CHAPTER XIV
THE ANCIENT DRUID
The three accomplices, who were perfectly acquainted with all theniceties of the French language and familiar with every slang phrase,did not for a moment mistake the true sense of that unexpectedexclamation. They were astounded.
Vorski put the question to Conrad and Otto.
"Eh? What does he say?"
"What you heard . . . . That's right," said Otto.
Vorski ended by making a fresh attack on the shoulder of the stranger,who turned on his couch, stretched himself, yawned, seemed to fallasleep again, and, suddenly admitting himself defeated, half sat up andshouted:
"When you've quite finished, please! Can't a man have a quiet snoozethese days, in this beastly hole?"
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 facenow stood clearly revealed. The old man, who had continued to vent hisill temper in incoherent complaints, looked at his visitor, becamegradually calmer, even assumed an amiable and almost smiling expressionand, 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 byhis name did not astonish him immensely, since he had the half-mysticconviction 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 astranger crowned with the double majesty of age and sacerdotal rank, itwas 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 amI? By Teutates, god of the Gauls, is it you who ask me that question?Then you don't know me? Come, try and remember . . . . Good oldSegenax--eh, do you get me now--Velleda's father, good old Segenax, thelaw-giver venerated by the Rhedons of whom Chateaubriand speaks in thefirst 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 regrettableevents which brought me here long ago. Disgusted by the scandalousbehaviour of Velleda, who had gone wrong with that dismal blighterEudorus, I became what we should call a Trappist nowadays, that is tosay, I passed a brilliant exam, as a bachelor of Druid laws. Since thattime, in consequence of a few sprees--oh, nothing to speak of: three orfour jaunts to Paris, where I was attracted by Mabille and afterwards bythe Moulin Rouge--I was obliged to accept the little berth which I fillhere, a cushy job, as you see: guardian of the God-Stone, a shirker'sjob, what!"
Vorski's amazement and uneasiness increased at each word. He consultedhis companions.
"Break his head," Conrad repeated. "That's what I say: and I stick toit."
"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 himselfup and exclaimed:
"What's the meaning of this? Be on your guard . . . against me! That'sreally 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 cabalisticsymbol, eh, what? . . . And this? What do you call this?" He lifted hisstring of beads. "What do you call it? Horse-chestnuts? You've got somecheek, you have, to give a name like that to serpents' eggs, 'eggs whichthey form out of slaver and the froth of their bodies mingled and whichthey cast into the air, hissing the while.' It's Pliny's own words I'mquoting! 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 mypatents, all my certificates signed by Pliny and Chateaubriand! Thecheek of you! . . . Upon my word, you won't find many ancient Druids ofmy sort, genuine, of the period, with the bloom of age upon them and abeard of centuries! I a fake, I, who boast every tradition and whojuggle with the customs of antiquity! . . . Shall I dance the ancientDruid dance for you, as I did before Julius Caesar? Would you like meto?"
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 ofjigs with perfectly astounding agility. And it was the most laughablesight to see him jumping and twisting about, with his back bent, hisarms outstretched, his legs shooting to right and left from under hisrobe, his beard following the evolutions of his frisking body, while thebleating 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, dullcare! . . . The Vorska, or the tango of the thirty coffins! . . . Thehymn of the Red Prophet! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Glory be to theprophet!"
He continued his furious jig a little longer and then suddenly haltedbefore Vorski and, in a solemn tone, said:
"Enough of this prattle! Let us talk seriously, I am commissioned tohand you the God-Stone. Now that you are here, are you ready to takedelivery of the goods?"
The three accomplices were absolutely flabbergasted. Vorski did not knowwhat to do, was unable to make out who the infernal fellow was:
"Oh, shut up!" he shouted, angrily. "What do you want? What's yourobject?"
"What do you mean, my object? I've just told you; to hand you theGod-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 asyou thought they would. Of course, you came here feeling jolly spry,glad and proud of the work you had done. Just think; furnishings forthirty coffins, four women crucified, shipwrecks, hands steeped inblood, murders galore. Those things are no small beer; and you wereexpecting an imposing reception, with an official ceremony, solemn pompand state, antique choirs, processions of bards and minstrels, humansacrifices and what not; the whole Gallic bag of tricks! Instead ofwhich, a poor beggar of a Druid, snoozing in a corner, who just simplyoffers 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 athis disposal. I'm not a millionaire, you know; and I've already advancedyou, in addition to the washing of a few white robes, some thirty francsforty 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? Unlessyou believed in an intervention of the gods and supposed that they tookthe trouble last night to send an archangel to the island, arrayed in awhite robe, to lead you to the hollow oak! . . . Really, you're askingtoo much!"
