The Secret of Sarek Part 57

"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 G.o.d-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 G.o.d-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 rehea.r.s.ed 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 n.o.ble 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 bunk.u.m 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: