yourself . . . . So--do you follow me?--the three crosses--you know, the
'four women crucified'--the number's there . . . it's our four selves
. . . there's no one besides us on the island . . . four women . . . ."

Véronique had listened in silence. She broke out into a slight
perspiration.

She shrugged her shoulders, however:

"Well? And then? If there's no one except ourselves on the island, what
are you afraid of?"

"_Them_, of course! _Them!_"

Véronique lost her patience:

"But if everybody has gone!" she exclaimed.

Gertrude took fright:

"Speak low. Suppose they heard you!"

"But who?"

"_They_: the people of old."

"The people of old?"

"Yes, those who used to make sacrifices . . . the people who killed men
and women . . . to please their gods."

"But that's a thing of the past! The Druids: is that what you mean?
Come, come; there are no Druids nowadays."

"Speak quietly! Speak quietly! There are still . . . there are evil
spirits . . ."

"Then they're ghosts?" asked Véronique, horror-stricken by these
superstitions.

"Ghosts, yes, but ghosts of flesh and blood . . . with hands that lock
doors and keep you imprisoned . . . creatures that sink boats, the same,
I tell you, that killed M. Antoine, Marie Le Goff and the others . . .
that killed twenty-six of us . . . ."

Véronique did not reply. There was no reply to make. She knew, she knew
only too well who had killed M. d'Hergemont, Marie Le Goff and the
others and sunk the two boats.

"What time was it when the three of you were locked in?" she asked.

"Half-past ten . . . . We had arranged to meet Corréjou in the village
at eleven."

Véronique reflected. It was hardly possible that François and Stéphane
should have had time to be at half-past ten in this place and an hour
later to be behind the rock from which they had darted out upon the two
boats. Was it to be presumed that one or more of their accomplices were
left on the island?

"In any case," she said, "you must come to a decision. You can't remain
in this state. You must rest yourselves, eat something . . . ."

The second sister had risen to her feet. She said, in the same hollow
and violent tones as her sister:

"First of all, we must hide . . . and be able to defend ourselves
against _them_."

"What do you mean?" asked Véronique.

She too, in spite of herself, felt this need of a refuge against a
possible enemy.

"What do I mean? I'll tell you. The thing has been talked about a lot in
the island, especially this year; and Maguennoc decided that, at the
first attack, everybody should take shelter in the Priory."

"Why in the Priory?"

"Because we could defend ourselves there. The cliffs are perpendicular.
You're protected on every side."

"What about the bridge?"

"Maguennoc and Honorine thought of everything. There's a little hut
fifteen yards to the left of the bridge. That's the place they hit on to
keep their stock of petrol in. Empty three or four cans over the bridge,
strike a match . . . and the thing's done. You're just as in your own
home. You can't be got at and you can't be attacked."

"Then why didn't they come to the Priory instead of taking to flight in
the boats?"

"It was safer to escape in the boats. But we no longer have the choice."

"And when shall we start?"

"At once. It's daylight still; and that's better than the dark."

"But your sister, the one on her back?"

"We have a barrow. We've got to wheel her. There's a direct road to the
Priory, without passing through the village."

Véronique could not help looking with repugnance upon the prospect of
living in close intimacy with the sisters Archignat. She yielded,
however, swayed by a fear which she was unable to overcome:

"Very well," she said. "Let's go. I'll take you to the Priory and come
back to the village to fetch some provisions."

"Oh, you mustn't be away long!" protested one of the sisters. "As soon
as the bridge is cut, we'll light a bonfire on Fairies' Dolmen Hill and
they'll send a steamer from the mainland. To-day the fog is coming up;
but to-morrow . . ."

Véronique raised no objection. She now accepted the idea of leaving
Sarek, even at the cost of an enquiry which would reveal her name.

They started, after the two sisters had swallowed a glass of brandy. The
madwoman sat huddled in the wheel-barrow, laughing softly and uttering
little sentences which she addressed to Véronique as though she wanted
her to laugh too:

"We shan't meet them yet . . . . They're getting ready . . . ."

"Shut up, you old fool!" said Gertrude. "You'll bring us bad luck."

"Yes, yes, we shall see some sport . . . . It'll be great fun . . . . I
have a cross of gold hung round my neck . . . and another cut into the
skin of my head . . . . Look! . . . Crosses everywhere . . . . One ought
to be comfortable on the cross . . . . One ought to sleep well there
. . . ."

"Shut up, will you, you old fool?" repeated Gertrude, giving her a box
on the ear.

"All right, all right! . . . But it's they who'll hit you; I see them
hiding! . . ."

The path, which was pretty rough at first, reached the table-land formed
by the west cliffs, which were loftier, but less rugged and worn away
than the others. The woods were scarcer; and the oaks were all bent by
the wind from the sea.

"We are coming to the heath which they call the Black Heath," said
Clémence Archignat.

"_They_ live underneath."

Véronique once more shrugged her shoulders:

"How do you know?"

"We know more than other people," said Gertrude. "They call us witches;
and there's something in it. Maguennoc himself, who knew a great deal,
used to ask our advice about anything that had to do with healing, lucky
stones, the herbs you gather on St. John's Eve . . ."

"Mugwort and vervain," chuckled the madwoman. "They are picked at
sunset."

"Or tradition too," continued Gertrude. "We know what's been said in the
island for hundreds of years; and it's always been said that there was a
whole town underneath, with streets and all, in which _they_ used to
live of old. And there are some left still, I've seen them myself."

Véronique did not reply.

"Yes, my sister and I saw one. Twice, when the June moon was six days
old. He was dressed in white . . . and he was climbing the Great Oak to
gather the sacred mistletoe . . . with a golden sickle. The gold
glittered in the moonlight. I saw it, I tell you, and others saw it too
. . . . And he's not the only one. There are several of them left over
from the old days to guard the treasure . . . . Yes, as I say, the
treasure . . . . They say it's a stone which works miracles, which can
make you die if you touch it and which makes you live if you lie down on
it. That's all true, Maguennoc told us so, all perfectly true. _They_ of
old guard the stone, the God-Stone, and _they_ are to sacrifice all of
us this year . . . . yes, all of us, thirty dead people for the thirty
coffins . . . ."

"Four women crucified," crooned the madwoman.

"And it will be soon. The sixth day of the moon is near at hand. We must
be gone before _they_ climb the Great Oak to gather the mistletoe. Look,
you can see the Great Oak from here. It's in the wood on this side of
the bridge. It stands out above the others."

"_They_ are hiding behind it," said the madwoman, turning round in her
wheel-barrow. "_They_ are waiting for us."

"That'll do; and don't you stir . . . . As I was saying, you see the
Great Oak . . . over there . . . beyond the end of the heath. It is
. . . it is . . ."

She dropped the wheel-barrow, without finishing her sentence.

"Well?" asked Clémence. "What's the matter?"

"I've seen something," stammered Gertrude. "Something white, moving
about."

"Something? What do you mean? _They_ don't show themselves in broad
daylight! You've gone cross-eyed."

They both looked for a moment and then went on again. Soon the Great Oak
was out of sight.

The heath which they were now crossing was wild and rough, covered with
stones lying flat like tombstones and all pointing in the same
direction.

"It's _their_ burying-ground," whispered Gertrude.

They said nothing more. Gertrude repeatedly had to stop and rest.
Clémence had not the strength to push the wheel-barrow. They were both
of them tottering on their legs; and they gazed into the distance with
anxious eyes.

They went down a dip in the ground and up again. The path joined that
which Véronique had taken with Honorine on the first day; and they
entered the wood which preceded the bridge.

Presently the growing excitement of the sisters Archignat made
Véronique understand that they were approaching the Great Oak; and she
saw it standing on a mound of earth and roots, bigger than the others
and separated from them by wider intervals. She could not help thinking
that it was possible for several men to hide behind that massive trunk
and that perhaps several were hiding there now.

Notwithstanding their fears, the sisters had quickened their pace; and
they kept their eyes turned from the fatal tree.

They left it behind. Véronique breathed more freely. All danger was
passed; and she was just about to laugh at the sisters Archignat, when
one of them, Clémence, spun on her heels and dropped with a moan.

At the same time something fell to the ground, something that had struck
Clémence in the back. It was an axe, a stone axe.

"Oh, the thunder-stone, the thunder-stone!" cried Gertrude.

She looked up for a second, as if, in accordance with the inveterate
popular belief, she believed that the axe came from the sky and was an
emanation of the thunder.

But, at that moment, the madwoman, who had got out of her barrow, leapt
from the ground and fell head forward. Something else had whizzed
through the air. The madwoman was writhing with pain. Gertrude and
Véronique saw an arrow which had been driven through her shoulder and
was still vibrating.

Then Gertrude fled screaming.

Véronique hesitated. Clémence and the madwoman were rolling about on
the ground. The madwoman giggled:

"Behind the oak! They're hiding . . . I see them."

Clémence stammered:

"Help! . . . Lift me up . . . carry me . . . I'm terrified!"

But another arrow whizzed past them and fell some distance farther.

Véronique now also took to her heels, urged not so much by panic, though
this would have been excusable, as by the eager longing to find a weapon
and defend herself. She remembered that in her father's study there was
a glass case filled with guns and revolvers, all bearing the word
"loaded," no doubt as a warning to François; and it was one of these
that she wished to seize in order to face the enemy. She did not even
turn round. She was not interested to know whether she was being
pursued. She ran for the goal, the only profitable goal.

Being lighter and swifter of foot, she overtook Gertrude, who panted:

"The bridge . . . . We must burn it . . . . The petrol's there . . . ."

Véronique did not reply. Breaking down the bridge was a secondary matter
and would even have been an obstacle to her plan of taking a gun and
attacking the enemy.

But, when she reached the bridge, Gertrude whirled about in such a way
that she almost fell down the precipice. An arrow had struck her in the
back.

"Help! Help!" she screamed. "Don't leave me!"

"I'm coming back," replied Véronique, who had not seen the arrow and
thought that Gertrude had merely caught her foot in running. "I'm coming
back, with two guns. You join me."

She imagined in her mind that, once they were both armed, they would go
back to the wood and rescue the other sisters. Redoubling her efforts,
therefore, she reached the wall of the estate, ran across the grass and
went up to her father's study. Here she stopped to recover her breath;
and, after she had taken the two guns, her heart beat so fast that she
had to go back at a slower pace.

She was astonished at not meeting Gertrude, at not seeing her. She
called her. No reply. And it was not till then that the thought occurred
to her that Gertrude had been wounded like her sisters.

She once more broke into a run. But, when she came within sight of the
bridge, she heard shrill cries pierce through the buzzing in her ears
and, on coming into the open opposite the sharp ascent that led to the
wood of the Great Oak, she saw . . .

What she saw rivetted her to the entrance to the bridge. On the other
side, Gertrude was sprawling upon the ground, struggling, clutching at
the roots, digging her nails into the grass and slowly, slowly, with an
imperceptible and uninterrupted movement, moving along the slope.

And Véronique became aware that the unfortunate woman was fastened under
the arms and round the waist by a cord which was hoisting her up, like a
bound and helpless prey, and which was pulled by invisible hands above.

Véronique raised one of the guns to her shoulder. But at what enemy was
she to take aim? What enemy was she to fight? Who was hiding behind the
trees and stones that crowned the hill like a rampart?

Gertrude slipped between those stones, between those trees. She had
ceased screaming, no doubt she was exhausted and swooning. She
disappeared from sight.

Véronique had not moved. She realized the futility of any venture or
enterprise. By rushing into a contest in which she was beaten beforehand
she would not be able to rescue the sisters Archignat and would merely
offer herself to the conqueror as a new and final victim.

Besides, she was overcome with fear. Everything was happening in
accordance with the ruthless logic of facts of which she did not grasp
the meaning but which all seemed connected like the links of a chain.
She was afraid, afraid of those beings, afraid of those ghosts,
instinctively and unconsciously afraid, afraid like the sisters
Archignat, like Honorine, like all the victims of the terrible scourge.

She stooped, so as not to be seen from the Great Oak, and, bending
forward and taking the shelter offered by some bramble-bushes, she
reached the little hut of which the sisters Archignat had spoken, a sort
of summer-house with a pointed roof and coloured tiles. Half the
summer-house was filled with cans of petrol.

From here she overlooked the bridge, on which no one could step without
being seen by her. But no one came down from the wood.

Night fell, a night of thick fog silvered by the moon which just
allowed Véronique to see the opposite side.

After an hour, feeling a little reassured, she made a first trip with
two cans which she emptied on the outer beams of the bridge.

Ten times, with her ears pricked up, carrying her gun slung over her
shoulder and prepared at any moment to defend herself, she repeated the
journey. She poured the petrol a little at random, groping her way and
yet as far as possible selecting the places where her sense of touch
seemed to tell her that the wood was most rotten.

She had a box of matches, the only one that she had found in the house.
She took out a match and hesitated a moment, frightened at the thought
of the great light it would make:

"Even so," she reflected, "if it could be seen from the mainland . . .
But, with this fog . . ."

Suddenly she struck the match and at once lit a paper torch which she
had prepared by soaking it in petrol.

A great flame blazed and burnt her fingers. Then she threw the paper in
a pool of petrol which had formed in a hollow and fled back to the
summer-house.

The fire flared up immediately and, at one flash, spread over the whole
part which she had sprinkled. The cliffs on the two islands, the strip
of granite that united them, the big trees around, the hill, the wood of
the Great Oak and the sea at the bottom of the ravine: these were all
lit up.

