“It is working, but the time is not yet come; that is why I wish to have you always at hand, till the great day.  Do you complain?”

“Hang it, no!” said Jacques.  “What could I do?  Burnt up with brandy as I am, if I wanted to work, I’ve no longer the strength to do so.  I have not, like you, a head of marble, and a body of iron; but as for fuddling myself with gunpowder, instead of anything else, that’ll do for me; I’m only fit for that work now—­and then, it will drive away thought.”

“Oh what kind?”

“You know that when I do think, I think only of one thing,” said Jacques, gloomily.

“The Bacchanal queen?—­still?” said Morok, in a disdainful tone.

“Still! rather:  when I shall think of her no longer, I shall be dead—­or stupefied.  Fiend!”

“You were never better or more intelligent, you fool!” replied Morok, fastening his turban.  The conversation was here interrupted.  Morok’s aider entered hastily.

The gigantic form of this Hercules had increased in width.  He was habited like Alcides; his enormous limbs, furrowed with veins as thick as whipcord, were covered with a close-fitting flesh-colored garment, to which a pair of red drawers formed a strong contrast.

“Why do you rush in like a storm, Goliath?” said Morok.

“There’s a pretty storm in the house; they are beginning to get impatient, and are calling out like madmen.  But if that were all!”

“Well, what else?”

“Death will not be able to play this evening.”

Morok turned quickly around.  He seemed uneasy.  “Why so?” he exclaimed.

“I have just seen her! she’s crouching at the bottom of her cage; her ears lie so close to her head, she looks as if they had been cut off.  You know what that means.”

“Is that all?” said Morok, turning to the glass to complete his head dress.

“It’s quite enough; she’s in one of her tearing fits.  Since that night in Germany, when she ripped up that old hack of a white horse, I’ve not seen her look so savage! her eyes shine like burning candles.”

“Then she must have her fine collar on,” said Morok, quietly.

“Her fine collar?”

“Yes; her spring-collar.”

“And I must be lady’s-maid,” said the giant.  “A nice toilet to attend to!”

“Hold your tongue!”

“That’s not all—­” continued Goliath, hesitating.

“What more?”

“I might as well tell you at once.”

“Will you speak?”

“Well! he is here.”

“Who, you stupid brute?”

“The Englishman!”

Morok started; his arms fell powerless by his side.  Jacques was struck with the lion-tamer’s paleness and troubled countenance.

“The Englishman!—­you have seen him?” cried Morok, addressing Goliath.  “You are quite sure?”

“Quite sure.  I was looking through the peep-hole in the curtain; I saw him in one of the stage-boxes—­he wishes to see things close; he’s easy to recognize, with his pointed forehead, big nose, and goggle eyes.”