Vorski clenched his fists. So the man in white whom he had pursued thenight 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, oldchap! 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 afellow! 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 lasttime . . . what do you want with me?"
"I'm sick of telling you. I am commissioned to hand you the God-Stone."
"Commissioned by whom?"
"Oh, hanged if I know! I've always been brought up to believe that someday a prince of Almain would appear at Sarek, one Vorski, who would slayhis thirty victims and to
whom I was to make an agreed signal when histhirtieth victim had breathed her last. Therefore, as I'm a slave toorders, I got together my little parcel, bought two Bengal lights atthree francs seventy-five apiece at a hardware shop in Brest, _plus_ afew choice crackers, and, at the appointed hour, took up my perch in myobservatory, taper in hand, all ready for work. When you startedhowling, in the top of the tree, 'She's dead! She's dead!' I thoughtthat was the right moment, set fire to the lights and with my crackersshook the bowels of the earth. There! Now you know all about it."
Vorski stepped forward, with his fists raised to strike. That torrent ofwords, that imperturbable composure, that calm, bantering voice put himbeside himself.
"Another word and I'll knock you down!" he cried. "I've had enough ofit."
"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 God-Stone to hand you and I mean tohand it you, come what may. That's the sort of hairpin I am. You've gotto pocket it, your miracle-stone."
"But I don't care a hang for the God-Stone!" roared Vorski, stamping hisfoot. "And I don't care a hang for you! I want nobody. The God-Stone!Why, I've got it, it's mine. I've got it on me."
"Let's have a look."
"What do you call that?" said Vorski, taking from his pocket the littlestone disk which he had found in the pommel of the sceptre.
"That?" asked the old man, with an air of surprise. "Where did you getthat from?"
"From the pommel of this sceptre, when I unfastened it."
"And what do you call it?"
"It's a piece of the God-Stone."
"You're mad."
"Then what do you say it is?"
"That's a trouser-button."
"A what?"
"A trouser-button."
"How do you make that out?"
"A trouser-button with the shaft broken off, a button of the sort whichthe niggers in the Sahara wear. I've a whole set of them."
"Prove it, damn you!"
"I put it there."
"What for?"
"To take the place of the precious stone which Maguennoc sneaked, theone which burnt him and obliged him to cut off his hand."
Vorski was silent. He was nonplussed. He had no notion what to do nextor how to behave towards this strange adversary.
The ancient Druid went up to him and, gently, in a fatherly voice:
"No, my lad," he said, "you can't do without me, you see. I alone holdthe key of the safe and the secret of the casket. Why do you hesitate?"
"I don't know you."
"You baby! If I were suggesting something indelicate and incompatiblewith your honour, I could understand your scruples. But my offer is oneof those which can't offend the nicest conscience. Well, is it abargain? No? Not yet? But, by Teutates, what more do you want, youunbelieving Vorski? A miracle perhaps? Lord, why didn't you say sobefore? Miracles, forsooth: I turn 'em out thirteen to the dozen. I worka little miracle before breakfast every morning. Just think, a Druid!Miracles? Why, I've got my shop full of 'em! I can't find room to sitdown for them. Where will you try first? Resurrection department?Hair-restoring department? Revelation of the future department? You canchoose where you like. Look here, at what time did your thirtieth victimbreathe her last?"
"How should I know?"
"Eleven fifty-two. Your excitement was so great that it stopped yourwatch. Look and see."
It was ridiculous. The shock produced by excitement has no effect on thewatch of the man who experiences the excitement. Nevertheless, Vorskiinvoluntarily took out his watch: it marked eight minutes to twelve. Hetried to wind it up: it was broken.
The ancient Druid, without giving him time to recover his breath andreply, went on:
"That staggers you, eh? And yet there's nothing simpler for a Druid whoknows his business. A Druid sees the invisible. He does more: he makesanyone else see it if he wants to. Vorski, would you like to seesomething that doesn't exist? What's your name? I'm not speaking of yourname Vorski, but of your real name, your governor's name."
"Silence on that subject!" Vorski commanded. "It's a secret I'verevealed to nobody."
"Then why do you write it down?"
"I've never written it down."
"Vorski, your father's name is written in red pencil on the fourteenthpage of the little note-book you carry on you. Look and see."
Acting mechanically, like an automaton whose movements are controlledby an alien will, Vorski took from his inside pocket a case containing asmall note-book. He turned the pages till he came to the fourteenth,when he muttered, with indescribable dismay:
"Impossible! Who wrote this? And you know what's written here?"
