediately afterwards, a wounded French
officer, who had lost his right leg and wore a wooden leg in its place.
"Ah, is that you, Patrice?" said Don Luis.
He introduced him formally:
"Captain Patrice Belval, my greatest friend; Mr. Vorski, a Hun."
Then he asked:
"No news, captain? You haven't found Francois?"
"No."
"We shall have found him in an hour and then we'll be off. Are all our
men on board?"
"Yes."
"Everything all right there?"
"Quite."
He turned to the three Moors:
"Pick up the Hun," he ordered, "and carry him up to the dolmen outside.
You needn't bind him: he couldn't move a limb if he tried. Oh, one
minute!"
He leant over Vorski's ear:
"Before you start, have a good look at the God-Stone, between the flags
in the ceiling. The ancient Druid wasn't lying to you. It _is_ the
miraculous stone which people have been seeking for centuries . . . and
which I discovered from a distance . . . by correspondence. Say good-bye
to it, Vorski! You will never see it again, if indeed you are ever to
see anything in this world."
He made a sign with his hand.
The four Moors briskly took up Vorski and carried him to the back of the
hall, on the side opposite the communicating passage.
Turning to Otto, who had stood throughout this scene without moving:
"I see that you're a reasonable fellow, Otto, and that you understand
the position. You won't get up to any tricks?"
"No."
"Then we shan't touch you. You can come along without fear."
He slipped his arm through Belval's and the two walked away, talking.
They left the hall of the God-Stone through a series of three crypts,
each of which was on a higher level than the one before. The last of
them also led to a vestibule. At the far side of the vestibule, a ladder
stood against a lightly-built wall in which an opening had been newly
made. Through this they emerged into the open air, in the middle of a
steep path, cut into steps, which wound about as it climbed upwards in
the rock and which brought them to that part of the cliff to which
Francois had taken Veronique on the previous morning. It was the Postern
path. From above they saw, hanging from two iron davits, the boat in
which Veronique and her son had intended to take flight. Not far away,
in a little bay, was the long, tapering outline of a submarine.
Turning their backs to the sea, Don Luis and Patrice Belval continued on
their way towards the semicircle of oaks and stopped near the Fairies'
Dolmen, where the Moors were waiting for them. They had set Vorski down
at the foot of the tree on which his last victim had died. Nothing
remained on the tree to bear witness to the abominable torture except
the inscription, "V. d'H."
"Not too tired, Vorski?" asked Don Luis. "Legs feeling better?"
Vorski gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
"Yes, I know," said Don Luis. "You're pinning your faith to your last
card. Still, I would have you know that I also hold a few trumps and
that I have a rather artistic way of playing them. The tree behind you
should be more than enough to tell you so. Would you like another
instance? While you're getting muddled with all your murders and are no
longer sure of the number of your victims, I bring them to life again.
Look at that man coming from the Priory. Do you see him? He's wearing a
blue reefer with brass buttons, like myself. He's one of your dead men,
isn't he? You locked him up in one of the torture-chambers, intending
to cast him into the sea; and it was your sweet cherub of a Raynold who
hurled him down before Veronique's eyes. Do you remember? Stephane
Maroux his name was. He's dead, isn't he? No, not a bit of it! A wave of
my magic wand; and he's alive again. Here he is. I take him by the hand.
I speak to him."
Going up to the newcomer, he shook hands with him and said:
"You see, Stephane? I told you that it would be all over at twelve
o'clock precisely and that we should meet at the dolmen. Well, it is
twelve o'clock precisely."
Stephane seemed in excellent health. He showed not a sign of a wound.
Vorski looked at him in dismay and stammered:
"The tutor . . . . Stephane Maroux . . . ."
"The man himself," said Don Luis. "What did you expect? Here again you
behaved like an idiot. The adorable Raynold and you throw a man into the
sea and don't even think of leaning over to see what becomes of him. I
pick him up . . . . And don't be too badly staggered, old chap. It's
only the beginning; and I have a few more tricks in my bag. Remember,
I'm a pupil of the ancient Druid's! . . . Well, Stephane, where do we
stand? What's the result of your search?"
"Nothing."
"Francois?"
"Not to be found."
"And All's Well? Did you send him on his master's tracks, as we
arranged?"
"Yes, but he simply took me down the Postern path to Francois' boat."
"There's no hiding-place on that side?"
"Not one."
Don Luis was silent and began to pace up and down before the dolmen. He
seemed to be hesitating at the last moment, before beginning the series
of actions upon which he had resolved. At last, addressing Vorski, he
said:
"I have no time to waste. I must leave the island in two hours. What's
your price for setting Francois free at once?"
"Francois fought a duel with Raynold," Vorski replied, "and was beaten."
"You lie. Francois won."
"How do you know? Did you see them fight?"
"No, or I should have interfered. But I know who was the victor."
"No one knows except myself. They were masked."
"Then, if Francois is dead, it's all up with you."
Vorski took time to think. The argument allowed of no debate. He put a
question in his turn:
"Well, what do you offer me?"
"Your liberty."
"And with it?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, the God-Stone."
"_Never!_"
Don Luis shouted the word, accompanying it with a vehement gesture of
the hand, and he explained:
"Never! Your liberty, yes, if the worst comes to the worst and because I
know you and know that, denuded of all resources, you will simply go and
get yourself hanged somewhere else. But the God-Stone would spell
safety, wealth, the power to do evil . . ."
"That's exactly why I want it," said Vorski; "and, by telling me what
it's worth, you make me all the more difficult in the matter of
Francois."
"I shall find Francois all right. It's only a question of patience; and
I shall stay two or three days longer, if necessary."
"You will not find him; and, if you do, it will be too late."
