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The prisoner opened his eyes, lifted his head, and, with a voice
strangely resonant of agony, but which had still an indescribable calm
mingled with its hoarseness, pronounced in excruciating accents, from
under the mass of stones, words to pronounce each of which he had to
lift that which was like the slab of a tomb placed upon him. He spoke,--
"I swore to keep the secret. I have kept it as long as I could. Men of
dark lives are faithful, and hell has its honour. Now silence is
useless. So be it! For this reason I speak. Well--yes; 'tis he! We did
it between us--the king and I: the king, by his will; I, by my art!"
And looking at Gwynplaine,--
"Now laugh for ever!"
And he himself began to laugh.
This second laugh, wilder yet than the first, might have been taken for
a sob.
The laughed ceased, and the man lay back. His eyelids closed.
The sheriff, who had allowed the prisoner to speak, resumed,--
"All which is placed on record."
He gave the secretary time to write, and then said,--
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