"_They_ know where I am . . . . _They_ are looking at the summer-house
where I am hiding," thought Véronique, keeping her eyes fixed on the
Great Oak.

But not a shadow passed through the wood. Not a sound of voices reached
her ears. Those concealed above did not leave their impenetrable
retreat.

In a few minutes, half the bridge collapsed, with a great crash and a
gush of sparks. But the other half went on burning; and at every moment
a piece of timber tumbled into the precipice, lighting up the depths of
the night.

Each time that this happened, Véronique had a sense of relief and her
overstrung nerves grew relaxed. A feeling of security crept over her and
became more and more justified as the gulf between her and her enemies
widened. Nevertheless she remained inside the summer-house and resolved
to wait for the dawn in order to make sure that no communication was
henceforth possible.

The fog increased. Everything was shrouded in darkness. About the middle
of the night, she heard a sound on the other side, at the top of the
hill, so far as she could judge. It was the sound of wood-cutters
felling trees, the regular sound of an axe biting into branches which
were finally removed by breaking.

Véronique had an idea, absurd though she knew it to be, that they were
perhaps building a foot-bridge; and she clutched her gun resolutely.

About an hour later, she seemed to hear moans and even a stifled cry,
followed, for some time, by the rustle of leaves and the sound of steps
coming and going. This ceased. Once more there was a great silence which
seemed to absorb in space every stirring, every restless, every
quivering, every living thing.

The numbness produced by the fatigue and hunger from which she was
beginning to suffer left Véronique little power of thought. She
remembered above all that, having failed to bring any provisions from
the village, she had nothing to eat. She did not distress herself, for
she was determined, as soon as the fog lifted--and this was bound to
happen before long--to light bonfires with the cans of petrol. She
reflected that the best place would be at the end of the island, at the
spot where the dolmen stood.

But suddenly a dreadful thought struck her: had she not left her box of
matches on the bridge? She felt in her pockets but could not find it.
All search was in vain.

This also did not perturb her unduly. For the time being, the feeling
that she had escaped the attacks of the enemy filled her with such
delight that it seemed to her that all the difficulties would disappear
of their own accord.

The hours passed in this way, endlessly long hours, which the
penetrating fog and the cold made more painful as the morning
approached.

Then a faint gleam overspread the sky. Things emerged from the gloom and
assumed their actual forms. And Véronique now saw that the bridge had
collapsed throughout its length. An interval of fifty yards separated
the two islands, which were only joined below by the sharp, pointed,
inaccessible ridge of the cliff.

She was saved.

But, on raising her eyes to the hill opposite, she saw, right at the
top of the slope, a sight that made her utter a cry of horror. Three of
the nearest trees of those which crowned the hill and belonged to the
wood of the Great Oak had been stripped of their lower branches. And, on
the three bare trunks, with their arms strained backward, with their
legs bound, under the tatters of their skirts, and with ropes drawn
tight beneath their livid faces, half-hidden by the black bows of their
caps, hung the three sisters Archignat.

They were crucified.

CHAPTER VI

ALL'S WELL

Walking erect, with a stiff and mechanical gait, without turning round
to look at the abominable spectacle, without recking of what might
happen if she were seen, Véronique went back to the Priory.

A single aim, a single hope sustained her: that of leaving the Isle of
Sarek. She had had her fill of horror. Had she seen three corpses, three
women who had had their throats cut, or been shot, or even hanged, she
would not have felt, as she did now, that her whole being was in revolt.
But this, this torture, was too much. It involved an ignominy, it was an
act of sacrilege, a damnable performance which surpassed the bounds of
wickedness.

And then she was thinking of herself, the fourth and last victim. Fate
seemed to be leading her towards that catastrophe as a person condemned
to death is pushed on to the scaffold. How could she do other than
tremble with fear? How could she fail to read a warning in the choice of
the hill of the Great Oak for the torture of the three sisters
Archignat?

She tried to find comfort in words:

"Everything will be explained. At the bottom of these hideous mysteries
are quite simple causes, actions apparently fantastic but in reality
performed by beings of the same species as myself, who behave as they
do from criminal motives and in accordance with a determined plan. No
doubt all this is only possible because of the war; the war brings about
a peculiar state of affairs in which events of this kind are able to
take place. But, all the same, there is nothing miraculous about it nor
anything inconsistent with the rules of ordinary life."

Useless phrases! Vain attempts at argument which her brain found
difficulty in following! In reality, upset as she was by violent nervous
shocks, she came to think and feel like all those people of Sarek whose
death she had witnessed. She shared their weakness, she was shaken by
the same terrors, besieged by the same nightmares, unbalanced by the
persistence within her of the instincts of bygone ages and lingering
superstitions ever ready to rise to the surface.

Who were these invisible beings who persecuted her? Whose mission was it
to fill the thirty coffins of Sarek? Who was it that was wiping out all
the inhabitants of the luckless island? Who was it that lived in
caverns, gathering at the fateful hours the sacred mistletoe and the
herbs of St. John, using axes and arrows and crucifying women? And in
view of what horrible task, of what monstrous duty? In accordance with
what inconceivable plans? Were they spirits of darkness, malevolent
genii, priests of a dead religion, sacrificing men, women and children
to their blood-thirsty gods?

"Enough, enough, or I shall go mad!" she said, aloud. "I must go! That
must be my only thought: to get away from this hell!"

But it was as though destiny were taking special pains to torture her!
On beginning her search for a little food, she suddenly noticed, in her
father's study, at the back of a cupboard, a drawing pinned to the wall,
representing the same scene as the roll of paper which she had found
near Maguennoc's body in the deserted cabin.

A portfolio full of drawings lay on one of the shelves in the cupboard.
She opened it. It contained a number of sketches of the same scene,
likewise in red chalk. Each of them bore above the head of the first
woman the inscription, "V. d'H." One of them was signed, "Antoine
d'Hergemont."

So it was her father who had made the drawing on Maguennoc's paper! It
was her father who had tried in all these sketches to give the tortured
woman a closer and closer resemblance to his own daughter!

"Enough, enough!" repeated Véronique. "I won't think, I won't reflect!"

Feeling very faint, she pursued her search but found nothing with which
to stay her hunger.

Nor did she find anything that would allow her to light a fire at the
point of the island, though the fog had lifted and the signals would
certainly have been observed.

She tried rubbing two flints against each other, but she did not
understand how to go to work and she did not succeed.

For three days she kept herself alive with water and wild grapes
gathered among the ruins. Feverish and utterly exhausted, she had fits
of weeping which nearly every time produced the sudden appearance of
All's Well; and her physical suffering was such that she felt angry with
the poor dog for having that ridiculous name and drove him away. All's
Well, greatly surprised, squatted on his haunches farther off and began
to sit up again. She felt exasperated with him, as though he could help
being François' dog!

The least sound made her shake from head to foot and covered her with
perspiration. What were the creatures in the Great Oak doing? From which
side were they preparing to attack her? She hugged herself nervously,
shuddering at the thought of falling into those monsters' hands, and
could not keep herself from remembering that she was a beautiful woman
and that they might be tempted by her good looks and her youth.

But, on the fourth day, a great hope uplifted her. She had found in a
drawer a powerful reading-glass. Taking advantage of the bright
sunshine, she focussed the rays upon a piece of paper which ended by
catching fire and enabling her to light a candle.

She believed that she was saved. She had discovered quite a stock of
candles, which allowed her, to begin with, to keep the precious flame
alive until the evening. At eleven o'clock, she took a lantern and went
towards the summer-house, intending to set fire to it. It was a fine
night and the signal would be perceived from the coast.

Fearing to be seen with her light, fearing above all the tragic vision
of the sisters Archignat, whose tragic Calvary was flooded by the
moonlight, she took, on leaving the Priory, another road, more to the
left and bordered with thickets. She walked anxiously, taking care not
to rustle the leaves or stumble over the roots. When she reached open
country, not far from the summer-house, she felt so tired that she had
to sit down. Her head was buzzing. Her heart almost refused to beat.

She could not see the place of execution from here either. But, on
turning her eyes, despite herself, in the direction of the hill, she
received the impression that something resembling a white figure had
moved. It was in the very heart of the wood, at the end of an avenue
which intersected the thick mass of trees on that side.

The figure appeared again, in the full moonlight; and Véronique saw,
notwithstanding the considerable distance, that it was the figure of a
person clad in a robe and perched amid the branches of a tree which
stood alone and higher than the others.

She remembered what the sisters Archignat had said:

"The sixth day of the moon is near at hand. _They_ will climb the Great
Oak and gather the sacred mistletoe."

And she now remembered certain descriptions which she had read in books
and different stories which her father had told her; and she felt as if
she were present at one of those Druid ceremonies which had appealed to
her imagination as a child. But at the same time she felt so weak that
she was not convinced that she was awake or that the strange sight
before her eyes was real. Four other figures formed a group at the foot
of the tree and raised their arms as though to catch the bough ready to
fall. A light flashed above. The high-priest's golden sickle had cut off
the bunch of mistletoe.

Then the high-priest climbed down from the oak; and all five figures
glided along the avenue, skirted the wood and reached the top of the
knoll.

Véronique, who was unable to take her haggard eyes from those creatures,
bent forward and saw the three corpses hanging each from its tree of
torment. At the distance where she stood, the black bows of the caps
looked like crows. The figures stopped opposite the victims as though to
perform some incomprehensible rite. At last the high-priest separated
himself from the group and, holding the bunch of mistletoe in his hand,
came down the hill and went towards the spot where the first arch of the
bridge was anchored.

Véronique was almost fainting. Her wavering eyes, before which
everything seemed to dance, fastened on to the glittering sickle which
swung from side to side on the priest's chest, below his long white
beard. What was he going to do? Though the bridge no longer existed,
Véronique was convulsed with anguish. Her legs refused to carry her. She
lay down on the ground, keeping her eyes fixed upon the terrifying
sight.

On reaching the edge of the chasm, the priest again stopped for a few
seconds. Then he stretched out the arm in which he carried the mistletoe
and, preceded by the sacred plant as by a talisman which altered the
laws of nature in his favour, he took a step forward above the yawning
gulf.

And he walked thus in space, all white in the moonlight.

What happened Véronique did not know, nor was she quite sure what had
been happening, if she had not been the sport of an hallucination, nor
at what stage of the strange ceremony this hallucination had originated
in her enfeebled brain.

She waited with closed eyes for events which did not take place and
which, for that matter, she did not even try to foresee. But other, more
real things preoccupied her mind. Her candle was going out inside the
lantern. She was aware of this; and yet she had not the strength to pull
herself together and return to the Priory. And she said to herself that,
if the sun should not shine again within the next few days, she would
not be able to light the flame and that she was lost.

She resigned herself, weary of fighting and realizing that she was
defeated beforehand in this unequal contest. The only ending that was
not to be endured was that of being captured. But why not abandon
herself to the death that offered, death from starvation, from
exhaustion? If you suffer long enough, there must come a moment when the
suffering decreases and when you pass, almost unconsciously, from life,
which has grown too cruel, to death, which Véronique was gradually
beginning to desire.

"That's it, that's it," she murmured. "To go from Sarek or to die: it's
all the same. What I want is to get away."

A sound of leaves made her open her eyes. The flame of the candle was
expiring. But behind the lantern All's Well was sitting, beating the air
with his fore-paws.

And Véronique saw that he carried a packet of biscuits, fastened round
his neck by a string.

"Tell me your story, you dear old All's Well," said Véronique, next
morning, after a good night's rest in her bedroom at the Priory. "For,
after all, I can't believe that you came to look for me and bring me
food of your own accord. It was an accident, wasn't it? You were
wandering in that direction, you heard me crying and you came to me. But
who tied that little box of biscuits round your neck? Does it mean that
we have a friend in the island, a friend who takes an interest in us?
Why doesn't he show himself? Speak and tell me, All's Well."

She kissed the dog and went on:

"And whom were those biscuits intended for? For your master, for
François? Or for Honorine? No? Then for Monsieur Stéphane perhaps?"

The dog wagged his tail and moved towards the door. He really seemed to
understand. Véronique followed him to Stéphane Maroux's room. All's Well
slipped under the tutor's bed. There were three more cardboard boxes of
biscuits, two packets of chocolate and two tins of preserved meat. And
each parcel was supplied with a string ending in a wide loop, from which
All's Well must have released his head.

"What does it mean?" asked Véronique, bewildered. "Did you put them under
there? But who gave them to you? Have we actually a friend in the
island, who knows us and knows Stéphane Maroux? Can you take me to him?
He must live on this side of the island, because there is no means of
communicating with the other and you can't have been there."

Véronique stopped to think. But, in addition to the provisions stowed
away by All's Well, she also noticed a small canvas-covered satchel
under the bed; and she wondered why Stéphane Maroux had hidden it. She
thought that she had the right to open it and to look for some clue to
the part played by the tutor, to his character, to his past perhaps, to
his relations with M. d'Hergemont and François:

"Yes," she said, "it is my right and even my duty."

Without hesitation, she took a pair of big scissors and forced the frail
lock.

The satchel contained nothing but a manuscript-book, with a rubber band
round it. But, the moment she opened the book, she stood amazed.

On the first page was her own portrait, her photograph as a girl, with
her signature in full and the inscription:

      "To my friend Stéphane."

"I don't understand, I don't understand," she murmured. "I remember the
photograph: I must have been sixteen. But how did I come to give it to
him? I must have known him!"

