"Well, I never! Why, it's you, Vorski! How are you, old bean?"
Vorski gave a start. That the old man should know him and call him by his name did not astonish him immensely, since he had the half-mystic conviction that he was expected as a prophet might be. But to a prophet, to a missionary clad in light and glory, entering the presence of a stranger crowned with the double majesty of age and sacerdotal rank, it was painful to be hailed by the name of "old bean!"
Hesitating, ill at ease, not knowing with whom he was dealing, he asked:
"Who are you? What are you here for? How did you get here?"
And, when the other stared at him with a look of surprise, he repeated, in a louder voice:
"Answer me, can't you? Who are you?"
"Who am I?" replied the old man, in a husky and bleating voice. "Who am I? By Teutatès, god of the Gauls, is it you who ask me that question? Then you don't know me? Come, try and remember . . . . Good old Ségenax—eh, do you get me now—Velléda's father, good old Ségenax, the law-giver venerated by the Rhedons of whom Chateaubriand speaks in the first volume of his Martyrs? . . . Ah, I see your memory's reviving!"
"What are you gassing about!" cried Vorski.
"I'm not gassing. I'm explaining my presence here and the regrettable events which brought me here long ago. Disgusted by the scandalous behaviour of Velléda, who had gone wrong with that dismal blighter Eudorus, I became what we should call a Trappist nowadays, that is to say, I passed a brilliant exam, as a bachelor of Druid laws. Since that time, in consequence of a few sprees—oh, nothing to speak of: three or four jaunts to Paris, where I was attracted by Mabille and afterwards by the Moulin Rouge—I was obliged to accept the little berth which I fill here, a cushy job, as you see: guardian of the God-Stone, a shirker's job, what!"
Vorski's amazement and uneasiness increased at each word. He consulted his companions.