I know it well--and also know all
the exaggeration that has been written upon this subject.
It is clearly no time for reasoning with Thomas Roch. My arguments
are entirely lost upon the hapless dupe of Ker Karraje and his
accomplices. In revealing to him the real name of the Count d'Artigas,
and denouncing to him this band and their chief I had hoped to wean
him from their influence and make him realize the criminal end they
have in view. My hope was vain. He does not believe me. And then what
does he care whether the brigand's name is Count 'd'Artigas or Ker
Karraje? Is not he, Thomas Roch, master of Back Cup? Is he not the
owner of these riches accumulated by twenty years of murder and
rapine?
Disarmed before such moral degeneracy, knowing not how I can touch
his ulcerated, irresponsible heart, I turn towards the door. It only
remains for me to withdraw. What is to be, will be, since it is out of
my power to prevent the frightful _denouement_ that will occur in a
few hours.
Thomas Roch takes no more notice of me. He seems to have forgotten
that I am here. He has resumed his manipulations without realizing
that he is not alone.
There is only one means of preventing the imminent catastrophe. Throw
myself upon Roch, place him beyond the power of doing harm--strike
him--kill him--yes, kill him! It is my right--it is my duty!
I have no arms, but on a near-by shelf I see some tools--a chisel and
a hammer.
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