“No, I can’t do it—it’s too awful. Forgive me—Raymonde—that poor woman down there—Stay here. Beautrelet, don’t leave her.” He darted along the slope that surrounds the farm, turned and followed it, at a run, till he came to the gate that opens on the plain. Raymonde, whom Beautrelet had been unable to hold back, arrived almost as soon as he did; and Beautrelet, hiding behind the trees, saw, in the lonely walk that led from the farm to the gate, three men, of whom one, the tallest, went ahead, while the two others were holding by the arms a woman who tried to resist and who uttered moans of pain. The daylight was beginning to fade. Nevertheless, Beautrelet recognized Holmlock Shears. The woman seemed of a certain age. Her livid features were set in a frame of white hair. They all four came up. They reached the gate. Shears opened one of the folding leaves. Then Lupin strode forward and stood in front of him. The encounter appeared all the more terrible inasmuch as it was silent, almost solemn. For long moments, the two enemies took each other’s measure with their eyes. An equal hatred distorted the features of both of them. Neither moved. Then Lupin spoke, in a voice of terrifying calmness: “Tell your men to leave that woman alone.” “No.” It was as though both of them feared to engage in the supreme struggle, as though both were collecting all their strength. And there were no words wasted this time, no insults, no bantering challenges. Silence, a deathlike silence. Mad with anguish, Raymonde awaited the issue of the duel. Beautrelet had caught her arms and was holding her motionless. After a second, Lupin repeated: “Order your men to leave that woman alone.” “No.” Lupin said: “Listen, Shears—” But he interrupted himself, realizing the silliness of the words. In the face of that colossus of pride and will-power which called itself Holmlock Shears, of what use were threats? Resolved upon the worst, suddenly he put his hand to his jacket pocket. The Englishman anticipated his movement and, leaping upon his prisoner, thrust the barrel of his revolver within two inches of her temple: “If you stir a limb, I fire!” At the same time his two satellites drew their weapons and aimed them at Lupin. Lupin drew himself up, stifled the rage within him and, coolly, with his hands in his pockets and his breast exposed to the enemy, began once more: “Shears, for the third time, let that woman be—” The Englishman sneered: “I have no right to touch her, I suppose? Come, come, enough of this humbug! Your name isn’t Valméras any more than it’s Lupin: you stole the name just as you stole the name of Charmerace. And the woman whom you pass off as your mother is Victoire, your old accomplice, the one who brought you up—”[12] [12] _Arsène Lupin_, play in four acts, by Maurice Leblanc and Francis de Croisset.