The three accomplices¹, who were perfectly² acquainted with all the niceties of the French language and familiar with every slang phrase, did not for a moment mistake the true sense of that unexpected exclamation³. They were astounded⁴.  
Vorski put the question to Conrad and Otto.
 
"Eh? What does he say?"
 
"What you heard . . . . That's right," said Otto.
 
Vorski ended by making a fresh attack on the shoulder of the stranger, who turned on his couch, stretched himself, yawned, seemed to fall asleep again, and, suddenly admitting himself defeated, half sat up and shouted:
 
"When you've quite finished, please! Can't a man have a quiet snooze these days, in this beastly hole?"
 
A ray of light blinded his eyes: and he spluttered, in alarm:
 
"What is it? What do you want with me?"
 
Vorski put down his lantern on a projection⁶ in the wall; and the face now stood clearly revealed. The old man, who had continued to vent⁷ his ill temper in incoherent complaints, looked at his visitor, became gradually calmer, even assumed an amiable⁸ and almost smiling expression and, holding out his hand, exclaimed:
 
"Well, I never! Why, it's you, Vorski! How are you, old bean?"
 
Vorski gave a start. That the old man should know him and call him by his name did not astonish him immensely, since he had the half-mystic conviction that he was expected as a prophet might be. But to a prophet, to a missionary⁹ clad in light and glory, entering the presence of a stranger crowned with the double majesty¹⁰ of age and sacerdotal rank, it was painful to be hailed by the name of "old bean!"
 
Hesitating, ill at ease, not knowing with whom he was dealing¹¹, he asked:
 
"Who are you? What are you here for? How did you get here?"
 
And, when the other stared at him with a look of surprise, he repeated, in a louder voice:
 
"Answer me, can't you? Who are you?"
 
"Who am I?" replied the old man, in a husky and bleating¹² voice. "Who am I? By Teutatès, god of the Gauls, is it you who ask me that question? Then you don't know me? Come, try and remember . . . . Good old Ségenax—eh, do you get me now—Velléda's father, good old Ségenax, the law-giver venerated¹³ by the Rhedons of whom Chateaubriand speaks in the first volume of his Martyrs¹⁴? . . . Ah, I see your memory's reviving!"
 
"What are you gassing about!" cried Vorski.
 
"I'm not gassing. I'm explaining my presence here and the regrettable events which brought me here long ago. Disgusted by the scandalous behaviour of Velléda, who had gone wrong with that dismal¹⁵ blighter Eudorus, I became what we should call a Trappist nowadays, that is to say, I passed a brilliant exam, as a bachelor of Druid laws. Since that time, in consequence of a few sprees—oh, nothing to speak of: three or four jaunts¹⁶ to Paris, where I was attracted by Mabille and afterwards by the Moulin Rouge—I was obliged to accept the little berth¹⁷ which I fill here, a cushy job, as you see: guardian¹⁸ of the God-Stone, a shirker's job, what!"
 
Vorski's amazement¹⁹ and uneasiness increased at each word. He consulted his companions.
 
"Break his head," Conrad repeated. "That's what I say: and I stick to it."
 
"And you, Otto?"
 
"I think we ought to be on our guard."
 
"Of course we must be on our guard."
 
But the old Druid caught the word. Leaning on a staff, he helped himself up and exclaimed:
 
"What's the meaning of this? Be on your guard . . . against me! That's really a bit thick! Treat me as a fake! Why, haven't you seen my axe²⁰, with the pattern of the swastika? The swastika, the leading cabalistic symbol, eh, what? . . . And this? What do you call this?" He lifted his string of beads²¹. "What do you call it? Horse-chestnuts? You've got some cheek, you have, to give a name like that to serpents' eggs, 'eggs which they form out of slaver and the froth of their bodies mingled²² and which they cast into the air, hissing²³ the while.' It's Pliny's own words I'm quoting! You're not going to treat Pliny also as a fake, I hope! . . . You're a pretty customer! Putting yourself on your guard against me, when I have all my degrees as an ancient Druid, all my diplomas, all my patents, all my certificates signed by Pliny and Chateaubriand! The cheek of you! . . . Upon my word, you won't find many ancient Druids of my sort, genuine, of the period, with the bloom of age upon them and a beard of centuries! I a fake, I, who boast every tradition and who juggle²⁴ with the customs of antiquity²⁵! . . . Shall I dance the ancient Druid dance for you, as I did before Julius Caesar? Would you like me to?"
 
And, without waiting for a reply, the old man, flinging aside his staff, began to cut the most extravagant²⁶ capers²⁷ and to execute the wildest of jigs²⁹ with perfectly astounding³⁰ agility³¹. And it was the most laughable sight to see him jumping and twisting about, with his back bent³², his arms outstretched, his legs shooting to right and left from under his robe, his beard following the evolutions of his frisking body, while the bleating voice announced the successive changes in the performance:
 
"The ancient Druids' dance, or Caesar's delight! Hi-tiddly, hi-tiddly, hi-ti, hi! . . . The mistletoe dance, vulgarly known as the tickletoe! . . . The serpents' egg waltz, music by Pliny! Hullo there! Begone, dull care! . . . The Vorska, or the tango of the thirty coffins³³! . . . The hymn³⁴ of the Red Prophet! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Glory be to the prophet!"
 
He continued his furious jig²⁸ a little longer and then suddenly halted before Vorski and, in a solemn tone, said:
 
"Enough of this prattle³⁵! Let us talk seriously, I am commissioned to hand you the God-Stone. Now that you are here, are you ready to take delivery of the goods?"
 
[Pg 266]The three accomplices were absolutely flabbergasted. Vorski did not know what to do, was unable to make out who the infernal fellow was:
 
"Oh, shut up!" he shouted, angrily. "What do you want? What's your object?"
 
"What do you mean, my object? I've just told you; to hand you the God-Stone!"
 
"But by what right? In what capacity?"
 
The ancient Druid nodded his head:
 
"Yes, I see what you're after. Things are not happening in the least as you thought they would. Of course, you came here feeling jolly spry, glad and proud of the work you had done. Just think; furnishings for thirty coffins, four women crucified, shipwrecks³⁶, hands steeped in blood, murders galore. Those things are no small beer; and you were expecting an imposing³⁷ reception, with an official ceremony, solemn pomp and state, antique choirs³⁸, processions of bards³⁹ and minstrels, human sacrifices and what not; the whole Gallic bag of tricks! Instead of which, a poor beggar of a Druid, snoozing in a corner, who just simply offers you the goods. What a come down, my lords! Can't be helped, Vorski; we do what we can and every man acts according to the means at his disposal. I'm not a millionaire, you know; and I've already advanced you, in addition to the washing of a few white robes, some thirty francs forty for Bengal lights, fountains of fire and a nocturnal earthquake."
 
Vorski started, suddenly understanding and beside himself with rage:
 
"What! So it was . . ."
 
"Of course it was me! Who did you think it was? St. Augustine? Unless you believed in an intervention⁴¹ of the gods and supposed that they took the trouble last night to send an archangel to the island, arrayed in a white robe, to lead you to the hollow oak! . . . Really, you're asking too much!"
 
Vorski clenched⁴² his fists. So the man in white whom he had pursued the night before was no other than this impostor!
 
"Oh," he growled⁴³, "I'm not fond of having my leg pulled!"
 
"Having your leg pulled!" cried the old man. "You've got a cheek, old chap! Who hunted me like a wild beast, till I was quite out of breath? And who drove bullets through my best Sunday robe? I never knew such a fellow! It'll teach me to put my back into a job again!"
 
"That'll do!" roared Vorski. "That'll do. Once more and for the last time . . . what do you want with me?"
 
"I'm sick of telling you. I am commissioned to hand you the God-Stone."
 
"Commissioned by whom?"
 
"Oh, hanged if I know! I've always been brought up to believe that some day a prince of Almain would appear at Sarek, one Vorski, who would slay⁴⁴ his thirty victims and to whom I was to make an agreed signal when his thirtieth victim had breathed her last. Therefore, as I'm a slave to orders, I got together my little parcel, bought two Bengal lights at three francs seventy-five apiece at a hardware shop in Brest, plus a few choice crackers⁴⁵, and, at the appointed hour, took up my perch⁴⁶ in my observatory⁴⁷, taper⁴⁸ in hand, all ready for work. When you started howling, in the top of the tree, 'She's dead! She's dead!' I thought that was the right moment, set fire to the lights and with my crackers shook the bowels⁴⁹ of the earth. There! Now you know all about it."
 
Vorski stepped forward, with his fists raised to strike. That torrent⁵⁰ of words, that imperturbable⁵¹ composure, that calm, bantering⁵² voice put him beside himself.
 
"Another word and I'll knock you down!" he cried. "I've had enough of it."
 
"Is your name Vorski?"
 
"Yes; and then?"
 
"Are you a prince of Almain?"
 
"Yes, yes; and then?"
 
"Have you slain⁵³ your thirty victims?"
 
"Yes, yes, yes!"
 
"Well, then you're my man. I have a God-Stone to hand you and I mean to hand it you, come what may. That's the sort of hairpin⁵⁴ I am. You've got to pocket it, your miracle-stone."
 
"But I don't care a hang for the God-Stone!" roared Vorski, stamping his foot. "And I don't care a hang for you! I want nobody. The God-Stone! Why, I've got it, it's mine. I've got it on me."
 
"Let's have a look."
 
"What do you call that?" said Vorski, taking from his pocket the little stone disk which he had found in the pommel of the sceptre.
 
"That?" asked the old man, with an air of surprise. "Where did you get that from?"
 
"From the pommel of this sceptre, when I unfastened it."
 
"And what do you call it?"
 
"It's a piece of the God-Stone."
 
"You're mad."
 
"Then what do you say it is?"
 
"That's a trouser-button."
 
"A what?"
 
"A trouser-button."
 
"How do you make that out?"
 
"A trouser-button with the shaft⁵⁵ broken off, a button of the sort which the niggers in the Sahara wear. I've a whole set of them."
 
"Prove it, damn you!"
 
"I put it there."
 
"What for?"
 
"To take the place of the precious stone which Maguennoc sneaked⁵⁶, the one which burnt him and obliged him to cut off his hand."
 
Vorski was silent. He was nonplussed⁵⁷. He had no notion what to do next or how to behave towards this strange adversary⁵⁸.
 
The ancient Druid went up to him and, gently, in a fatherly voice:
 
"No, my lad," he said, "you can't do without me, you see. I alone hold the key of the safe and the secret of the casket. Why do you hesitate?"
 
"I don't know you."
 
"You baby! If I were suggesting something indelicate and incompatible⁵⁹ with your honour, I could understand your scruples⁶⁰. But my offer is one of those which can't offend the nicest conscience. Well, is it a bargain? No? Not yet? But, by Teutatès, what more do you want, you unbelieving Vorski? A miracle perhaps? Lord, why didn't you say so before? Miracles, forsooth: I turn 'em out thirteen to the dozen. I work a little miracle before breakfast every morning. Just think, a Druid! Miracles? Why, I've got my shop full of 'em! I can't find room to sit down for them. Where will you try first? Resurrection department? Hair-restoring department? Revelation of the future department? You can choose where you like. Look here, at what time did your thirtieth victim breathe her last?"
 
"How should I know?"
 
"Eleven fifty-two. Your excitement was so great that it stopped your watch. Look and see."
 
It was ridiculous. The shock produced by excitement has no effect on the watch of the man who experiences the excitement. Nevertheless, Vorski involuntarily took out his watch: it marked eight minutes to twelve. He tried to wind it up: it was broken.
 
The ancient Druid, without giving him time to recover his breath and reply, went on:
 
"That staggers you, eh? And yet there's nothing simpler for a Druid who knows his business. A Druid sees the invisible. He does more: he makes anyone else see it if he wants to. Vorski, would you like to see something that doesn't exist? What's your name? I'm not speaking of your name Vorski, but of your real name, your governor's name."
 
"Silence on that subject!" Vorski commanded. "It's a secret I've revealed to nobody."
 
"Then why do you write it down?"
 
"I've never written it down."
 
"Vorski, your father's name is written in red pencil on the fourteenth page of the little note-book you carry on you. Look and see."
 
Acting⁶¹ mechanically, like an automaton⁶² whose movements are controlled by an alien will, Vorski took from his inside pocket a case containing a small note-book. He turned the pages till he came to the fourteenth, when he muttered, with indescribable dismay:
 
"Impossible! Who wrote this? And you know what's written here?"
 
"Do you want me to prove it to you?"
 
"Once more, silence! I forbid you . . ."
 
"As you please, old chap! All that I do is meant for your edification. And it's no trouble to me! Once I start working miracles, I simply can't stop. Here's another funny little trick. You carry a locket hanging from a silver chain round your shirt, don't you?"
 
"Yes," said Vorski, his eyes blazing with fever.
 
"The locket consists of a frame, without the photograph which used to be set in it."
 
"Yes, yes, a portrait of . . ."
 
"Of your mother, I know: and you lost it."
 
"Yes, I lost it last year."
 
"You mean you think you've lost the portrait."
 
"Nonsense, the locket is empty."
 
"You think the locket's empty. It's not. Look and see."
 
Still moving mechanically, with his eyes starting from his head, Vorski unfastened the button of his shirt and pulled out the chain. The locket appeared. There was the portrait of a woman in a round gold frame.
 
"It's she, it's she," he muttered, completely taken aback.
 
"Quite sure?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Then what do you say to it all, eh? There's no fake about it, no deception⁶³. The ancient Druid's a smart chap and you're coming with him, aren't you?"
 
"Yes."
 
Vorski was beaten. The man had subjugated⁶⁴ him. His superstitious⁶⁵ instincts, his inherited beli............