His head fell back. He stammered a few more words which Véronique was just able to grasp:
"Oh, the cross! . . . The four crosses of Sarek! . . . My daughter . . . my daughter . . . crucified! . . ."
And that was all.
There was a great silence, a vast silence which Véronique felt weighing upon her like a burden that grows heavier second after second.
"You must escape from this island," a voice repeated. "Go, quickly. Your father bade you, Madame Véronique."
Honorine was beside her, livid in the face, with her two hands clasping a napkin, rolled into a plug and red with blood, which she held to her chest.
"But I must look after you first!" cried Véronique. "Wait a moment . . . . Let me see . . . ."
"Later on . . . they'll attend to me presently," spluttered Honorine. "Oh, the monster! . . . If I had only come in time! But the door below was barricaded . . . ."
"Do let me see to your wound," Véronique implored. "Lie down."
"Presently . . . . First Marie Le Goff, the cook, at the top of the staircase . . . . She's wounded too . . . mortally perhaps . . . . Go and see."