“What do you mean?”
“Why, how is the conspiracy going on, in whose honor you make me keep it up all day and all night?”
“It is working, but the time is not yet come; that is why I wish to have you always at hand, till the great day. Do you complain?”
“Hang it, no!” said Jacques. “What could I do? Burnt up with brandy as I am, if I wanted to work, I’ve no longer the strength to do so. I have not, like you, a head of marble, and a body of iron; but as for fuddling myself with gunpowder, instead of anything else, that’ll do for me; I’m only fit for that work now—and then, it will drive away thought.”
“Oh what kind?”
“You know that when I do think, I think only of one thing,” said Jacques, gloomily.
“The Bacchanal queen?—still?” said Morok, in a disdainful tone.
“Still! rather: when I shall think of her no longer, I shall be dead—or stupefied. Fiend!”
“You were never better or more intelligent, you fool!” replied Morok, fastening his turban. The conversation was here interrupted. Morok’s aider entered hastily.
The gigantic form of this Hercules had increased in width. He was habited like Alcides; his enormous limbs, furrowed with veins as thick as whipcord, were covered with a close-fitting flesh-colored garment, to which a pair of red drawers formed a strong contrast.