The Secret of Sarek, Maurice Leblanc [the ebook reader .txt] 📗

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 Véronique, but who could not be Véronique 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 Véronique’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 bullring. Well,