Eager to learn more, she read the next page, a sort of preface worded as
follows:

      "Véronique, I wish to lead my life under your eyes. In
      undertaking the education of your son, of that son
      whom I ought to loathe, because he is the son of
      another, but whom I love because he is your son, my
      intention is that my life shall be in full harmony
      with the secret feeling that has swayed it so long.
      One day, I have no doubt, you will resume your place
      as François' mother. On that day you will be proud of
      him. I shall have effaced all that may survive in him
      of his father and I shall have exalted all the fine
      and noble qualities which he inherits from you. The
      aim is great enough for me to devote myself to it body
      and soul. I do so with gladness. Your smile shall be
      my reward."

Véronique's heart was flooded with a singular emotion. Her life was lit
with a calmer radiance; and this new mystery, which she was unable to
fathom any more than the others, was at least, like that of Maguennoc's
flowers, gentle and comforting.

As she continued to turn the pages, she followed her son's education
from day to day. She beheld the pupil's progress and the master's
methods. The pupil was engaging, intelligent, studious, zealous loving,
sensitive, impulsive and at the same time thoughtful. The master was
affectionate, patient and borne up by some profound feeling which showed
through every line of the manuscript.

And, little by little, there was a growing enthusiasm in the daily
confession, which expressed itself in terms less and less restrained:

      "François, my dearly-beloved son--for I may call you
      so, may I not?--François, your mother lives once again
      in you. Your eyes are pure and limpid as hers. Your
      soul is grave and simple as her soul. You are
      unacquainted with evil; and one might almost say that
      you are unacquainted with good, so closely is it
      blended with your beautiful nature."

Some of the child's exercises were copied into the book, exercises in
which he spoke of his mother with passionate affection and with the
persistent hope that he would soon see her again.

      "We shall see her again, François," Stéphane added,
      "and you will then understand better what beauty means
      and light and the charm of life and the delight of
      beholding and admiring."

Next came anecdotes about Véronique, minor details which she herself did
not remember or which she thought that she alone knew:

      "One day, at the Tuileries--she was only sixteen--a
      circle was formed round her . . . by people who looked
      at her and wondered at her loveliness. Her girl
      friends laughed, happy at seeing her admired . . . .

      "Open her right hand, François. You will see a long,
      white scar in the middle of the palm. When she was
      quite a little girl, she ran the point of an iron
      railing into her hand . . . ."

But the last pages were not written for the boy and had certainly not
been read by him. The writer's love was no longer disguised beneath
admiring phrases. It displayed itself without reserve, ardent, exalted,
suffering, quivering with hope, though always respectful.

Véronique closed the book. She could read no more.

"Yes, I confess, All's Well," she said to the dog, who was already
sitting up, "my eyes are wet with tears. Devoid of feminine weaknesses
as I am, I will tell you what I would say to nobody else: that really
touches me. Yes, I must try to recall the unknown features of the man
who loves me like this . . . some friend of my childhood whose
affection I never suspected and whose name has not left even a trace in
my memory."

She drew the dog to her:

"Two kind hearts, are they not, All's Well? Neither the master nor the
pupil is capable of the crimes which I saw them commit. If they are the
accomplices of our enemies here, they are so in spite of themselves and
without knowing it. I cannot believe in philtres and incantations and
plants which deprive you of your reason. But, all the same, there is
something, isn't there, you dear little dog? The boy who planted
veronicas round the Calvary of Flowers and who wrote, 'Mother's
flowers,' is not guilty, is he? And Honorine was right, when she spoke
of a fit of madness, and he will come back to look for me, won't he?
Stéphane and he are sure to come back."

The hours that went by were full of soothing quiet. Véronique was no
longer lonely. The present had no terrors for her; and she had faith in
the future.

Next morning, she said to All's Well, whom she had locked up to prevent
his running away:

"Will you take me there now my man? Where? Why, to the friend, of
course, who sent provisions to Stéphane Maroux. Come along."

All's Well was only waiting for Véronique's permission. He dashed off in
the direction of the grassy sward that led to the dolmen; and he stopped
half way. Véronique came up with him. He turned to the right and took a
path which brought them to a huddle of ruins near the edge of the
cliffs. Then he stopped again.

"Is it here?" asked Véronique.

The dog lay down flat. In front of him, at the foot of two blocks of
stones leaning against each other and covered with the same growth of
ivy, was a tangle of brambles with under it a little passage like the
entrance to a rabbit-warren. All's Well slipped in, disappeared and then
returned in search of Véronique, who had to go back to the Priory and
fetch a bill-hook to cut down the brambles.

She managed in half an hour to uncover the top step of a staircase,
which she descended, feeling her way and preceded by All's Well, and
which took her to a long tunnel, cut in the body of the rock and lighted
on the left by little openings. She raised herself on tip-toe and saw
that these openings overlooked the sea.

She walked on the level for ten minutes and then went down some more
steps. The tunnel grew narrower. The openings, which all looked towards
the sky, no doubt so as not to be seen from below, now gave light from
both the right and the left. Véronique began to understand how All's
Well was able to communicate with the other part of the island. The
tunnel followed the narrow strip of cliff which joined the Priory estate
to Sarek. The waves lapped the rocks on either side.

They next climbed by steps under the knoll of the Great Oak. Two tunnels
opened at the top. All's Well chose the one on the left, which continued
to skirt the sea.

Then on the right there were two more passages, both quite dark. The
island appeared to be riddled in this way with invisible communications;
and Véronique felt something clutch at her heart as she reflected that
she was making for the part which the sisters Archignat had described as
the enemy's subterranean domains, under the Black Heath.

All's Well trotted in front of her, turning round from time to time to
see if she was following.

"Yes, yes, dear, I'm coming," she whispered, "and I am not a bit afraid:
I am sure that you are leading me to a friend . . . a friend who has
taken shelter down here. But why has he not left his shelter? Why did
you not show him the way?"

The passage had been chipped smooth throughout, with a rounded ceiling
and a very dry granite floor, which was amply ventilated by the
openings. There was not a mark, not a scratch of any kind on the walls.
Sometimes the point of a black flint projected.

"Is it here?" asked Véronique, when All's Well stopped.

The tunnel went no farther and widened into a chamber into which the
light filtered more thinly through a narrower window.

All's Well seemed undecided. He listened, with his ears pricked up,
standing on his hind-legs and resting his fore-paws against the end wall
of the tunnel.

Véronique noticed that the wall, at this spot, was not formed throughout
its length of the bare granite but consisted of an accumulation of
stones of unequal size set in cement. The work evidently belonged to a
different, doubtless more recent period.

A regular partition-wall had been built, closing the underground
passage, which was probably continued on the other side.

She repeated:

"It's here, isn't it?"

But she said nothing more. She had heard the stifled sound of a voice.

She went up to the wall and presently gave a start. The voice was raised
higher. The sounds became more distinct. Some one, a child, was singing,
and she caught the words:

    "And the mother said,
    Rocking her child abed:

    'Weep not. If you do,
    The Virgin Mary weeps with you.'"

Véronique murmured:

"The song . . . the song . . ."

It was the same that Honorine had hummed at Beg-Meil. Who could be
singing it now? A child, imprisoned in the island? A boy friend of
François'?

And the voice went on:

    "'Babes that laugh and sing
    Smiles to the Blessed Virgin bring.

    Fold your hands this way
    And to sweet Mary pray.'"

The last verse was followed by a silence that lasted for a few minutes.
All's Well appeared to be listening with increasing attention, as though
something, which he knew of, was about to take place.

Thereupon, just where he stood, there was a slight noise of stones
carefully moved. All's Well wagged his tail frantically and barked, so
to speak, in a whisper, like an animal that understands the danger of
breaking the silence. And suddenly, about his head, one of the stones
was drawn inward, leaving a fairly large aperture.

All's Well leapt into the hole at a bound, stretched himself out and,
helping himself with his hind-legs, twisting and crawling, disappeared
inside.

"Ah, there's Master All's Well!" said the young voice. "How are we,
Master All's Well? And why didn't we come and pay our master a visit
yesterday? Serious business, was it? A walk with Honorine? Oh, if you
could talk, my dear old chap, what stories you would have to tell! And,
first of all, look here . . ."

Véronique, thrilled with excitement, had knelt down against the wall.
Was it her son's voice that she heard? Was she to believe that he was
back and in hiding? She tried in vain to see. The wall was thick; and
there was a bend in the opening. But how clearly each syllable uttered,
how plainly each intonation reached her ears!

"Look here," repeated the boy, "why doesn't Honorine come to set me
free? Why don't you bring her here? You managed to find me all right.
And grandfather must be worried about me . . . . But _what_ an
adventure! . . . So you're still of the same mind, eh, old chap? All's
well, isn't it? All's as well as well can be!"

Véronique could not understand. Her son--for there was no doubt that it
was François--her son was speaking as if he knew nothing of what had
happened. Had he forgotten? Had his memory lost every trace of the deeds
done during his fit of madness?

"Yes, a fit of madness," thought Véronique, obstinately. "He was mad.
Honorine was quite right: he was undoubtedly mad. And his reason has
returned. Oh, François, François! . . ."

She listened, with all her tense being and all her trembling soul, to
the words that might bring her so much gladness or such an added load of
despair. Either the darkness would close in upon her more thickly and
heavily than ever, or daylight was to pierce that endless night in which
she had been struggling for fifteen years.

"Why, yes," continued the boy, "I agree with you, All's Well. But all
the same, I should be jolly glad if you could bring me some real proof
of it. On the one hand, there's no news of grandfather or Honorine,
though I've given you lots of messages for them; on the other hand,
there's no news of Stéphane. And that's what alarms me. Where is he?
Where have they locked him up? Won't he be starving by now? Come, All's
Well, tell me: where did you take the biscuits yesterday? . . . But,
look here, what's the matter with you? You seem to have something on
your mind. What are you looking at over there? Do you want to go away?
No? Then what is it?"

The boy stopped. Then, after a moment, in a much lower voice:

"Did you come with some one?" he asked. "Is there anybody behind the
wall?"

The dog gave a dull bark. Then there was a long pause, during which
François also must have been listening.

Véronique's emotion was so great that it seemed to her that François
must hear the beating of her heart.

He whispered:

"Is that you, Honorine?"

There was a fresh pause; and he continued:

"Yes, I'm sure it's you . . . . I can hear you breathing . . . . Why
don't you answer?"

Véronique was carried away by a sudden impulse. Certain gleams of light
had flashed upon her mind since she had understood that Stéphane was a
prisoner, no doubt like François, therefore a victim of the enemy; and
all sorts of vague suppositions flitted through her brain. Besides, how
could she resist the appeal of that voice? Her son was asking her a
question . . . her son!

"François . . . François!" she stammered.

"Ah," he said, "there's an answer! I knew it! Is it you, Honorine?"

"No, François," she said.

"Then who is it?"

"A friend of Honorine's."

"I don't know you, do I?"

"No . . . but I am your friend."

He hesitated. Was he on his guard?

"Why didn't Honorine come with you?"

Véronique was not prepared for this question, but she at once realized
that, if the involuntary suppositions that were forcing themselves upon
her were correct, the boy must not yet be told the truth.

She therefore said:

"Honorine came back from her journey, but has gone away again."

"Gone to look for me?"

"That's it, that's it," she said, quickly. "She thought that you had
been carried away from Sarek and your tutor with you."

"But grandfather?"

"He's gone too: so have all the inhabitants of the island."

"Ah! The old story of the coffins and the crosses, I suppose?"

"Just so. They thought that your disappearance meant the beginning of
the disasters; and their fear made them take to flight."

"But you, madame?"

"I have known Honorine for a long time. I came from Paris with her to
take a holiday at Sarek. I have no reason to go away. All these
superstitions have no terrors for me."

The child was silent. The improbability and inadequacy of the replies
must have been apparent to him: and his suspicions increased in
consequence. He confessed as much, frankly:

"Listen, madame, there's something I must tell you. It's ten days since
I was imprisoned in this cell. During the first part of that time, I saw
and heard nobody. But, since the day before yesterday, every morning a
little wicket opens in the middle of my door and a woman's hand comes
through and gives a fresh supply of water. A woman's hand . . . so . . .
you see?"

"So you want to know if that woman is myself?"

"Yes, I am obliged to ask you."

"Would you recognize that woman's hand?"

"Yes, it is lean and bony, with a yellow arm."

"Here's mine," said Véronique. "It can pass where All's Well did."

She pulled up her sleeve; and by flexing her bare arm she easily passed
it through.

"Oh," said François, at once, "that's not the hand I saw!"

And he added, in a lower voice:

"How pretty this one is!"

Suddenly Véronique felt him take it in his own with a quick movement;
and he exclaimed:

"Oh, it can't be true, it can't be true!"

He had turned her hand over and was separating the fingers so as to
uncover the palm entirely. And he whispered:

"The scar! . . . It's there! . . . The white scar! . . ."

Then Véronique became greatly agitated. She remembered Stéphane Maroux's
diary and certain details set down by him which François must have
heard. One of these details was this scar, which recalled an old and
rather serious injury.

She felt the boy's lips pressed to her hand, first gently and then with
passionate ardour and a great flow of tears, and heard him stammering:

"Oh, mother, mother darling! . . . My dear, dear mother! . . ."

