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

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 François to death! François was wounded by his brother; it’s a bad wound and may be poisoned.⁠ ⁠…”

Stéphane and Patrice pleaded with Don Luis. Stéphane 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 François is hidden, his death would be François’ 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 François.”

“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 François’ boat. Is it agreed?”

He turned to Stéphane 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 Stéphane, wagged his tail to Don Luis, as though to say, “I know you: you and I are pals,” and squatted on his hindquarters, 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.⁠ ⁠…”

XVI The Hall of the Kings of Bohemia

Don Luis interrupted himself after delivering his opening sentence and stood enjoying the effect produced. Captain Belval, who knew his friend, was laughing heartily. Stéphane continued to look anxious. All’s Well had not budged.

Don Luis continued:

“Let me begin by confessing, ladies and gentlemen, that my object in fixing my date so precisely was to some extent to stagger you. In reality I could not tell you within a few centuries the exact date of the scene which I shall have the honour of describing to you. But what I can guarantee is that it is laid in that country of Europe which today we call Bohemia and at the spot where the little industrial town of Joachimsthal now stands. That, I hope, is fairly circumstantial. Well, on the morning of the day when my story begins, there was great excitement among one of those Celtic tribes which had settled a century or two earlier between the banks of the Danube and the sources of the Elbe, amidst the Hyrcanian forests. The warriors, assisted by their wives, were striking their tents, collecting the sacred axes, the bows and arrows, gathering up the pottery, the bronze and tin implements, loading the horses and the oxen.

“The chiefs were here, there and everywhere, attending to the smallest details. There was neither tumult nor disorder. They started early in the direction of a tributary of the Elbe, the Eger, which they reached towards the end of the day. Here boats were waiting, guarded by a hundred of the picked warriors who had been sent ahead. One of these boats was conspicuous for its size and the richness of its decoration. A long yellow cloth was stretched from side to side. The chief of chiefs, the King, if you prefer, climbed on the stern thwart and made a speech which I will spare you, because I do not wish to shorten my own, but which may be summed