It would be madness to attempt it!
For Fandor divined that behind the mask of Trokoff lurked the evil countenance of Fantômas—Fantômas who was gloating over his confusion and despair, rejoicing in his agony, counting on his collapse, hoping for some act of cowardice.
Never would Jérôme Fandor play the coward!
At this stake to which they had bound him he would die without a sound! Fandor drove back from his lips the cry of despair they were about to utter. He awaited the event.
A Nihilist broke from the circle, went up to Fandor.
"Fantômas! You have heard? You are about to die! What have you to say in your defence?"
Fandor was dumb.
"Fantômas! You would die unknown! But it is good that we, having gazed on your face, should be appeased when we see you dead!... Your hood and mask—I tear them off you!"
Trokoff rushed forward, crying:
"Do not lay hands on him!... This wretch belongs to me!"