"Do you want me to prove it to you?"
"Once more, silence! I forbid you . . ."
"As you please, old chap! All that I do is meant for your edification.And it's no trouble to me! Once I start working miracles, I simply can'tstop. Here's another funny little trick. You carry a locket hanging froma silver chain round your shirt, don't you?"
"Yes," said Vorski, his eyes blazing with fever.
"The locket consists of a frame, without the photograph which used to beset in it."
"Yes, yes, a portrait of . . ."
"Of your mother, I know: and you lost it."
"Yes, I lost it last year."
"You mean you _think_ you've lost the portrait."
"Nonsense, the locket is empty."
"You _think_ the locket's empty. It's not. Look and see."
Still moving mechanically, with his eyes starting from his head, Vorskiunfastened the button of his shirt and pulled out the chain. The locketappeared. There was the portrait of a woman in a round gold frame.
"It's she, it's she," he muttered, completely taken aback.
"Quite sure?"
"Yes."
"Then what do you say to it all, eh? There's no fake about it, nodeception. The ancient Druid's a smart chap and you're coming with him,aren't you?"
"Yes."
Vorski was beaten. The man had subjugated him. His superstitiousinstincts, his inherited belief in the mysterious powers, his restlessand unbalanced nature, all imposed absolute submission on him. Hissuspicion persisted, but did not prevent him from obeying.
"Is it far?" he asked.
"Next door, in the great hall."
Otto and Conrad had been the astounded witnesses of this dialogue.Conrad tried to protest. But Vorski silenced him:
"If you're afraid, go away. Besides," he added, with an affectation ofassurance, "besides, we shall walk with our revolvers ready. At theslightest alarm, fire."
"Fire on me?" chuckled the ancient Druid.
"Fire on any enemy, no matter who it may be."
"Well, you go first, Vorski . . . . What, won't you?"
He had brought them to the very end of the crypt, in the darkest shadow,where the lantern showed them a recess hollowed at the foot of the walland plunging into the rocks in a downward direction.
Vorski hesitated and then entered. He had to crawl on his hands andknees in this narrow, winding passage, from which he emerged, a minutelater, on the threshold of a large hall.
The others joined him.
"The hall of the God-Stone," the ancient Druid declared, solemnly.
It was lofty and imposing, similar in shape and size to the broad walkunder which it lay. The same number of upright stones, which seemed tobe the columns of an immense temple, stood in the same place and formedthe same rows as the menhirs on the walk overhead: stones hewn in thesame uncouth way, with no regard for art or symmetry. The floor wascomposed of huge irregular flagstones, intersected with a network ofgutters and covered with round patches of dazzling light, falling fromabove at some distance one from the other.
In the centre, under Maguennoc's garden, rose a platform of unmortaredstones, fourteen o
r fifteen feet high, with sides about twenty yardslong. On the top was a dolmen with two sturdy supports and a long, ovalgranite table.
"Is that it?" asked Vorski, in a husky voice.
Without giving a direct answer, the ancient Druid said:
"What do you think of it? They were dabs at building, those ancestors ofours! And what ingenuity they displayed! What precautions against pryingeyes and profane enquiries! Do you know where the light comes from? Forwe are in the bowels of the island and there are no windows opening onto the sky. The light comes from the upper menhirs. They are piercedfrom the top to bottom with a channel which widens as it goes down andwhich sheds floods of light below. In the middle of the day, when thesun is shining, it's like fairyland. You, who are an artist, would shoutwith admiration."
"Then that's _it_?" Vorski repeated.
"At any rate, it's a sacred stone," declared the ancient Druid,impassively, "since it used to overlook the place of the undergroundsacrifices, which were the most important of all. But there is anotherone underneath, which is protected by the dolmen and which you can't seefrom here; and that is the one on which the selected victims wereoffered up. The blood used to flow from the platform and along all thesegutters to the cliffs and down to the sea."
Vorski muttered, more and more excited:
"Then that's it? If so, let's go on."
"No need to stir," said the old man, with exasperating coolness. "It'snot that one either. There's a third; and to see that one you have onlyto lift your head a little."
"Where? Are you sure?"
"Of course! Take a good look . . . above the upper table, yes, in thevery vault which forms the ceiling and which is like a mosaic made ofgreat flagstones . . . . You can twig it from here, can't you? Aflagstone forming a separate oblong, long and narrow like the lowertable and shaped like it . . . . They might be two sisters . . . . Butthere's only one good one, stamped with the trademark . . . ."
Vorski was disappointed. He had expected a more elaborate introductionto a more mysterious hiding-place.
"Is that the God-Stone?" he asked. "Why, it has nothing particular aboutit."
"From a distance, no; but wait till you see it close by. There arecoloured veins in it, glittering lodes, a special grain: in short, theGod-Stone. Besides, it's remarkable not so much for its substance as forits miraculous properties."
"What are the miracles in question?" asked Vorski.
"It gives life and death, as you know, and it gives a lot of otherthings."
"What sort of things?"
"Oh, hang it, you're asking me too much! I don't know anything aboutit."
"How do you mean, you don't know?"
The ancient Druid leant over and, in a confidential tone:
"Listen, Vorski," he said, "I confess that I have been boasting a bitand that my function, though of the greatest importance--keeper of theGod-Stone, you know, a first-class berth--is limited by a power which ina manner of speaking is higher than my own."
"What power?"
"Velleda's."
Vorski eyed him with renewed uneasiness:
"Velleda?"
"Yes, or at least the woman whom I call Velleda, the last of theDruidesses: I don't know her real name."
"Where is she?"
"Here."
"Here?"
"Yes, on the sacrificial stone. She's asleep."
"What, she's asleep?"
"She's been sleeping for centuries, since all time. I've never seen herother than sleeping: a chaste and peaceful slumber. Like the SleepingBeauty, Velleda is waiting for him whom the gods have appointed toawake her; and that is . . ."
"Who?"
"You, Vorski, you."
Vorski knitted his brows. What was the meaning of this improbable storyand what was his impenetrable interlocutor driving at?
The ancient Druid continued:
"That seems to ruffle you! Come, there's no reason, just because yourhands are red with blood and because you have thirty coffins on yourmind, why you shouldn't have the right to act as Prince Charming. You'retoo modest, my young friend. Look here, Velleda is marvellouslybeautiful: I tell you, hers is a superhuman beauty. Ah, my fine fellow,you're getting excited! What? Not yet?"
Vorski hesitated. Really he was feeling the danger increase around himand rise like a swelling wave that is about to break. But the old manwould not leave him alone:
"One last word, Vorski; and I'm speaking low so that your friends shan'thear me. When you wrapped your mother in her shroud, you left on herfore-finger, in obedience to her formal wish, a ring which she hadalways worn, a magic ring made of a large turquoise surrounded by acircle of smaller turquoises set in gold. Am I right?"
"Yes," gasped Vorski, taken aback, "yes, you're right: but I was aloneand it is a secret which nobody knew."
"Vorski, if that ring is on Velleda's finger, will you trust me and willyou believe that your mother, in her grave, appointed Velleda toreceive you, that she herself might hand you the miraculous stone?"
Vorski was already walking towards the tumulus. He quickly climbed thefirst few steps. His head passed the level of the platform.
"Oh," he said, staggering back, "the ring . . . the ring is on herfinger!"
Between the two supports of the dolmen, stretched on the sacrificialtable and clad in a spotless gown that came down to her feet, lay theDruidess. Her body and face were turned the other way; and a veilhanging over her forehead hid her hair. Almost bare, her shapely arm layalong the table. On the forefinger was a turquoise ring.
"Is that your mother's ring all right?" asked the ancient Druid.
"Yes, there's no doubt about it."
Vorski had hurried across the space between himself and the dolmen and,stooping, almost kneeling, was examining the turquoises.
"The number is complete," he whispered. "One of them is cracked. Anotheris half covered by the gold setting which has worked down over it."
"You needn't be so cautious," said the old man. "She won't hear you; andyour voice can't wake her. What you had better do is to stand up andpass your hand lightly over her forehead. That is the magic caress whichwill rouse her from her slumber."
Vorski stood up. Nevertheless he hesitated to approach the woman, whoinspired him with ungovernable fear and respect.
"Don't come any nearer, you two," said the ancient Druid, addressingOtto and Conrad. "When Velleda's eyes open, they must rest on no onebut Vorski and behold no other sight. Well, Vorski, are you afraid?"
"No, I'm not afraid."
"Only you're not feeling comfortable. It's easier to murder people thanto bring them to life, what? Come, show yourself a man! Put aside herveil and touch her forehead. The God-Stone is within your reach. Act andyou will be the master of the world."
Vorski acted. Standing against the sacrificial altar, he looked downupon the Druidess. He bent over the motionless bust. The white gown roseand fell to the regular rhythm of the breathing. With an undecided handhe drew back the veil and then stooped lower, so that his other handmight touch the uncovered forehead.
But at that moment his action remained, so to speak, suspended and hestood without moving, like a man who does not understand but is vainlytrying to understand.