"Why?"
"Because he has had nothing to eat since yesterday."
This was said coldly and maliciously. There was a silence; and Don Luis
retorted:
"In that case, speak, if you don't want him to die."
"What do I care? Anything rather than fail in my task and stop midway
when I've got so far. The end is within sight: those who get in my way
must look out for themselves."
"You lie. You won't let that boy die."
"I let the other die right enough!"
Patrice and Stephane made a movement of horror, while Don Luis laughed
frankly:
"Capital! There's no hypocrisy about you. Plain and convincing
arguments. By Jingo, how beautiful to see a Hun laying bare his soul!
What a glorious mixture of vanity and cruelty, of cynicism and
mysticism! A Hun has always a mission to fulfil, even when he's
satisfied with plundering and murdering. Well, you're better than a Hun:
you're a Superhun!"
And he added, still laughing:
"So I propose to treat you as Superhun. Once more, will you tell me
where Francois is?"
"No."
"All right."
He turned to the four Moors and said, very calmly:
"Go ahead, lads."
It was a matter of a second. With really extraordinary precision of
gesture and as though the act had been separated into a certain number
of movements, learnt and rehearsed beforehand like a military drill,
they picked up Vorski, fastened him to the rope which hung to the tree,
hoisted him up without paying attention to his cries, his threats or his
shouts and bound him firmly, as he had bound his victim.
"Howl away, old chap," said Don Luis, serenely, "howl as much as you
like! You can only wake the sisters Archignat and the others in the
thirty coffins! Howl away, my lad! But, good Lord, how ugly you are!
What a face!"
He took a few steps back, to appreciate the sight better:
"Excellent! You look very well there; it couldn't be better. Even the
inscription fits: 'V. d'H.,' Vorski de Hohenzollern! For I presume that,
as the son of a king, you are allied to that noble house. And now,
Vorski, all you have to do is to lend me an attentive ear: I'm going to
make you the little speech I promised you."
Vorski was wriggling on the tree and trying to burst his bonds. But,
since every effort merely served to increase his suffering, he kept
still and, to vent his fury, began to swear and blaspheme most hideously
and to inveigh against Don Luis:
"Robber! Murderer! It's you that are the murderer, it's you that are
condemning Francois to death! Francois was wounded by his brother; it's
a bad wound and may be poisoned . . . ."
Stephane and Patrice pleaded with Don Luis. Stephane expressed his
alarm:
"You can never tell," he said. "With a monster like that, anything is
possible. And suppose the boy's ill?"
"It's bunkum and blackmail!" Don Luis declared. "The boy's quite well."
"Are you sure?"
"Well enough, in any case, to wait an hour. In an hour the Superhun will
have spoken. He won't hold out any longer. Hanging loosens the tongue."
"And suppose he doesn't hold out at all?"
"What do you mean?"
"Suppose he himself expires, from too violent an effort, heart-failure,
a clot of blood to the head?"
"Well?"
"Well, his death would destroy the only hope we have of learning where
Francois is hidden, his death would be Francois' undoing!"
But Don Luis was inflexible:
"He won't die!" he cried. "Vorski's sort doesn't die of a stroke! No,
no, he'll talk, he'll talk within an hour. Just time enough to deliver
my lecture."
Patrice Belval began to laugh in spite of himself:
"Have you a lecture to deliver?"
"Rather! And such a lecture!" exclaimed Don Luis. "The whole adventure
of the God-Stone! An historical treatise, a comprehensive view extending
from prehistoric times to the thirty murders committed by the Superhun!
By Jove, it's not every day that one has the opportunity of reading a
paper like that; and I wouldn't miss it for a kingdom! Mount the
platform, Don Luis, and fire away with your speech!"
He took his stand opposite Vorski:
"You lucky dog, you! You're in the front seats and you won't lose a
word. I expect you're glad, eh, to have a little light thrown upon your
darkness? We've been floundering about so long that it's time we had a
definite lead. I assure you I'm beginning not to know where I am. Just
think, a riddle which has lasted for centuries and centuries and which
you've merely muddled still further."
"Thief! Robber!" snarled Vorski.
"Insults? Why? If you're not comfortable, let's talk about Francois."
"Never! He shall die."
"Not at all, you'll talk. I give you leave to interrupt me. When you
want me to stop, all you've got to do is to whistle a tune: '_En
r'venant de la r'vue_,' or _Tipperary_. I'll at once send to see; and,
if you've told the truth, we'll leave you here quietly, Otto will untie
you and you can be off in Francois' boat. Is it agreed?"
He turned to Stephane and Patrice Belval:
"Sit down, my friends," he said, "for it will take rather long. But, if
I am to be eloquent, I need an audience . . . and an audience who will
also act as judges."
"We're only two," said Patrice.
"You're three."
"With whom?"
"Here's your third."
It was All's Well. He came trotting along, without hurrying more than
usual. He frisked round Stephane, wagged his tail to Don Luis, as though
to say, "I know you: you and I are pals," and squatted on his
hind-quarters, with the air of one who does not wish to disturb people.
"That's right, All's Well!" cried Don Luis. "You also want to hear all
about the adventure. Your curiosity does you honour; and I won't
disappoint you."
Don Luis appeared to be delighted. He had an audience, a full bench of
judges. Vorski was writhing on his tree. It was an exquisite moment.
He cut a sort of caper which must have reminded Vorski of the ancient
Druid's pirouettes and, drawing himself up, bowed, imitated a lecturer
taking a sip of water from a tumbler, rested his hands on an imaginary
table and at last began, in a deliberate voice:
"Ladies and Gentlemen:
"On the twenty-fifth of July, in the year seven hundred and thirty-two
B. C. . . ."