Vorski stood up. Nevertheless he hesitated to approach the woman, who inspired him with ungovernable fear and respect. "Don't come any nearer, you two," said the ancient Druid, addressing Otto and Conrad. "When Velleda's eyes open, they must rest on no one but Vorski and behold no other sight. Well, Vorski, are you afraid?" "No, I'm not afraid." "Only you're not feeling comfortable. It's easier to murder people than to bring them to life, what? Come, show yourself a man! Put aside her veil and touch her forehead. The God-Stone is within your reach. Act and you will be the master of the world." Vorski acted. Standing against the sacrificial altar, he looked down upon the Druidess. He bent over the motionless bust. The white gown rose and fell to the regular rhythm of the breathing. With an undecided hand he drew back the veil and then stooped lower, so that his other hand might touch the uncovered forehead. But at that moment his action remained, so to speak, suspended and he stood without moving, like a man who does not understand but is vainly trying to understand. "Well, what's up, old chap?" exclaimed the Druid. "You look petrified. Another squabble? Something gone wrong? Must I come and help you?" Vorski did not answer. He was staring wildly, with an expression of stupefaction and affright which gradually changed into one of mad terror. Drops of perspiration trickled over his face. His haggard eyes seemed to be gazing upon the most horrible vision. The old man burst out laughing: "Lord love us, how ugly you are! I hope the last of the Druidesses won't raise her divine eyelids and see that hideous mug of yours! Sleep, Velleda, sleep your pure and dreamless sleep." Vorski stood muttering between his teeth incoherent words which conveyed the menace of an increasing anger. The truth became partly revealed to him in a series of flashes. A word rose to his lips which he refused to utter, as though, in uttering it, he feared lest he should give life to a being who was no more, to that woman who was dead, yes, dead though she lay breathing before him: she could not but be dead, because he had killed her. However, in the end and in spite of himself, he spoke; and every syllable cost him intolerable suffering: "Veronique . . . . Veronique . . . ."