The light flared.

Detricand held it down, and there was revealed the haggard, malicious face of Olivier Delagarde.
"So, monsieur the traitor," said Detricand--"so you'd be a murderer too--eh ?" The old man mumbled an oath.
"Hand of the devil," continued Detricand, "was there ever a greater beast than you! I held my tongue about you these eleven years past, I held it yesterday and saved your paltry life, and you'd repay me by stabbing me in the dark--in a fine old-fashioned way too, with your trap-doors, and blown-out candle, and Italian tricks--" He held the candle down near the white beard as though he would singe it.
"Come, sit up against the wall there and let me look at you." Cringing, the old man drew himself over to the wall.

Detricand, seating himself in a chair, held the candle up before him.
After a moment he said: "What I want to know is, how could a low-flying cormorant like you beget a gull of the cliffs like Maitre Ranulph ?" The old man did not answer, but sat blinking with malignant yet fearful eyes at Detricand, who continued: "What did you come back for?
Why didn't you stay dead?
Ranulph had a name as clean as a piece of paper from the mill, and he can't write it now without turning sick, because it's the same name as yours.

You're the choice blackamoor of creation, aren't you?
Now what have you got to say ?" "Let me go," whined the old man with the white beard.

"Let me go, monsieur.