through you Rullecour landed, and that you'd have seen them all murdered
--eh, maitre cormorant?"

The old man crawled towards Detricand on his knees. "Let me go, let me
go," he whined. "I was mad; I didn't know what I was doing; I've not
been right in the head since I was in the Guiana prison."

At that moment it struck Detricand that the old man must have had some
awful experience in prison, for now his eyes had the most painful terror,
the most abject fear. He had never seen so craven a sight.

"What were you in prison for in Guiana, and what did they do to you
there?" asked Detricand sternly. Again the old man shivered horribly,
and tears streamed down his cheeks, as he whined piteously: "Oh no, no,
no--for the mercy of Christ, no!" He threw up his hands as if to ward
off a blow.

Detricand saw that this was not acting, that it was a supreme terror, an
awful momentary aberration; for the traitor's eyes were wildly staring,
the mouth was drawn in agony, the hands were now rigidly clutching an
imaginary something, the body stiffened where it crouched.

Detricand understood now. The old man had been tied to a triangle and
whipped--how horribly who might know? His mood towards the miserable
creature changed: he spoke to him in a firm, quiet tone.

"There, there, you're not going to be hurt. Be quiet now, and you shall
not be touched."

Then he stooped over, and quickly undoing the old man's waistcoat, he