"Well, what's up, old chap?" exclaimed the Druid. "You look petrified.Another squabble? Something gone wrong? Must I come and help you?"
Vorski did not answer. He was staring wildly, with an expression ofstupefaction and affright which gradually changed into one of madterror. Drops of perspiration trickled over his face. His haggard eyesseemed to be gazing upon the most horrible vision.
The old man burst out laughing:
"Lord love us, how ugly you are! I hope the last of the Druidesses won'traise her divine eyelids and see that hideous mug of yours! Sleep,Velleda, sleep your pure and dreamless sleep."
Vorski stood muttering between his teeth incoherent words which conveyedthe menace of an increasing anger. The truth became partly revealed tohim in a series of flashes. A word rose to h
is lips which he refused toutter, as though, in uttering it, he feared lest he should give life toa being who was no more, to that woman who was dead, yes, dead thoughshe lay breathing before him: she could not but be dead, because he hadkilled her. However, in the end and in spite of himself, he spoke; andevery syllable cost him intolerable suffering:
"Veronique . . . . Veronique . . . ."
"So you think she's like her?" chuckled the ancient Druid. "Upon myword, may be you are right: there is a sort of family resemblance. . . . I dare say, if you hadn't crucified the other with your ownhands and if you hadn't yourself received her last breath, you would beready to swear that the two women are one and the same person . . . andthat Veronique d'Hergemont is alive and that she's not even wounded. . . not even a scar . . . not so much as the mark of the cords roundher wrists . . . . But just look, Vorski, what a peaceful face, whatcomforting serenity! Upon my word, I'm beginning to believe that youmade a mistake and that it was another woman you crucified! Just think abit! . . . Hullo, you're going to go for me now! Come to my rescue, OTeutates! The prophet wants to have my blood!"
Vorski had drawn himself up and was now facing the ancient Druid. Hisfeatures, fashioned for hatred and fury, had surely never expressedmore of either than at this moment. The ancient Druid was not merely theman who for an hour had been toying with him as with a child. He was theman who had performed the most extraordinary feat and who suddenlyappeared to him as the most ruthless and dangerous foe. A man like thatmust 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 anogre! . . . Help! Murder! Help! . . . Oh, look at his iron fingers! He'sgoing 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 bestSunday robe. That leaves five. Fire away, Alexis."
Each word aggravated Vorski's fury. He was eager to get the work overand he shouted:
"Otto . . . Conrad . . . are you ready?"
He raised his arm. The two assistants likewise took aim. Four paces infront of them stood the old man, laughingly pleading for mercy:
"Please, kind gentlemen, have pity on a poor beggar . . . . I won't doit 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 legin the air, then drew himself up straight, opposite his adversaries, andcried, in a tragic voice:
"A hit, a palpable hit! Shot through the body! Dead, for a ducat! . . .The ancient Druid's _kaput_! . . . A tragic development! Oh, the poorold Druid, who was so fond of his joke!"
"Fire!" roared Vorski. "Shoot, can't you, you idiots? Fire!"
"Fire! Fire!" repeated the Druid. "Bang! Bang! A bull's eye! . . . Two!. . . Three bull's eyes! . . . Your shot, Conrad: bang! . . . Yours,Otto: bang!"
The shots rattled and echoed through the great resounding hall. Thebewildered and furious accomplices were gesticulating before theirtarget, while the invulnerable old man danced and kicked, now almostsquatting on his heels, now leaping up with astounding agility:
"Lord, what fun one can have in a cave! And what a fool you are, Vorski,my own! You blooming old prophet! . . . What a mug! But, I say, howevercould you take it all in? The Bengal lights! The crackers! And thetrouser-button! And your old mother's ring! . . . You silly juggins!What a spoof!"
Vorski stopped. He realized that the three revolvers had been madeharmless, but how? By what unprecedented marvel? What was at the bottomof all this fantastic adventure? Who was that demon standing in front ofhim?
He flung away his useless weapon and looked at the old man. Was hethinking of seizing him in his arms and crushing the life out of him? Healso looked at the woman and seemed ready to fall upon her. But heobviously no longer felt equal to facing those two strange creatures,who appeared to him to be remote from the world and from actuality.
Then, quickly, he turned on his heel and, calling to his accomplices,made for the crypts, followed by the ancient Druid's jeers:
"Look at that now! He's slinging his hook! And the God-Stone, what aboutit? What do you want me to do with it? . . . I say, isn't he showing aclean pair of heels! . . . Hi! Are your trousers on fire? Yoicks,tally-ho, tally-ho! Proph--et Proph--et! . . ."