CHAPTER VII

FRANÇOIS AND STÉPHANE

Long the mother and son remained thus, kneeling against the wall that
divided them, yet as close together as though they were able to see each
other with their frenzied eyes and to mingle their tears and kisses.
They spoke both at once, asking each other questions and answering them
at random. They were in a transport of delight. The life of each flowed
over into the other's life and became swallowed up in it. No power on
earth could now dissolve their union or break the bonds of love and
confidence which unite mothers and sons.

"Yes, All's Well, old man," said François, "you may sit up as much and
as long as you like. We are really crying this time . . . and you will
be the first to get tired, for one doesn't mind shedding such tears as
these, does one, mother?"

As for Véronique, her mind retained not a vestige of the terrible
visions which had dismayed it. Her son a murderer, her son killing and
massacring people: she no longer admitted any of that. She did not even
admit the excuse of madness. Everything would be explained in some other
way which she was not even in a hurry to understand. She thought only of
her son. He was there. His eyes saw her through the wall. His heart beat
against hers. He lived; and he was the same gentle, affectionate, pure
and charming child that her maternal dreams had pictured.

"My son, my son!" she kept on repeating, as though she could not utter
those marvellous words often enough. "My son, it's you, it's you! I
believed you dead, a thousand times dead, more dead than it is possible
to be . . . . And you are alive! And you are here! And I am touching
you! O Heaven, can it be true! I have a son . . . and my son is alive!
. . ."

And he, on his side, took up the refrain with the same passionate
fervour:

"Mother! Mother! I have waited for you so long! . . . To me you were not
dead, but it was so sad to be a child and to have no mother . . . to see
the years go by and to waste them in waiting for you."

For an hour they talked at random, of the past, of the present, of a
hundred subjects which at first appeared to them the most interesting
things in the world and which they forthwith dropped to ask each other
more questions and to try to know each other a little better and to
enter more deeply into the secret of their lives and the privacy of
their souls.

It was François who first attempted to impart some little method to
their conversation:

"Listen, mother; we have so much to say to each other that we must give
up trying to say it all to-day and even for days and days. Let us speak
now of what is essential and in the fewest possible words, for we have
perhaps not much time before us."

"What do you mean?" said Véronique, instantly alarmed. "I have no
intention of leaving you!"

"But, mother, if we are not to leave each other, we must first be
united. Now there are many obstacles to be overcome, even if it were
only the wall that separates us. Besides, I am very closely watched; and
I may be obliged at any moment to send you away, as I do All's Well, at
the first sound of footsteps approaching."

"Watched by whom?"

"By those who fell upon Stéphane and me on the day when we discovered
the entrance to these caves, under the heath on the table-land, the
Black Heath."

"Did you see them?"

"No, it was too dark."

"But who are they? Who are those enemies?"

"I don't know."

"You suspect, of course?"

"The Druids?" he said, laughing. "The people of old of whom the legends
speak? Rather not! Ghosts? Not that either. They were just simply
creatures of to-day, creatures of flesh and blood."

"They live down here, though?"

"Most likely."

"And you took them by surprise?"

"No, on the contrary. They seemed even to be expecting us and to be
lying in wait for us. We had gone down a stone staircase and a very long
passage, lined with perhaps eighty caves, or rather eighty cells. The
doors, which were of wood, were open; and the cells overlooked the sea.
It was on the way back, as we were going up the staircase again in the
dark, that we were seized from one side, knocked down, bound,
blindfolded and gagged. The whole thing did not take a minute. I
suspect that we were carried back to the end of the long passage. When
I succeeded in removing my bonds and my bandage, I found that I was
locked in one of the cells, probably the last in the passage; and I have
been here ten days."

"My poor darling, how you must have suffered!"

"No, mother, and in any case not from hunger. There was a whole stack of
provisions in one corner and a truss of straw in another to lie on. So I
waited quietly."

"For whom?"

"You promise not to laugh, mother?"

"Laugh at what, dear?"

"At what I'm going to tell you?"

"How can you think . . . ?"

"Well, I was waiting for some one who had heard of all the stories of
Sarek and who promised grandfather to come."

"But who was it?"

The boy hesitated:

"No, I am sure you will make fun of me, mother, I'll tell you later.
Besides, he never came . . . though I thought for a moment . . . Yes,
fancy, I had managed to remove two stones from the wall and to open this
hole of which my gaolers evidently didn't know. All of a sudden, I heard
a noise, someone scratching . . ."

"It was All's Well?"

"It was Master All's Well coming by the other road. You can imagine the
welcome he received! Only what astonished me was that nobody followed
him this way, neither Honorine nor grandfather. I had no pencil or paper
to write to them; but, after all, they had only to follow All's Well."

"That was impossible," said Véronique, "because they believed you to be
far away from Sarek, carried off no doubt, and because your grandfather
had left."

"Just so: why believe anything of the sort? Grandfather knew, from a
lately discovered document, where we were, for it was he who told us of
the possible entrance to the underground passage. Didn't he speak to you
about it?"

Véronique had been very happy in listening to her son's story. As he had
been carried off and imprisoned, he was not the atrocious monster who
had killed M. d'Hergemont, Marie Le Goff, Honorine and Corréjou and his
companions. The truth which she had already vaguely surmised now assumed
a more definite form and, though still thickly shrouded, was visible in
its essential part. François was not guilty. Some one had put on his
clothes and impersonated him, even as some one else, in the semblance of
Stéphane, had pretended to be Stéphane. Ah, what did all the rest
matter, the improbabilities and inconsistencies, the proofs and
certainties! Véronique did not even think about it. The only thing that
counted was the innocence of her beloved son.

And so she still refused to tell him anything that would sadden him and
spoil his happiness; and she said:

"No, I have not seen your grandfather. Honorine wanted to prepare him
for my visit, but things happened so hurriedly . . ."

"And you were left alone on the island, poor mother? So you hoped to
find me here?"

"Yes," she said, after a moment's hesitation.

"Alone, but with All's Well, of course."

"Yes. I hardly paid any attention to him during the first days. It was
not until this morning that I thought of following him."

"And where does the road start from that brought you here?"

"It's an underground passage the outlet of which is concealed between
two stones near Maguennoc's garden."

"What! Then the two islands communicate?"

"Yes, by the cliff underneath the bridge."

"How strange! That's what neither Stéphane not I guessed, nor anybody
else, for that matter . . . except our dear All's Well, when it came to
finding his master."

He interrupted himself and then whispered:

"Hark!"

But, the next moment, he said:

"No, it's not that yet. Still, we must hurry."

"What am I to do?"

"It's quite simple, mother. When I made this hole, I saw that it could
be widened easily enough, if it were possible also to take out the three
or four stones next to it. But these are firmly fixed; and we should
need an implement of some kind."

"Well, I'll go and . . ."

"Yes, do, mother. Go back to the Priory. To the left of the house, in a
basement, is a sort of workshop where Maguennoc kept his garden-tools.
You will find a small pick-axe there, with a very short handle. Bring it
me in the evening. I will work during the night; and to-morrow morning I
shall give you a kiss, mother."

"Oh, it sounds too good to be true!"

"I promise you I shall. Then all that we shall have to do will be to
release Stéphane."

"Your tutor? Do you know where he is shut up?"

"I do almost know. According to the particulars which grandfather gave
us, the underground passages consist of two floors one above the other;
and the last cell of each is fitted as a prison. I occupy one of them.
Stéphane should occupy the other, below mine. What worries me . . ."

"What is it?"

"Well, it's this: according to grandfather again, these two cells were
once torture-chambers . . . 'death chambers' was the word grandfather
used."

"Oh, but how alarming!"

"Why alarm yourself, mother? You see that they are not thinking of
torturing me. Only, on the off chance and not knowing what sort of fate
was in store for Stéphane, I sent him something to eat by All's Well,
who is sure to have found a way of getting to him."

"No," she said, "All's Well did not understand."

"How do you know, mother?"

"He thought you were sending him to Stéphane Maroux's room and he heaped
it all under the bed."

"Oh!" said the boy, anxiously. "What can have become of Stéphane?" And
he at once added, "You see, mother, that we must hurry, if we would save
Stéphane and save ourselves."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing, if you act quickly."

"But still . . ."

"Nothing, I assure you. I feel certain that we shall get the better of
every obstacle."

"And, if any others present themselves . . . dangers which we cannot
foresee? . . ."

"It is then," said François, laughing, "that the man whom I am expecting
will come and protect us."

"You see, my darling, you yourself admit the need of assistance . . . ."

"Why, no, mother, I am trying to ease your mind, but nothing will
happen. Come, how would you have a son who has just found his mother
lose her again at once? It isn't possible. In real life, may be . . .
but we are not living in real life. We are absolutely living in a
romance; and in romances things always come right. You ask All's Well.
It's so, old chap, isn't it: we shall win and be united and live happy
ever after? That's what you think, All's Well? Then be off, old chap,
and take mother with you. I'm going to fill up the hole, in case they
come and inspect my cell. And be sure not to try and come in when the
hole is stopped, eh, All's Well? That's when the danger is. Go, mother,
and don't make a noise when you come back."

Véronique was not long away. She found the pick-axe; and, forty minutes
after, brought it and managed to slip it into the cell.

"No one has been yet," said François, "but they are certain to come soon
and you had better not stay. I may have a night's work before me,
especially as I shall have to stop because of likely visits. So I shall
expect you at seven o'clock to-morrow . . . . By the way, talking of
Stéphane: I have been thinking it over. Some noises which I heard just
now confirmed my notion that he is shut up more or less underneath me.
The opening that lights my cell is too narrow for me to pass through.
Is there a fairly wide window at the place where you are now?"

"No, but it can be widened by removing the little stones round it."

"Capital. You will find in Maguennoc's workshop a bamboo ladder, with
iron hooks to it, which you can easily bring with you to-morrow morning.
Next, take some provisions and some rugs and leave them in a thicket at
the entrance to the tunnel."

"What for, darling?"

"You'll see. I have a plan. Good-bye, mother. Have a good night's rest
and pick up your strength. We may have a hard day before us."

Véronique followed her son's advice. The next morning, full of hope, she
once more took the road to the cell. This time, All's Well, reverting to
his instincts of independence, did not come with her.

"Keep quite still, mother," said François, in so low a whisper that she
could scarcely hear him. "I am very closely watched; and I think there's
some one walking up and down in the passage. However, my work is nearly
done; the stones are all loosened. I shall have finished in two hours.
Have you the ladder?"

"Yes."

"Remove the stones from the window . . . that will save time . . . for
really I am frightened about Stéphane . . . . And be sure not to make a
noise . . . ."

Véronique moved away.

The window was not much more than three feet from the floor: and the
small stones, as she had supposed, were kept in place only by their own
weight and the way in which they were arranged. The opening which she
thus contrived to make was very wide; and she easily passed the ladder
which she had brought with her through and secured it by its iron hooks
to the lower ledge.

She was some hundred feet or so above the sea, which lay all white
before her, guarded by the thousand reefs of Sarek. But she could not
see the foot of the cliff, for there was under the window a slight
projection of granite which jutted forward and on which the ladder
rested instead of hanging perpendicularly.

"That will help François," she thought.

Nevertheless, the danger of the undertaking seemed great; and she
wondered whether she herself ought not to take the risk, instead of her
son, all the more so as François might be mistaken, as Stéphane's cell
was perhaps not there at all and as perhaps there was no means of
entering it by a similar opening. If so, what a waste of time! And what
a useless danger for the boy to run!

At that moment she felt so great a need of self-devotion, so intense a
wish to prove her love for him by direct action, that she formed her
resolution without pausing to reflect, even as one performs immediately
a duty which there is no question of not performing. Nothing deterred
her: neither her inspection of the ladder, whose hooks were not wide
enough to grip the whole thickness of the ledge, nor the sight of the
precipice, which gave an impression that everything was about to fall
away from under her. She had to act; and she acted.

Pinning up her skirt, she stepped across the wall, turned round,
supported herself on the ledge, groped with her foot in space and found
one of the rungs. Her whole body was trembling. Her heart was beating
furiously, like the clapper of a bell. Nevertheless she had the mad
courage to catch hold of the two uprights and go down.

It did not take long. She knew that there were twenty rungs in all. She
counted them. When she reached the twentieth, she looked to the left and
murmured, with unspeakable joy:

"Oh, François . . . my darling!"

She had seen, three feet away at most, a recess, a hollow which appeared
to be the entrance to a cavity cut in the rock itself.

"Stéphane . . . Stéphane," she called, but in so faint a voice that
Stéphane Maroux, if he were there, could not hear her.

She hesitated a few seconds, but her legs were giving way and she no
longer had the strength either to climb up again or to remain hanging
where she was. Taking advantage of a few irregularities in the rock and
thus shifting the ladder, at the risk of unhooking it, she succeeded, by
a sort of miracle of which she was quite aware, in catching hold of a
flint which projected from the granite and setting foot in the cave.
Then, with fierce energy, she made one supreme effort and, recovering
her balance with a jerk, she entered.

She at once saw some one, fastened with cords, lying on a truss of
straw.

The cave was small and not very deep, especially in the upper portion,
which pointed towards the sky rather than the sea and which must have
looked, from a distance, like a mere fold in the cliff. There was no
projection to bound it at the edge. The light entered freely.

Véronique went nearer. The man did not move. He was asleep.

She bent over him; though she did not recognize him for certain, it
seemed to her that a memory was emerging from that dim past in which all
the faces of our childhood gradually fade away. This one was surely not
unknown to her: a gentle visage, with regular features, fair hair flung
well back, a broad, white forehead and a slightly feminine countenance,
which reminded Véronique of the charming face of a convent friend who
had died before the war.

