The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel | Page 4

words became more distinct. She
raised the crystal globe and gazed fixedly into it. "Always red," she
went on slowly. "Thrice yesterday did I cas the spell in the name of Our
Chosen... thrice did the spirits cloak their identity in a blood-red flame...

red... always red... not only blood... but danger... danger of death
through that which is red...."
Robespierre had risen from his seat, his thin lips were murmuring hasty
imprecations. The kneeling figurants looked scared, and strange
wailing sounds came from their mouths. The young blackamoor alone
looked self-possessed. He stood by, evidently enjoying the scene, his
white teeth gleaming in a huge, board grin.
"A truce on riddles, Mother!" Robespierre exclaimed at last impatiently,
and descended hastily from the dais. He approached the old
necromancer, seized her by the arm, thrust his head in front of hers in
an endeavour to see something which apparently was revealed to her in
the crystal globe. "What is it you see in there?" he queried harshly.
But she pushed him aside, gazed with rapt intentness into the globe.
"Red!" she murmured. "Scarlet... aye, scarlet! And now it takes shape...
Scarlet... and it obscures the Chosen One... the shape becomes more
clear... the Chosen One appears more dim...."
Then she gave a piercing shriek.
"Beware!... beware!... that which is Scarlet is shaped like a flower...
five petals, I see them distinctly... and the Chosen One I see no
more...."
"Malediction!" the man exclaimed. "What foolery is this?"
"No foolery," the old charlatan resumed in a dull monotone. "Thou
didst consult the oracle, oh thou, who art the Chosen of the people of
France! and the oracle has spoken. Beware of a scarlet flower! From
that which is scarlet comes danger of death for thee!"
Wherat Robespierre tried to laugh.
"Some one has filled thy head, Mother," he said in a voice which he
vainly tried to steady, "with tales of the mysterious Englishman who

goes by the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel-"
"Thy mortal enemy, O Messenger of the Most High!" the old
blasphemer broke in solemnly. "In far-off fog-bound England he hath
sworn thy death. Beware-"
"If that is the only danger which threatens me-" the other began,
striving to speak carelessly.
"The only one, and the greatest one," the hag went on insistently.
"Despise it not because it seems small and remote."
"I do not despise it; neither do I magnify it. A gnat is a nuisance, but
not a danger."
"A gnat may wield a poisoned dart. The spirits have spoken. Heed their
warning, O Chosen of the People! Destroy the Englishman ere he
destroy thee!"
"Pardi!" Robespierre retorted, and despite the stuffiness of the room he
gave a shiver as if he felt cold. "Since thou dost commune with the
spirits, find out from them how I can accomplish that."
The woman once more raised the crystal globe to the level of her breast.
With her elbows stretched out and her draperies falling straight all
around her, she gazed into it for a while in silence. Then she began to
murmur.
"I see the Scarlet Flower quite plainly... a small Scarlet Flower.... And I
see the great Light which is like an aureole, the Light of the Chosen
One. It is of dazzling brightness - but over the Scarlet Flower casts a
Stygian shadow."
"Ask them," Robespierre broke in peremptorily, "ask thy spirits how
best I can overcome mine enemy."
"I see something," the witch went on in an even monotone, still gazing
into the crystal globe "white and rose and tender... is it a woman...?"

"A woman?"
"She is tall, and she is beautiful... a stranger in the land... with eyes
dark as the night and tresses black as the raven's wing.... Yes, it is a
woman.... She stands between the Light and that blood-red flower. She
takes the flower in her hand... she fondles it, raises it to her lips.... Ah!"
and the old seer gave a loud cry of triumph. "She tosses it mangled and
bleeding into the consuming Light.... And now it lies faded, torn,
crushed, and the Light grows in radiance and in brilliancy, and there is
none now to dim its pristine glory-"
"But the woman? Who is she?" the man broke in impatiently. "What is
her name?"
"The spirits speak no names," the seer replied. "Any woman would
gladly be thy handmaid, O Elect of France! The spirits have spoken,"
she concluded solemnly. "Salvation will come to thee by the hand of a
woman."
"And mine enemy?" he insisted. "Which of us two is in danger of death
now - now that I am warned - which of us two? - mine English enemy,
or I?"
Nothing loth, the old hag was ready to continue her sortilege.
Robespierre hung breathless upon her