"No . . . no . . . I can't do it. . . ."
"Strike, you fool! It means fortune, fame, love. . . ."
Gérard raised his fist with a sudden movement.
"Love," he said, "yes . . . for that, yes. . . ."
"You will love and be loved," said Sernine. "Your betrothed awaits you. I have chosen her myself. She is the purest of the pure, the fairest of the fair. But you must win her. Strike!"
The lad's arm stiffened for the fatal blow; but the instinct of self-preservation was too strong for him. His body was wrung with a superhuman effort. He suddenly released himself from Sernine's hold and fled.
He rushed like a madman to the other room. A yell of terror escaped him, at the sight of the abominable vision, and he came back and fell on his knees before Sernine, beside the table.
"Strike!" said the prince, again spreading out the lad's fingers and fixing the blade of the knife.
What followed was done mechanically. With an automatic movement, with haggard eyes and a livid face, the young man raised his fist and struck:
"Ah!" he cried, with a moan of pain.