She deftly unfastened the bonds with which the wrists were fastened
together.

The man, without waking immediately, stretched his arms, as though
submitting himself to a familiar operation, not effected for the first
time, which did not necessarily interfere with his sleep. Presumably he
was released like this at intervals, perhaps in order to eat and at
night, for he ended by muttering:

"So early? . . . But I'm not hungry . . . and it's still light!"

This last reflection astonished the man himself. He opened his eyes and
at once sat up where he lay, so that he might see the person who was
standing in front of him, no doubt for the first time in broad daylight.

He was not greatly surprised, for the reason that the reality could not
have been manifest to him at once. He probably thought that he was the
sport of a dream or an hallucination; and he said, in an undertone:

"Véronique . . . Véronique . . ."

She felt a little embarrassed by his gaze, but finished releasing his
bonds; and, when he distinctly felt her hand on his own hands and on his
imprisoned limbs, he understood the wonderful event which her presence
implied and he said, in a faltering voice:

"You! You! . . . Can it be? . . . Oh, speak just one word, just one!
. . . Can it possibly be you?" He continued, almost to himself, "Yes, it
is she . . . it is certainly she . . . . She is here!" And, anxiously,
aloud, "You . . . at night . . . on the other nights . . . it wasn't you
who came then? It was another woman, wasn't it? An enemy? . . . Oh,
forgive me for asking you! . . . It's because . . . because I don't
understand . . . . How did you come here?"

"I came this way," she said, pointing to the sea.

"Oh," he said, "how wonderful!"

He stared at her with dazed eyes, as he might have stared at some vision
descended from Heaven; and the circumstances were so unusual that he did
not think of suppressing the eagerness of his gaze.

She repeated, utterly confused:

"Yes, this way . . . . François suggested it."

"I did not mention him," he said, "because, with you here, I felt sure
that he was free."

"Not yet," she said, "but he will be in an hour."

A long pause ensued. She interrupted it to conceal her agitation:

"He will be free . . . . You shall see him . . . . But we must not
frighten him: there are things which he doesn't know."

She perceived that he was listening not to the words uttered but to the
voice that uttered them and that this voice seemed to plunge him into a
sort of ecstasy, for he was silent and smiled. She thereupon smiled too
and questioned him, thus obliging him to answer:

"You called me by my name at once. So you knew me? I also seem to . . .
Yes, you remind me of a friend of mine who died."

"Madeleine Ferrand?"

"Yes, Madeleine Ferrand."

"Perhaps I also remind you of her brother, a shy schoolboy who used
often to visit the parlour at the convent and who used to look at you
from a distance."

"Yes, yes," she declared. "I remember. We even spoke to each other
sometimes; you used to blush. Yes, that's it: your name was Stéphane.
But how do you come to be called Maroux?"

"Madeleine and I were not children of the same father."

"Ah," she said, "that was what misled me!"

She gave him her hand:

"Well, Stéphane," she said, "as we are old friends and have renewed our
acquaintance, let us put off all our remembrances until later. For the
moment, the most urgent matter is to get away. Have you the strength?"

"The strength, yes: I have not had such a very bad time. But how are we
to go from here?"

"By the same road by which I came, a ladder communicating with the upper
passage of cells."

He was now standing up:

"You had the courage, the pluck?" he asked, at last realizing what she
had dared to do.

"Oh, it was not very difficult!" she declared. "François was so anxious!
He maintained that you were both occupying old torture-chambers . . .
death-chambers . . . ."

It was as though these words aroused him violently from a dream and made
him suddenly see that it was madness to converse in such circumstances.

"Go away!" he cried. "François is right! Oh, if you knew the risk you
are running. Please, please go!"

He was beside himself, as though convulsed by the thought of an
immediate peril. She tried to calm him, but he entreated her:

"Another second may be your undoing. Don't stay here . . . . I am
condemned to death and to the most terrible death. Look at the ground on
which we are standing, this sort of floor . . . . But it's no use
talking about it. Oh, please do go!"

"With you," she said.

"Yes, with me. But save yourself first."

She resisted and said, firmly:

"For us both to be saved, Stéphane, we must above all things remain
calm. What I did just now we can do again only by calculating all our
actions and controlling our excitement. Are you ready?"

"Yes," he said, overcome by her magnificent confidence.

"Then follow me."

She stepped to the very edge of the precipice and leant forward:

"Give me your hand," she said, "to help me keep my balance."

She turned round, flattened herself against the cliff and felt the
surface with her free hand.

Not finding the ladder, she leant outward slightly.

The ladder had become displaced. No doubt, when Véronique, perhaps with
too abrupt a movement, had set foot in the cave, the iron hook of the
right-hand upright had slipped and the ladder, hanging only by the other
hook, had swung like a pendulum.

The bottom rungs were now out of reach.

CHAPTER VIII

ANGUISH

Had Véronique been alone, she would have yielded to one of those moods
of despondency which her nature, brave though it was, could not escape
in the face of the unrelenting animosity of fate. But in the presence of
Stéphane, who she felt to be the weaker and who was certainly exhausted
by his captivity, she had the strength to restrain herself and announce,
as though mentioning quite an ordinary incident:

"The ladder has swung out of our reach."

Stéphane looked at her in dismay:

"Then . . . then we are lost!"

"Why should we be lost?" she asked, with a smile.

"There is no longer any hope of getting away."

"What do you mean? Of course there is. What about François?"

"François?"

"Certainly. In an hour at most, François will have made his escape; and,
when he sees the ladder and the way I came, he will call to us. We shall
hear him easily. We have only to be patient."

"To be patient!" he said, in terror. "To wait for an hour! But they are
sure to be here in less than that. They keep a constant watch."

"Well, we will manage somehow."

He pointed to the wicket in the door:

"Do you see that wicket?" he said. "They open it each time. They will
see us through the grating."

"There's a shutter to it. Let's close it."

"They will come in."

"Then we won't close it and we'll keep up our confidence, Stéphane."

"I'm frightened for you, not for myself."

"You mustn't be frightened either for me or for yourself . . . . If the
worst comes to the worst, we are able to defend ourselves," she added,
showing him a revolver which she had taken from her father's rack of
arms and carried on her ever since.

"Ah," he said, "what I fear is that we shall not even be called upon to
defend ourselves! They have other means."

"What means?"

He did not answer. He had flung a quick glance at the floor; and
Véronique for a moment examined its curious structure.

All around, following the circumference of the walls, was the granite
itself, rugged and uneven. But outlined in the granite was a large
square. They could see, on each of the four sides, the deep crevice that
divided it from the rest. The timbers of which it consisted were worn
and grooved, full of cracks and gashes, but nevertheless massive and
powerful. The fourth side almost skirted the edge of the precipice, from
which it was divided by eight inches at most.

"A trap-door?" she asked, with a shudder.

"No, not that," he said. "It would be too heavy."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. Very likely it is nothing but a remnant of some past
contrivance which no longer works. Still . . ."

"Still what?"

"Last night . . . or rather this morning there was a creaking sound down
below there. It seemed to suggest attempts, but they stopped at once
. . . it's such a long time since! . . . No, the thing no longer works
and they can't make use of it."

"Who's _they_?"

Without waiting for his answer, she continued:

"Listen, Stéphane, we have a few minutes before us, perhaps fewer than
we think. François will be free at any moment now and will come to our
rescue. Let us make the most of the interval and tell each other the
things which both of us ought to know. Let us discuss matters quietly.
We are threatened with no immediate danger; and the time will be well
employed."

Véronique was pretending a sense of security which she did not feel.
That François would make his escape she refused to doubt; but who could
tell that the boy would go to the window and notice the hook of the
hanging ladder? On failing to see his mother, would he not rather think
of following the underground tunnel and running to the Priory?

However, she mastered herself, feeling the need of the explanation for
which she had asked, and, sitting down on a granite projection which
formed a sort of bench, she at once began to tell Stéphane the events
which she had witnessed and in which she had played a leading part, from
the moment when her investigations led her to the deserted cabin
containing Maguennoc's dead body.

Stéphane listened to the terrifying narrative without attempting to
interrupt her but with an alarm marked by his gestures of abhorrence and
the despairing expression of his face. M. d'Hergemont's death in
particular seemed to crush him, as did Honorine's. He had been greatly
attached to both of them.

"There, Stéphane," said Véronique, when she had described the anguish
which she suffered after the execution of the sisters Archignat, the
discovery of the underground passage and her interview with François.
"That is all that I need absolutely tell you. I thought that you ought
to know what I have kept from François, so that we may fight our enemies
together."

He shook his head:

"Which enemies?" he said. "I, too, in spite of your explanations, am
asking the very question which you asked me. I have a feeling that we
are flung into the midst of a great tragedy which has continued for
years, for centuries, and in which we have begun to play our parts only
at the moment of the crisis, at the moment of the terrific cataclysm
prepared by generations of men. I may be wrong. Perhaps there is nothing
more than a disconnected series of sinister, weird and horrible
coincidences amid which we are tossed from side to side, without being
able to appeal to any other reasons than the whim of chance. In reality
I know no more than you do. I am surrounded by the same obscurity,
stricken by the same sorrows and the same losses. It's all just
insanity, extravagant convulsions, unprecedent shocks, the crimes of
savages, the fury of the barbaric ages."

Véronique agreed:

"Yes, of the barbaric ages; and that is what baffles me most and
impresses me so much! What is the connection between the present and the
past, between our persecutors of to-day and the men who lived in these
caves in days of old and whose actions are prolonged into our own time,
in a manner so impossible to understand? To what do they all refer,
those legends of which I know nothing except from Honorine's delirium
and the distress of the sisters Archignat?"

They spoke low, with their ears always on the alert. Stéphane listened
for sounds in the corridor, Véronique concentrated her attention on the
cliff, in the hope of hearing François' signal.

"They are very complicated legends," said Stéphane, "very obscure
traditions in which we must abandon any attempt to distinguish between
what is superstition and what might be truth. Out of this jumble of old
wives' tales, the very most that we can disentangle is two sets of
ideas, those referring to the prophecy of the thirty coffins and those
relating to the existence of a treasure, or rather of a miraculous
stone."

"Then they take as a prophecy," said Véronique, "the words which I read
on Maguennoc's drawing and again on the Fairies' Dolmen?"

"Yes, a prophecy which dates back to an indeterminate period and which
for centuries has governed the whole history and the whole life of
Sarek. The belief has always prevailed that a day would come when,
within a space of twelve months, the thirty principal reefs which
surround the island and which are called the thirty coffins would
receive their thirty victims, who were to die a violent death, and that
those thirty victims would include four women who were to die crucified.
It is an established and undisputed tradition, handed down from father
to son: and everybody believes in it. It is expressed in the line and
part of a line inscribed on the Fairies' Dolmen: 'Four women crucified,'
and 'For thirty coffins victims thirty times!'"

"Very well; but people have gone on living all the same, normally and
peaceably. Why did the outburst of terror suddenly take place this
year?"

"Maguennoc was largely responsible. Maguennoc was a fantastic and rather
mysterious person, a mixture of the wizard and the bone-setter, the
healer and the charlatan, who had studied the stars in their courses and
whom people liked to consult about the most remote events of the past as
well as the future. Now Maguennoc announced not long ago that 1917 would
be the fateful year."

"Why?"

"Intuition perhaps, presentiment, divination, or subconscious knowledge:
you can choose any explanation that you please. As for Maguennoc, who
did not despise the practices of the most antiquated magic, _he_ would
tell you that he knew it from the flight of a bird or the entrails of a
fowl. However, his prophecy was based on something more serious. He
pretended, quoting evidence collected in his childhood among the old
people of Sarek, that, at the beginning of the last century, the first
line of the inscription on the Fairies' Dolmen was not yet obliterated
and that it formed this, which would rhyme with 'Four women shall be
crucified on tree:' 'In Sarek's isle, in year fourteen and three.' The
year fourteen and three is the year seventeen; and the prediction became
more impressive for Maguennoc and his friends of late years, because the
total number was divided into two numbers and the war broke out in 1914.
From that day, Maguennoc grew more and more important and more and more
sure of the truth of his previsions. For that matter, he also grew more
and more anxious; and he even announced that his death, followed by the
death of M. d'Hergemont, would give the signal for the catastrophe. Then
the year 1917 arrived and produced a genuine terror in the island. The
events were close at hand."

"And still," said Véronique, "and still it was all absurd."

"Absurd, yes; but it all acquired a curiously disturbing significance on
the day when Maguennoc was able to compare the scraps of prophecy
engraved on the dolmen with the complete prophecy."

"Then he succeeded in doing so?"

"Yes. He discovered under the abbey ruins, in a heap of stones which had
formed a sort of protecting chamber round it, an old worn and tattered
missal, which had a few of its pages in good condition, however, and one
in particular, the one which you saw, or rather of which you saw a copy
in the deserted cabin."

"A copy made by my father?"

"By your father, as were all those in the cupboard in his study. M.
d'Hergemont, you must remember, was fond of drawing, of painting
water-colours. He copied the illuminated page, but of the prophecy that
accompanied the drawing he reproduced only the words inscribed on the
Fairies' Dolmen."

"How do you account for the resemblance between the crucified woman and
myself?"

"I never saw the original, which Maguennoc gave to M. d'Hergemont and
which your father kept jealously in his room. But M. d'Hergemont
maintained that the resemblance was there. In any case, he accentuated
it in his drawing, in spite of himself, remembering all that you had
suffered . . . and through his fault, he said."

"Perhaps," murmured Véronique, "he was also thinking of the other
prophecy that was once made to Vorski: 'You will perish by the hand of a
friend and your wife will be crucified.' So I suppose the strange
coincidence struck him . . . and even made him write the initials of my
maiden name, 'V. d'H.', at the top." And she added, "And all this
happened in accordance with the wording of the inscription . . . ."

They were both silent. How could they do other than think of that
inscription, of the words written ages ago on the pages of the missal
and on the stone of the dolmen? If destiny had as yet provided only
twenty-seven victims for the thirty coffins of Sarek, were the last
three not there, ready to complete the sacrifice, all three imprisoned,
all three captive and in the power of the sacrificial murderers? And if,
at the top of the knoll, near the Grand Oak, there were as yet but three
crosses, would the fourth not soon be prepared, to receive a fourth
victim?

"François is a very long time," said Véronique, presently.

She went to the edge and looked over. The ladder had not moved and was
still out of reach.

"The others will soon be coming to my door," said Stéphane. "I am
surprised that they haven't been yet."

But they did not wish to confess their mutual anxiety; and Véronique put
a further question, in a calm voice:

"And the treasure? The God-Stone?"

"That riddle is hardly less obscure," said Stéphane, "and also depends
entirely on the last line of the inscription: 'The God-Stone which gives
life or death.' What is this God-Stone? Tradition says that it is a
miraculous stone; and, according to M. d'Hergemont, this belief dates
back to the remotest periods. People at Sarek have always had faith in
the existence of a stone capable of working wonders. In the middle ages
they used to bring puny and deformed children and lay them on the stone
for days and nights together, after which the children got up strong and
healthy. Barren women resorted to this remedy with good results, as did
old men, wounded men and all sorts of degenerates. Only it came about
that the place of pilgrimage underwent changes, the stone, still
according to tradition, having been moved and even, according to some,
having disappeared. In the eighteenth century, people venerated the
Fairies' Dolmen and used still sometimes to expose scrofulous children
there."

"But," said Véronique, "the stone also had harmful properties, for it
gave death as well as life?"

"Yes, if you touched it without the knowledge of those whose business it
was to guard it and keep it sacred. But in this respect the mystery
becomes still more complicated, for there is the question also of a
precious stone, a sort of fantastic gem which shoots out flames, burns
those who wear it and makes them suffer the tortures of the damned."

"That's what happened to Maguennoc, by Honorine's account," said
Véronique.

"Yes," replied Stéphane, "but here we are entering upon the present. So
far I have been speaking of the fabled past, the two legends, the
prophecy and the God-Stone. Maguennoc's adventure opens up the period of
the present day, which for that matter is hardly less obscure than the
ancient period. What happened to Maguennoc? We shall probably never
know. He had been keeping in the background for a week, gloomy and doing
no work, when suddenly he burst into M. d'Hergemont's study roaring,
'I've touched it! I'm done for! I've touched it! . . . I took it in my
hand . . . . It burnt me like fire, but I wanted to keep it . . . . Oh,
it's been gnawing into my bones for days! It's hell, it's hell!' And he
showed us the palm of his hand. It was all burnt, as though eaten up
with cancer. We tried to dress it for him, but he seemed quite mad and
kept rambling on, 'I'm the first victim . . . . the fire will go to my
heart . . . . And after me the others' turn will come . . . .' That same
evening, he cut off his hand with a hatchet. And a week later, after
infecting the whole island with terror, he went away."

"Where did he go to?"

"To the village of Le Faouet, on a pilgrimage to the Chapel of St.
Barbe, near the place where you found his dead body."

"Who killed him, do you think?"

"Undoubtedly one of the creatures who used to correspond by means of
signs written along the road, one of the creatures who live hidden in
the cells and who are pursuing some purpose which I don't understand."

"Those who attacked you and François, therefore?"

"Yes; and immediately afterwards, having stolen and put on our clothes,
played the parts of François and myself."

"With what object?"

"To enter the Priory more easily and then, if their attempt failed, to
balk enquiry."

"But haven't you seen them since they have kept you here?"

"I have seen only a woman, or rather caught a glimpse of her. She comes
at night. She brings me food and drink, unties my hands, loosens the
fastenings round my legs a little and comes back two hours after."

"Has she spoken to you?"

"Once only, on the first night, in a low voice, to tell me that, if I
called out or uttered a sound or tried to escape, François would pay the
penalty."

"But, when they attacked you, couldn't you then make out . . . ?"

"No, I saw no more than François did."

"And the attack was quite unexpected?"

"Yes, quite. M. d'Hergemont had that morning received two important
letters on the subject of the investigation which he was making into all
these facts. One of the letters, written by an old Breton nobleman
well-known for his royalist leanings, was accompanied by a curious
document which he had found among his great-grandfather's papers, a plan
of some underground cells which the Chouans used to occupy in Sarek. It
was evidently the same Druid dwellings of which the legends tell us. The
plan showed the entrance on the Black Heath and marked two stories, each
ending in a torture-chamber. François and I went out exploring together;
and we were attacked on our way back."

"And you have made no discovery since?"

"No, none at all."

"But François spoke of a rescue which he was expecting, some one who had
promised his assistance."

"Oh, a piece of boyish nonsense, an idea of François', which, as it
happened, was connected with the second letter which M. d'Hergemont
received that morning!"

"And what was it about?"

Stéphane did not reply at once. Something made him think that they were
being spied on through the door. But, on going to the wicket, he saw no
one in the passage outside.

"Ah," he said, "if we are to be rescued, the sooner it happens the
better. _They_ may come at any moment now."

"Is any help really possible?" asked Véronique.

"Well," Stéphane answered, "we must not attach too much importance to
it, but it's rather curious all the same. You know, Sarek has often been
visited by officers or inspectors with a view to exploring the rocks and
beaches around the island, which were quite capable of concealing a
submarine base. Last time, the special delegate sent from Paris, a
wounded officer, Captain Patrice Belval,[2] became friendly with M.
d'Hergemont, who told him the legend of Sarek and the apprehension which
we were beginning to feel in spite of everything; it was the day after
Maguennoc went away. The story interested Captain Belval so much that he
promised to speak of it to one of his friends in Paris, a Spanish or
Portuguese nobleman, Don Luis Perenna,[2] an extraordinary person, it
would seem, capable of solving the most complicated mysteries and of
succeeding in the most reckless enterprises. A few days after Captain
Belval's departure, M. d'Hergemont received from Don Luis Perenna the
letter of which I spoke to you and of which he read us only the
beginning. 'Sir,' it said, 'I look upon the Maguennoc incident as more
than a little serious; and I beg you, at the least fresh alarm, to
telegraph to Patrice Belval. If I can rely upon certain indications, you
are standing on the brink of an abyss. But, even if you were at the
bottom of that abyss, you would have nothing to fear, if only I hear
from you in time. From that moment, I make myself responsible, whatever
happens, even though everything may seem lost and though everything may
be lost. As for the riddle of the God-Stone, it is simply childish and I
am astonished that, with the very ample data which you gave Belval, it
should for an instant be regarded as impossible of explanation. I will
tell you in a few words what has puzzled so many generations of mankind
. . . .'"

[Footnote 2: See _The Golden Triangle_, by Maurice Leblanc.]

"Well?" said Véronique, eager to know more.

"As I said, M. d'Hergemont did not tell us the end of the letter. He
read it in front of us, saying, with an air of amazement, 'Can that be
it? . . . Why, of course, of course it is . . . . How wonderful!' And,
when we asked him, he said, 'I'll tell you all about it this evening,
when you come back from the Black Heath. Meanwhile you may like to know
that this most extraordinary man--it's the only word for him--discloses
to me, without more ado or further particulars, the secret of the
God-Stone and the exact spot where it is to be found. And he does it so
logically as to leave no room for doubt.'"

"And in the evening?"

"In the evening, François and I were carried off and M. d'Hergemont was
murdered."

Véronique paused to think:

"I should not be surprised," she said, "if they wanted to steal that
important letter from him. For, after all, the theft of the God-Stone
seems to me the only motive that can explain all the machinations of
which we are the victims."

"I think so too: but M. d'Hergemont, on Don Luis Perenna's
recommendation, tore up the letter before our eyes."

"So, after all, Don Luis Perenna has not been informed?"

"No."

"Yet François . . ."

"François does not know of his grandfather's death and does not suspect
that M. d'Hergemont never heard of our disappearance and therefore never
sent a message to Don Luis Perenna. If he had done so, Don Luis, to
François' mind, must be on his way. Besides, François has another
reason for expecting something . . . ."

"A serious reason?"

"No. François is still very much of a child. He has read a lot of books
of adventure, which have worked upon his imagination. Now Captain Belval
told him such fantastic stories about his friend Perenna and painted
Perenna in such strange colours that François firmly believes Perenna to
be none other than Arsène Lupin. Hence his absolute confidence and his
certainty that, in case of danger, the miraculous intervention will take
place at the very minute when it becomes necessary."

Véronique could not help smiling:

"He is a child, of course; but children sometimes have intuitions which
we have to take into account. Besides, it keeps up his courage and his
spirits. How could he have endured this ordeal, at his age, if he had
not had that hope?"

Her anguish returned. In a very low voice, she said:

"No matter where the rescue comes from, so long as it comes in time and
so long as my son is not the victim of those dreadful creatures!"

They were silent for a long time. The enemy, present, though invisible,
oppressed them with his formidable weight. He was everywhere; he was
master of the island, master of the subterranean dwellings, master of
the heaths and woods, master of the sea around them, master of the
dolmens and the coffins. He linked together the monstrous ages of the
past and the no less monstrous hours of the present. He was continuing
history according to the ancient rites and striking blows which had
been foretold a thousand times.

"But why? With what object? What does it all mean?" asked Véronique, in
a disheartened tone. "What connection can there be between the people of
to-day and those of long ago? What is the explanation of the work
resumed by such barbarous methods?"

And, after a further pause, she said, for in her heart of hearts, behind
every question and reply and every insoluble problem, the obsession
never ceased to torment her:

"Ah, if François were here! If we were all three fighting together! What
has happened to him? What keeps him in his cell? Some obstacle which he
did not foresee?"

It was Stéphane's turn to comfort her:

"An obstacle? Why should you suppose so? There is no obstacle. But it's
a long job . . . ."

"Yes, yes, you are right; a long, difficult job. Oh, I'm sure that he
won't lose heart! He has such high spirits! And such confidence! 'A
mother and son who have been brought together cannot be parted again,'
he said. 'They may still persecute us, but separate us, never! We shall
win in the end.' He was speaking truly, wasn't he, Stéphane? I've not
found my son again, have I, only to lose him? No, no, it would be too
unjust and it would be impossible . . ."

Stéphane looked at her, surprised to hear her interrupt herself.
Véronique was listening to something.

"What is it?" asked Stéphane.

"I hear sounds," she said.

He also listened:

"Yes, yes, you're right."

"Perhaps it's François," she said. "Perhaps it's up there."

She moved to rise. He held her back:

"No, it's the sound of footsteps in the passage."

"In that case . . . in that case . . . ?" said Véronique.

They exchanged distraught glances, forming no decision, not knowing what
to do.

The sound came nearer. The enemy could not be suspecting anything, for
the steps were those of one who is not afraid of being heard.

Stéphane said, slowly:

"They must not see me standing up. I will go back to my place. You must
fasten me again as best you can."

They remained hesitating, as though cherishing the absurd hope that the
danger would pass of its own accord. Then, suddenly, releasing herself
from the sort of stupor that seemed to paralyse her, Véronique made up
her mind:

"Quick! . . . Here they come! . . . Lie down!"

He obeyed. In a few seconds, she had replaced the cords on and around
him as she had found them, but without tying them.

"Turn your face to the rock," she said. "Hide your hands. Your hands
might betray you."

"And you?"

"I shall be all right."

She stooped and stretched herself at full length against the door, in
which the spy-hole, barred with strips of iron, projected inwardly in
such a way as to hide her from sight.

At the same moment, the enemy stopped outside. Notwithstanding the
thickness of the door, Véronique heard the rustle of a dress.

And, above her, some one looked in.

It was a terrible moment. The least indication would give the alarm.

"Oh, why does she stay?" thought Véronique. "Is there anything to betray
my presence? My clothes? . . ."

She thought that it was more likely Stéphane, whose attitude did not
appear natural and whose bonds did not wear their usual aspect.

Suddenly there was a movement outside, followed by a whistle and a
second whistle.

Then from the far end of the passage came another sound of steps, which
increased in the solemn silence and stopped, like the first, behind the
door. Words were spoken. Those outside seemed to be concerting measures.

Véronique managed to reach her pocket. She took out her revolver and put
her finger on the trigger. If any one entered, she would stand up and
fire shot after shot, without hesitating. Would not the least hesitation
have meant François' death?

CHAPTER IX

THE DEATH-CHAMBER

Véronique's estimate was correct, provided that the door opened outwards
and that her enemies were at once revealed to view. She therefore
examined the door and suddenly observed that, against all logical
expectation, it had a large strong bolt at the bottom. Should she make
use of it?

She had no time to weigh the advantages or drawbacks of this plan. She
had heard a jingle of keys and, almost at the same time, the sound of a
key grating in the lock.

