n air of savage triumph. "I
told you, that the spoils of your victims should escape your murderous
hands."

Hardly had he uttered these words, before through the open-work of the
iron casket rose a light cloud of smoke, and an odor as of burnt paper
spread itself through the room. Rodin understood it instantly. "Fire!" he
exclaimed, as he rushed forward to seize the casket. It had been made
fast to the heavy marble slab.

"Yes, fire," said Samuel. "In a few minutes, of that immense treasure
there will remain nothing but ashes. And better so, than that it should
belong to you or yours. This treasure is not mine, and it only remains
for me to destroy it--since Gabriel de Rennepont will be faithful to the
oath he has taken."

"Help! water! water!" cried Rodin, as he covered the casket with his
body, trying in vain to extinguish the flames, which, fanned by the
current of air, now issued from the thousand apertures in the lid; but
soon the intensity of the fire diminished, a few threads of bluish smoke
alone mounted upwards--and then, all was extinct.

The work was done! Breathless and faint, Rodin leaned against the marble
slab. For the first time in his life, he wept; large tears of rage rolled
down his cadaverous cheeks. But suddenly, dreadful pains, at first dull,
but gradually augmenting in intensity, seized on him with so much fury,
though he employed all his energy to struggle against them, that he fell
on his knees, and, pressing his two hands to his chest, murmured with an
attempt to smile: "It is nothing. Do not be alarmed. A few spasms--that
is all. The treasure is destroyed--but I remain General of the Order. Oh!
I suffer. What a furnace!" he added, writhing in agony. "Since I entered
this cursed house, I know not what ails me. If--I had not lived on
roots--water--bread--which I go myself to buy--I should think--I was
poisoned--for I triumph--and Cardinal Malipieri has long arms. Yes--I
still triumph--for I will not die--this time no more than the other--I
will not die!"

Then, as he stretched out his arms convulsively, he continued: "It is
fire that devours my entrails. No doubt, they have tried to poison me.
But when? but how?"

After another pause, Rodin again cried out, in a stifled voice: "Help!
help me, you that stand looking on--like, spectres!--Help me, I say!"

Horror-struck at this dreadful agony, Samuel and Father Caboccini were
unable to stir.

"Help!" repeated Rodin, in a tone of strangula