"So you think she's like her?" chuckled the ancient Druid. "Upon my word, may be you are right: there is a sort of family resemblance . . . . I dare say, if you hadn't crucified the other with your own hands and if you hadn't yourself received her last breath, you would be ready to swear that the two women are one and the same person . . . and that Véronique d'Hergemont is alive and that she's not even wounded . . . not even a scar . . . not so much as the mark of the cords round her wrists . . . . But just look, Vorski, what a peaceful face, what comforting serenity! Upon my word, I'm beginning to believe that you made a mistake and that it was another woman you crucified! Just think a bit! . . . Hullo, you're going to go for me now! Come to my rescue, O Teutatès! The prophet wants to have my blood!"
Vorski had drawn himself up and was now facing the ancient Druid. His features, fashioned for hatred and fury, had surely never expressed more of either than at this moment. The ancient Druid was not merely the man who for an hour had been toying with him as with a child. He was the man who had performed the most extraordinary feat and who suddenly appeared to him as the most ruthless and dangerous foe. A man like that must be got rid of on the spot, since the opportunity presented itself.
"I'm done!" said the old man. "He's going to eat me up! Crikey, what an ogre! . . . Help! Murder! Help! . . . Oh, look at his iron fingers! He's going to strangle me! . . . Unless he uses a dagger . . . or a rope . . . . No, a revolver! I prefer that, it's neater . . . . Fire away, Alexis. Two of the seven bullets have already made holes in my best Sunday robe. That leaves five. Fire away, Alexis."
Each word aggravated Vorski's fury. He was eager to get the work over and he shouted:
"Otto . . . Conrad . . . are you ready?"
He raised his arm. The two assistants likewise took aim. Four paces in front of them stood the old man, laughingly pleading for mercy:
"Please, kind gentlemen, have pity on a poor beggar . . . . I won't do it again . . . . I'll be a good boy . . . . Kind gentlemen, please . . . ."
Vorski repeated:
"Otto . . . Conrad . . . attention! . . . I'm counting three: one . . . two . . . three . . . fire!"
The three shots rang out together. The Druid whirled round with one leg in the air, then drew himself up straight, opposite his adversaries, and cried, in a tragic voice: