“I owe you great thanks, Captain Laroque, for removing the governor as a spectator,” he said, his eyes agleam with triumph. “That sets me free to admit the fact of our acquaintance and to enjoy this little reunion openly. For there is no danger”—he smiled about on them in malign pleasantry—“when all the present witnesses will soon be as insensible as our friend the governor there, only permanently so.”
White as she was, Sonya went a shade paler. She came forward with short, clanking steps.
“Do you mean, Prince Berloff, that you intend executing not only us Russians, but Mr. Drexel as well?”
“Duty is duty, my dear cousin”—he bowed to her—“however unpleasant.”
She would have spoken in Drexel’s behalf, but he stopped her. “I would not plead with him for your life, for I know it would be useless. It is just as vain to plead for mine.”
He turned to Berloff. “We want none of your devil’s raillery! You have won. Go on with your purpose!”
“As you command. But remember that the haste in the matter is yours, not mine.” He crossed to the desk and stood beside the bell. “But before I call in those outsiders, the guards, let us have our farewell among ourselves.”
He turned to The White One, who sat three or four paces behind him, her manacled hands upon her knees. “So you are the famous White One. I am glad to meet you, madame, and I beg to assure you that the meeting with The White One will be all the more memorable to me since it took place on what afterward proved the last day of her memorable life.”
That high, pale face returned his mocking courtesy with a gaze of blazing hatred.
“Justice will not always withhold its hands from you,” she said. “This is the hour of your triumph—but that hour may not be for long!”