The Secret of Sarek Part 49

A ray of light blinded his eyes: and he spluttered, in alarm:

"What is it? What do you want with me?"

Vorski put down his lantern on a projection in the wall; and the face now stood clearly revealed. The old man, who had continued to vent his ill temper in incoherent complaints, looked at his visitor, became gradually calmer, even a.s.sumed an amiable and almost smiling expression and, holding out his hand, exclaimed:

"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 Teutates, G.o.d of the Gauls, is it you who ask me that question?

Then you don't know me? Come, try and remember . . . . Good old Segenax--eh, do you get me now--Velleda's father, good old Segenax, 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 ga.s.sing about!" cried Vorski.

"I'm not ga.s.sing. I'm explaining my presence here and the regrettable events which brought me here long ago. Disgusted by the scandalous behaviour of Velleda, who had gone wrong with that dismal blighter Eudorus, I became what we should call a Trappist nowadays, that is to say, I pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d-Stone, a s.h.i.+rker's job, what!"

Vorski's amazement and uneasiness increased at each word. He consulted his companions.

"Break his head," Conrad repeated. "That's what I say: and I stick to it."

"And you, Otto?"

"I think we ought to be on our guard."

"Of course we must be on our guard."

But the old Druid caught the word. Leaning on a staff, he helped himself up and exclaimed:

"What's the meaning of this? Be on your guard . . . against me! That's really a bit thick! Treat me as a fake! Why, haven't you seen my axe, with the pattern of the swastika? The swastika, the leading cabalistic symbol, eh, what? . . . And this? What do you call this?" He lifted his string of beads. "What do you call it? Horse-chestnuts? You've got some cheek, you have, to give a name like that to serpents' eggs, 'eggs which they form out of slaver and the froth of their bodies mingled and which they cast into the air, hissing the while.' It's Pliny's own words I'm quoting! You're not going to treat Pliny also as a fake, I hope! . . .

You're a pretty customer! Putting yourself on your guard against me, when I have all my degrees as an ancient Druid, all my diplomas, all my patents, all my certificates signed by Pliny and Chateaubriand! The cheek of you! . . . Upon my word, you won't find many ancient Druids of my sort, genuine, of the period, with the bloom of age upon them and a beard of centuries! I a fake, I, who boast every tradition and who juggle with the customs of antiquity! . . . Shall I dance the ancient Druid dance for you, as I did before Julius Caesar? Would you like me to?"

And, without waiting for a reply, the old man, flinging aside his staff, began to cut the most extravagant capers and to execute the wildest of jigs with perfectly astounding agility. And it was the most laughable sight to see him jumping and twisting about, with his back bent, his arms outstretched, his legs shooting to right and left from under his robe, his beard following the evolutions of his frisking body, while the bleating voice announced the successive changes in the performance:

"The ancient Druids' dance, or Caesar's delight! Hi-tiddly, hi-tiddly, hi-ti, hi! . . . The mistletoe dance, vulgarly known as the tickletoe!

. . . The serpents' egg waltz, music by Pliny! Hullo there! Begone, dull care! . . . The Vorska, or the tango of the thirty coffins! . . . The hymn of the Red Prophet! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Glory be to the prophet!"

He continued his furious jig a little longer and then suddenly halted before Vorski and, in a solemn tone, said:

"Enough of this prattle! Let us talk seriously, I am commissioned to hand you the G.o.d-Stone. Now that you are here, are you ready to take delivery of the goods?"

The three accomplices were absolutely flabbergasted. Vorski did not know what to do, was unable to make out who the infernal fellow was:

"Oh, shut up!" he shouted, angrily. "What do you want? What's your object?"

"What do you mean, my object? I've just told you; to hand you the G.o.d-Stone!"

"But by what right? In what capacity?"

The ancient Druid nodded his head:

"Yes, I see what you're after. Things are not happening in the least as you thought they would. Of course, you came here feeling jolly spry, glad and proud of the work you had done. Just think; furnis.h.i.+ngs for thirty coffins, four women crucified, s.h.i.+pwrecks, hands steeped in blood, murders galore. Those things are no small beer; and you were expecting an imposing reception, with an official ceremony, solemn pomp and state, antique choirs, processions of bards and minstrels, human sacrifices and what not; the whole Gallic bag of tricks! Instead of which, a poor beggar of a Druid, snoozing in a corner, who just simply offers you the goods. What a come down, my lords! Can't be helped, Vorski; we do what we can and every man acts according to the means at his disposal. I'm not a millionaire, you know; and I've already advanced you, in addition to the was.h.i.+ng of a few white robes, some thirty francs forty for Bengal lights, fountains of fire and a nocturnal earthquake."

Vorski started, suddenly understanding and beside himself with rage:

"What! So it was . . ."

"Of course it was me! Who did you think it was? St. Augustine? Unless you believed in an intervention of the G.o.ds and supposed that they took the trouble last night to send an archangel to the island, arrayed in a white robe, to lead you to the hollow oak! . . . Really, you're asking too much!"

Vorski clenched his fists. So the man in white whom he had pursued the night before was no other than this impostor!

"Oh," he growled, "I'm not fond of having my leg pulled!"

"Having your leg pulled!" cried the old man. "You've got a cheek, old chap! Who hunted me like a wild beast, till I was quite out of breath?

And who drove bullets through my best Sunday robe? I never knew such a fellow! It'll teach me to put my back into a job again!"

"That'll do!" roared Vorski. "That'll do. Once more and for the last time . . . what do you want with me?"

"I'm sick of telling you. I am commissioned to hand you the G.o.d-Stone."

"Commissioned by whom?"

"Oh, hanged if I know! I've always been brought up to believe that some day a prince of Almain would appear at Sarek, one Vorski, who would slay his thirty victims and to whom I was to make an agreed signal when his thirtieth victim had breathed her last. Therefore, as I'm a slave to orders, I got together my little parcel, bought two Bengal lights at three francs seventy-five apiece at a hardware shop in Brest, _plus_ a few choice crackers, and, at the appointed hour, took up my perch in my observatory, taper in hand, all ready for work. When you started howling, in the top of the tree, 'She's dead! She's dead!' I thought that was the right moment, set fire to the lights and with my crackers shook the bowels of the earth. There! Now you know all about it."

Vorski stepped forward, with his fists raised to strike. That torrent of words, that imperturbable composure, that calm, bantering voice put him beside himself.

"Another word and I'll knock you down!" he cried. "I've had enough of it."

"Is your name Vorski?"

"Yes; and then?"

"Are you a prince of Almain?"

"Yes, yes; and then?"

"Have you slain your thirty victims?"

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"Well, then you're my man. I have a G.o.d-Stone to hand you and I mean to hand it you, come what may. That's the sort of hairpin I am. You've got to pocket it, your miracle-stone."