Véronique received a very clear vision of what was likely to happen.
When the assailants burst in, she would be thrust aside, she would be
hampered in her movements, her aim would be inaccurate and her shots
would miss, whereupon _they_ would shut the door again and promptly
hurry off to François' cell. The thought of it made her lose her head;
and her action was instinctive and immediate. First, she pushed the bolt
at the foot of the door. Next, half rising, she slammed the iron shutter
over the wicket. A latch clicked. It was no longer possible either to
enter or to look in.

Then at once she realized the absurdity of her action, which had not
opposed any obstacle to the menace of the enemy. Stéphane, leaping to
her side, said:

"Good heavens, what have you done? Why, they saw that I was not moving
and they now know that I am not alone!"

"Exactly," she answered, striving to defend herself. "They will try to
break down the door, which will give us the time we want."

"The time we want for what?"

"To make our escape."

"Which way?"

"François will call out to us. François will . . ."

She did not complete her sentence. They now heard the sound of footsteps
moving swiftly down the passage. There was no doubt about it; the enemy,
without troubling about Stéphane, whose flight appeared impossible, was
making for the upper floor of cells. Moreover, might he not suppose that
the two friends were acting in agreement and that it was the boy who was
in Stéphane's cell and who had barred the door?

Véronique therefore had precipitated events and given them a turn which
she had so many reasons to dread; and François, up above, would be
caught at the very moment when he was preparing to escape.

She was utterly overwhelmed:

"Why did I come here?" she muttered. "It would have been so simple to
wait! The two of us would have saved you to a certainty."

One idea flashed through the confusion of her mind: had she not sought
to hasten Stéphane's release because of what she knew of this man's love
for her? And was it not an unworthy curiosity that had prompted her to
make the attempt? A horrible idea, which she at once rejected, saying:

"No, I had to come. It is fate which is persecuting us."

"Don't believe it," said Stéphane. "Everything will come right."

"Too late!" said she, shaking her head.

"Why? How do we know that François has not left his cell? You yourself
thought so just now . . . ."

She did not reply. Her face became drawn and very pale. By virtue of her
sufferings she had acquired a kind of intuition of the evil that
threatened her. This evil now surrounded her on every hand. A second
series of ordeals was before her, more terrible than the first.

"There's death all about us," she said.

He tried to smile:

"You are talking like the people of Sarek. You have the same fears . . ."

"They were right to be afraid. And you yourself feel the horror of it
all."

She rushed to the door, drew the bolt, tried to open it; but what could
she do against that massive, iron-clad door?

Stéphane seized her by the arm:

"One moment . . . . Listen . . . . It sounds as if . . ."

"Yes," she said, "it's up there that they are knocking . . . above our
heads . . . in François' cell . . . ."

"Not at all, not at all: listen . . . ."

There was a long silence; and then blows were heard in the thickness of
the cliff. The sound came from below them.

"The same blows that I heard this morning," said Stéphane, in dismay.
"The same attempt of which I spoke to you . . . . Ah, I understand!
. . ."

"What? What do you mean?"

The blows were repeated, at regular intervals, and then ceased, to be
followed by a dull, continuous sound, pierced by shriller creakings and
sudden cracks, like the straining of machinery newly started, or of one
of those capstans which are used for hoisting boats up a beach.

Véronique listened, desperately expectant of what was coming, trying to
guess, seeking to find some clue in Stéphane's eyes. He stood in front
of her, looking at her as a man, in the hour of danger, looks at the
woman he loves.

And suddenly she staggered and had to press her hand against the wall.
It was as though the cave and indeed the whole cliff were bodily moving
from its place.

"Oh," she murmured, "is it I who am trembling like this? Is it from fear
that I am shaking from head to foot?"

Seizing Stéphane's hands, she said:

"Tell me! I want to know! . . ."

He did not answer. There was no fear in his eyes bedewed with tears,
there was nothing but immense love and unbounded despair. He was
thinking only of her.

Besides, was it necessary for him to explain what was happening? Did not
the reality itself become more and more apparent as the seconds passed?
A strange reality indeed, having no connection with commonplace facts, a
reality quite beyond anything that the imagination might invent in the
domain of evil, a strange reality which Véronique, who was beginning to
grasp its indication, still refused to believe.

Acting like a trap-door, but like a trap-door working the reverse way,
the square of enormous joists which was set in the middle of the cave
rose, pivoting on the fixed axis by which it was hinged parallel with
the cliff. The almost imperceptible movement was that of an enormous lid
opening; and the thing already formed a sort of spring-board reaching
from the edge to the back of the cave, a spring-board with as yet a very
slight slope, on which it was easy enough to keep one's balance.

At the first moment, Véronique thought that the enemy's object was to
crush them between the implacable floor and the granite of the ceiling.
But, almost immediately afterwards, she understood that the hateful
mechanism, by standing erect like a draw-bridge when hoisted up, was
intended to hurl them over the precipice. And it would carry out that
intention inexorably. The result was fatal and inevitable. Whatever they
might try, whatever efforts they might make to hold on, a minute would
come when the floor of that draw-bridge would be absolutely vertical,
forming an integral part of the perpendicular cliff.

"It's horrible, it's horrible," she muttered.

Their hands were still clasped. Stéphane was weeping silent tears.

Presently she moaned:

"There's nothing to be done, is there?"

"Nothing," he replied.

"Still, there is room beyond that wooden floor. The cave is round. We
might . . ."

"The space is too small. If we tried to stand between the sides of the
square and the wall, we should be crushed to death. That has all been
planned. I have often thought about it."

"Then . . . ?"

"We must wait."

"For what? For whom?"

"For François."

"Oh, François!" she said, with a sob. "Perhaps he too is doomed . . . .
Or perhaps he is looking for us and will fall into some trap. In any
case, I shall not see him . . . . And he will know nothing . . . . And
he will not even have seen his mother before dying . . . ."

She pressed Stéphane's hands and said:

"Stéphane, if one of us escapes death--and I hope it may be you . . ."

"It will be you," he said, in a tone of conviction. "I am even surprised
that the enemy should condemn you to the same torture as myself. But no
doubt he doesn't know that it's you who are here with me."

"It surprises me too!" said Véronique. "A different torture is set aside
for me. But what does it matter, if I am not to see my son again! . . .
Stéphane, I can safely leave him in your charge, can't I? I know all
that you have already done for him."

The floor continued to rise very slowly, with an uneven vibration and
sudden jerks. The slope became more accentuated. A few minutes more and
they would no longer be able to speak freely and quietly.

Stéphane replied:

"If I survive, I swear to fulfil my task to the end. I swear it in
memory . . ."

"In memory of me," she said, in a firm voice, "in memory of the
Véronique whom you knew . . . and loved."

He looked at her passionately:

"So you know?"

"Yes; and I tell you frankly, I have read your diary. I know your love
for me . . . and I accept it." She gave a sad smile. "That poor love
which you offered to the woman who was absent . . . and which you are
now offering to the woman who is about to die."

"No, no," he said, eagerly, "don't believe that . . . . Salvation may be
near at hand . . . . I feel it. My love does not belong to the past but
to the future."

He stooped to put his lips to her hands.

"Kiss me," she said, offering him her forehead.

Each of them had been obliged to place one foot on the brink of the
precipice, on the straight edge of granite which ran parallel with the
fourth side of the spring-board.

They kissed gravely.

"Hold me firmly," said Véronique.

She leant back as far as she could, raising her head, and called in a
muffled voice:

"François . . . . François . . . ."

But there was no one at the upper opening, from which the ladder was
still hanging by one of its hooks, well out of reach.

Véronique bent over the sea. At this spot, the swell of the cliff did
not project as much as elsewhere; and she saw, in between the
foam-topped reefs, a little pool of still water, very calm and so deep
that she could not see the bottom. She thought that death would be
gentler there than on the sharp-pointed rocks and, yielding to a sudden
longing to have done with it all and to avoid a lingering agony, she
said to Stéphane:

"Why wait for the end? Better die than suffer this torture."

"No, no!" he exclaimed, horrified at the thought that Véronique might
disappear from his sight.

"Then you are still hoping?"

"Until the last second, since it's your life that's at stake."

"I have no longer any hope."

Nor was he borne up by hope; but he would have given anything to lull
Véronique's sufferings and to bear the whole weight of the supreme
ordeal himself.

The floor continued to rise. The vibration had ceased and the slope
became much more marked, already reaching the bottom of the wicket, half
way up the door. Then there was a sound like a sudden stoppage of
machinery, followed by a violent jolt, and the whole wicket was covered.
It was becoming impossible for them to stand erect.

They lay down on the slanting floor, bracing their feet against the
granite edge.

Two more jerks occurred, each time pushing the upper end still higher.
The top of the inner wall was reached; and the enormous mechanism moved
slowly forward, along the ceiling, towards the opening of the cave. They
could see very plainly that it would fit this opening exactly and close
it hermetically, like a draw-bridge. The rock had been hewn in such a
way that the deadly task might be accomplished without leaving any
loophole for chance.

They did not utter a word. With hands tight-clasped, they resigned
themselves to the inevitable. Their death was assuming the aspect of an
event decreed by destiny. The machine had been constructed far back in
the centuries and had no doubt been reconstructed, repaired and put in
order at a more recent date; and during those centuries, worked by
invisible executioners, it had caused the death of culprits, of guilty
men and innocent, of men of Armorica, Gaul, France or foreign lands.
Prisoners of war, sacrilegious monks, persecuted peasants, renegade
Chouans and soldiers of the Revolution; one by one the monster had
hurled them over the cliff.

To-day it was their turn.

They had not even the bitter solace of rage and hatred. Whom were they
to hate? They were dying in the deepest obscurity, with no hostile face
emerging from that implacable night. They were dying in the
accomplishment of a task unknown to themselves, to make up a total, so
to speak, and for the fulfilment of absurd prophecies, of imbecile
intentions, such as the orders given by the barbarian gods and
formulated by fanatical priests. They were--it was a thing unheard
of--the victims of some expiatory sacrifice, of some holocaust offered
to the divinities of a blood-thirsty creed!

The wall stood behind them. In a few more minutes it would be
perpendicular. The end was approaching.

Time after time Stéphane had to hold Véronique back. An increasing
terror distracted her mind. She yearned to fling herself down.

"Please, please," she stammered, "do let me . . . . I am suffering more
than I can bear."

Had she not found her son again, she would have retained her
self-control to the end. But the thought of François was unsettling her.
The boy must also be a prisoner, they must be torturing him too and
immolating him, like his mother, on the altars of the execrable gods.

"No, no, he will come," Stéphane declared. "You will be saved . . . . I
will have it so . . . . I know it."

She replied, wildly:

"He is imprisoned as we are . . . . They are burning him with torches,
driving arrows into him, tearing his flesh . . . . Oh, my poor little
son! . . ."

"He will come, dear, he told you he would. Nothing can separate a mother
and son who have been brought together again."

"We have found each other in death; we shall be united in death. I wish
it might be at once! I don't want him to suffer!"

The agony was too great. With an effort she released her hands from
Stéphane's and made a movement to fling herself down. But she
immediately threw herself back against the draw-bridge, with a cry of
amazement which was echoed by Stéphane.

Something had passed before their eyes and disappeared again. It came
from the left.

"The ladder!" exclaimed Stéphane. "It's the ladder, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's François," said Véronique, catching her breath with joy and
hope. "He is saved. He is coming to rescue us."

At that moment, the wall of torment was almost upright, vibrating
implacably beneath their shoulders. The cave no longer existed behind
them. The depths had already claimed them; at most they were clinging to
a narrow ledge.

Véronique leant outwards again. The ladder swung back and then became
stationary, fixed by its two hooks.

Above them, at the opening in the cliff, was a boy's face; and the boy
was smiling and making gestures:

"Mother, mother . . . quick!"

The call was eager and urgent. The two arms were outstretched towards
the pair below. Véronique moaned:

"Oh, it's you, it's you, my darling!"

"Quick, mother, I'm holding the ladder! . . . Quick! . . . It's quite
safe!"

"I'm coming, darling, I'm coming."

She had seized the nearest upright. This time, with Stéphane's
assistance, she had no difficulty in placing her foot on the bottom
rung. But she said:

"And you, Stéphane? You're coming with me, aren't you?"

"I have plenty of time," he said. "Hurry."

"No, you must promise."

"I swear. Hurry."

She climbed four rungs and stopped:

"Are you coming, Stéphane?"

He had already turned towards the cliff and slipped his left hand into a
narrow fissure which remained between the draw-bridge and the rock. His
right hand reached the ladder and he was able to set foot on the lowest
rung. He too was saved.

With what delight Véronique covered the rest of the distance! What
mattered the void below her, now that her son was there, waiting for her
to clasp him to her breast at last!

"Here I am, here I am," she said. "Here I am, my darling."

She swiftly put her head and shoulders in the window. He pulled her
through; and she climbed over the ledge. At last she was with her son.

They flung themselves into each other's arms:

"Oh, mother, mother, is it really true? Mother!"

But she had no sooner closed her arms about him than she drew back a
little, she did not know why. An inexplicable discomfort checked her
first outburst.

"Come here," she said, dragging him to the light of the window. "Come
and let me look at you."

The boy did as she wished. She examined him for two or three seconds, no
longer, and suddenly, giving a start of terror, ejaculated:

"Then it's you? It's you, the murderer?"

Oh, horror! She was once more looking on the face of the monster who had
killed her father and Honorine before her eyes!

"So you know me?" he chuckled.

Véronique realised her mistake from the boy's very tone. This was not
François but the other, the one who had played his devilish part in the
clothes which François usually wore.

He gave another chuckle:

"Ah, you're beginning to see things as they are, ma'am! You know me now,
don't you?"

The hateful face contracted, became wicked and cruel, animated by the
vilest expression.

"Vorski! Vorski!" stammered Véronique. "It's Vorski I recognise in you."

He burst out laughing:

"Why not? Do you think I'm going to disown my father as you did?"

"Vorski's son! His son!" Véronique repeated.

"Lord bless me, yes, his son: why shouldn't I be? Surely the good fellow
had the right to have two sons! Me first and dear François next!"

"Vorski's son!" Véronique exclaimed once more.

"And one of the best, I tell you, ma'am, a worthy son of his father and
brought up on the highest principles. I've shown you as much already,
haven't I? But it's not finished, we're only at the beginning . . . .
Here, would you like me to give you a fresh proof? Just take a squint at
that stick-in-the-mud of a tutor! . . . No, but look how things go when
I take a hand in them."

He sprang to the window. Stéphane's head appeared. The boy picked up a
stone and struck with all his might, throwing him backwards.

Véronique, who at the first moment had hesitated, not realising the
danger, now rushed and seized the boy's arm. It was too late. The head
vanished. The hooks of the ladder slipped off the ledge. There was a
loud cry, followed by the sound of a body falling into the water below.

Véronique ran to the window. The ladder was floating on the part of the
little pool which she was able to see, lying motionless in its frame of
rocks. There was nothing to point to the place where Stéphane had
fallen, not an eddy, not a ripple.

She called out:

"Stéphane! Stéphane! . . ."

No reply, nothing but the great silence of space in which the winds are
still and the sea asleep.

"You villain, what have you done?" she cried.

"Don't take on, missus," he said. "Master Stéphane brought up your kid
to be a duffer. Come it's a laughing matter, it is, really. Give us a
kiss, won't you, daddy's missus? But, I say, what a face you're pulling!
Surely you don't hate me as much as all that?"

He went up to her, with his arms outstretched. Véronique swiftly covered
him with her revolver:

"Be off, be off, or I'll kill you as I would a mad dog! Be off!"

The boy's face became more inhuman than ever. He fell back step by step,
snarling:

"Oh, I'll make you pay for this, my pretty lady! . . . What do you mean
by it? I come up to give you a kiss . . . I'm full of kindly feelings
. . . and you want to shoot me! You shall pay for it in blood . . . in
nice red flowing blood . . . blood . . . blood . . . ."

He seemed to love the sound of the word. He repeated it time after time,
then once more gave a burst of evil laughter and fled down the tunnel
which led to the Priory, shouting:

"The blood of your son, Mother Véronique! . . . The blood of your
darling François!"

CHAPTER X

THE ESCAPE

Shuddering, uncertain how to act next, Véronique listened till she no
longer heard the sound of his footsteps. What should she do? The murder
of Stéphane had for a moment turned her thoughts from François; but she
now once more fell a prey to anguish. What had become of her son? Should
she go to him at the Priory and defend him against the dangers that
threatened him?

"Come, come," she said, "I'm losing my head . . . . Let me think things
out . . . . A few hours ago, François was speaking to me through the
wall of his prison . . . for it was certainly he then, it was certainly
François who yesterday took my hand and covered it with his kisses
. . . . A mother cannot be deceived; and I was quivering with love and
tenderness . . . . But since . . . since this morning has he not left
his prison?"

She stopped to think and then said, slowly:

"That's it . . . that's what happened . . . . Stéphane and I were
discovered below, on the floor underneath. The alarm was given at once.
The monster, Vorski's son, had gone up expressly to watch François. He
found the cell empty and, seeing the opening which had been made,
crawled out here. Yes, that's it . . . . If not, by what way did he
come? . . . When he got here, it occurred to him to run to the window,
knowing that it overlooked the sea and suspecting that François had
chosen it to make his escape. He at once saw the hooks of the ladder.
Then, on leaning over, he saw me, knew who I was and called out to me
. . . . And now . . . now he is on his way to the Priory, where he is
bound to meet François . . . ."

Nevertheless Véronique did not stir. She had an instinct that the danger
lay not at the Priory but here, by the cells. And she wondered whether
François had really succeeded in escaping and whether, before his task
was done, he had not been surprised by the other and attacked by him.

It was a horrible doubt! She stooped quickly and, perceiving that the
hole had been widened, tried to pass through it herself. But the outlet,
at most large enough for a child, was too narrow for her; and her
shoulders became fixed. She persisted in the attempt, however, tearing
her bodice and bruising her skin against the rock, and at last, by dint
of patience and wriggling, succeeded in slipping through.

The cell was empty. But the door was open on the passages facing her;
and Véronique had an impression--merely an impression, for the window
admitted only a faint light--that some one was just leaving the cell
through the open door. And from this confused impression of something
that she had not absolutely seen she retained the certainty that it was
a woman who was hiding there, in the passage, a woman surprised by her
unexpected entrance.

"It's their accomplice," thought Véronique. "She came up with the boy
who killed Stéphane, and she has no doubt taken François away . . . .
Perhaps François is even there still, quite near me, while she's
watching me . . . ."

Meanwhile Véronique's eyes were growing accustomed to the semidarkness
and she distinctly saw a woman's hand upon the door, which opened
inwardly. The hand was slowly pulling.

"Why doesn't she shut it at once," Véronique wondered, "since she
obviously wants to put a barrier between us?"

Véronique received her answer when she heard a pebble grating under the
door and interfering with its movement. If the pebble were not there,
the door would be closed. Without hesitating, Véronique went up, took
hold of a great iron handle and pulled it towards her. The hand
disappeared, but the opposition continued. There was evidently a handle
on the other side as well.

Suddenly she heard a whistle. The woman was summoning assistance. And
almost at the same time, in the passage, at some distance from the
woman, there was a cry:

"Mother! Mother!"

Ah, with what deep emotion Véronique heard that cry! Her son, her real
son was calling to her, her son, still a captive but alive! Oh, the
superhuman delight of it!

"I'm here, darling!"

"Quick, mother! I'm tied up; and the whistle is their signal . . .
they'll be coming."

"I'm here . . . . I shall save you before they come!"

She had no doubt of the result. It seemed to her as though her strength
knew no limits and as though nothing could resist the exasperated
tension of her whole being.

Her adversary was in fact weakening and giving ground by inches. The
opening became wider; and suddenly the contest was over. Véronique
walked through.

The woman had already fled down the passage and was dragging the boy by
a rope in order to make him walk despite the cords with which he was
bound. It was a vain attempt and she abandoned it forthwith. Véronique
was close to her, with her revolver in her hand.

The woman let go the boy and stood up in the light from the open cells.
She was dressed in white serge, with a knotted girdle round her waist.
Her arms were half bare. Her face was still young, but faded, thin and
wrinkled. Her hair was fair, interspersed with strands of white. Her
eyes gleamed with a feverish hatred.

The two women looked at each other without a word, like two adversaries
who have met before and are about to fight again. Véronique almost
smiled, with a smile of mingled triumph and defiance. In the end she
said:

"If you dare to lay a finger on my child, I'll kill you. Go! Be off!"

The woman was not frightened. She seemed to be reflecting and to be
listening in the expectation of assistance. None come. Then she lowered
her eyes to François and made a movement as though to seize upon her
prey again.

"Don't touch him!" Véronique exclaimed, violently. "Don't touch him, or
I fire!"

The woman shrugged her shoulders and said, in measured accents:

"No threats, please! If I had wanted to kill that child of yours, I
should have done so by now. But his hour has not come; and it is not by
my hand that he is to die."

Véronique, trembling all over, could not help asking:

"By whose hand is he to die?"

"By my son's: you know . . . the one you've seen."

"Is he your son, the murderer, the monster?"

"He's the son of . . ."

"Silence! Silence!" Véronique commanded. She understood that the woman
had been Vorski's mistress and feared that she would make some
disclosure in François' presence. "Silence: that name is not to be
spoken."

"It will be when it has to be," said the woman. "Ah, I've suffered
enough through you, Véronique: it's your turn now; and you're only at
the beginning of it!"

"Go!" cried Véronique, pointing her revolver.

"Once more, no threats, please."

"Go, or I fire! I swear it on the head of my son."

The woman retreated, betraying a certain anxiety in spite of herself.
But she was seized with a fresh access of rage. Impotently she raised
her clenched fists and shouted, in a raucous, broken voice:

"I will be revenged . . . You shall see. Véronique . . . . The cross--do
you understand?--the cross is ready . . . . You are the fourth . . . .
What, oh, what a revenge!"

She shook her gnarled, bony fists. And she continued:

"Oh, how I hate you! Fifteen years of hatred! But the cross will avenge
me . . . . I shall string you up on it myself . . . . The cross is ready
. . . you'll see . . . the cross is ready for you! . . ."

She walked away slowly, holding herself erect under the threat of the
revolver.

"Don't kill her, mother, will you?" whispered François, suspecting the
contest in his mother's mind.

Véronique seemed to wake from a dream:

"No, no," she replied, "don't be afraid . . . . And yet perhaps I ought
to . . ."

"Oh, please let her be, mother, and let us go away."

She lifted him in her arms, even before the woman was out of sight,
pressed him to her and carried him to the cell as though he weighed no
more than a little child.

"Mother, mother," he said.

"Yes, darling, your own mother; and no one shall take you from me again,
that I swear to you."

Without troubling about the wounds inflicted by the stone she slipped,
this time almost at the first attempt, through the gap made by François,
drew him after her and then, but not before, released him from his
bonds.

"There is no danger here," she said, "at least for the moment, because
they can hardly get at us except by the cell and I shall be able to
defend the entrance."

Mother and son exchanged the fondest of embraces. There was now no
barrier to part their lips and their arms. They could see each other,
could gaze into each other's eyes.

"How handsome you are, my darling!" said Véronique.

She saw no resemblance between him and the boy murderer and was
astonished that Honorine could have taken one for the other. And she
felt as if she would never weary of admiring the breeding, the frankness
and the sweetness which she read in his face.

"And you, mother," he said, "do you think that I ever pictured a mother
as beautiful as you? No, not even in my dreams, when you seemed as
lovely as a fairy. And yet Stéphane often used to tell me . . ."

She interrupted him:

"We must hurry, dearest, and take refuge from their pursuit. We must
go."

"Yes," he said, "and above all we must leave Sarek. I have invented a
plan of escape which is bound to succeed. But, first of all, Stéphane:
what has become of him? I heard the sound of which I spoke to you
underneath my cell and I fear . . ."

She dragged him along by the hand, without answering his question:

"I have many things to tell you, darling, painful things which I must no
longer keep from you. But presently will do . . . . For the moment we
must take refuge in the Priory. That woman will go in search of help and
come after us."

"But she was not alone, mother, when she entered my cell suddenly and
caught me in the act of digging at the wall. There was some one with
her."

"A boy, wasn't it? A boy of your own size?"

"I could hardly see. He and the woman fell upon me, bound me and carried
me into the passage. Then the woman left me for a moment and he went
back to the cell. He therefore knows about this tunnel by now and about
the exit in the Priory grounds."

"Yes, I know. But we shall easily get the better of him; and we'll block
up the exit."

"But there remains the bridge which joins the two islands," François
objected.

"No," she said, "I burnt it down and the Priory is absolutely cut off."

They were walking very quickly, Véronique pressing her pace, François a
little anxious at the words spoken by his mother.

"Yes, yes," he said, "I see that there is a good deal which I don't know
and which you have kept from me, mother, in order not to frighten me.
For instance, when you burnt down the bridge . . . . It was with the
petrol set aside for the purpose, wasn't it, and as arranged with
Maguennoc in case of danger? So you were threatened too; and the first
attack was made on you, mother? . . . And then there was something that
woman said with such a hateful look on her face! . . . And then . . .
and then, above all, what has become of Stéphane? They were whispering
about him just now in my cell . . . . All this worries me . . . . Then
again I don't see the ladder which you brought . . . ."

"Please, dearest, don't let us wait a moment. The woman will have found
assistance . . . ."

The boy stopped short:

"Mother."

"What? Do you hear anything?"

"Some one walking."

"Are you sure?"

"Some one coming this way."

"Oh," she said, in a hollow voice, "it's the murderer coming back from
the Priory!"

She felt her revolver and prepared herself for anything that might
happen. But suddenly she pushed François towards a dark corner on her
left, formed by the entry to one of those tunnels, probably blocked,
which she had noticed when she came.

"Get in there," she said. "We shall be all right here: he will not see
us."

The sound approached.

"Stand well back," she said, "and don't stir."

The boy whispered:

"What's that in your hand? A revolver? Mother, you're not going to
fire?"

"I ought to, I ought to," said Véronique. "He's such a monster! . . .
It's as with his mother . . . I ought to have . . . we shall perhaps
regret it." And she added, almost unconsciously, "He killed your
grandfather."

"Oh, mother, mother!"

She supported him, to prevent his falling, and amid the silence she
heard the boy sobbing on her breast and stammering:

"Never mind . . . don't fire, mother . . . ."

"Here he comes, darling, here he comes; look at him."

The other passed. He was walking slowly, a little bent, listening for
the least sound. He appeared to Véronique to be the exact same size as
her son; and this time, when she looked at him with more attention, she