"Guy N. Smith - Sabat 3 - Cannibal Cult" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

screams for mercy.

Yet Louis Nevillon heard the huge gathering beyond the high prison walls, a
slow countdown to the accompaniment of slow handclapping and the stamping of
feet. They were shouting Yvette de Coulon's name.

Two of the warders led Nevillon forward, viciously kicked his legs from under
him so that he fell hard, was dragged into a kneeling position, the steel
neckbands almost choking him as his head was strapped on to the block. His
eyes should have been covered but this, like the sedatives, was ignored.

He could see everything that was happening. A detailed reflection on the
polished stainless steel base on which the guillotine stood, spared him
nothing. It wasn't meant to; a conspiracy between these four had determined
his final agony.

They were taking their time, the masked man checking and double-checking. So
rarely was the death penalty used in France that he needed to savour each
occasion. Particularly in the case of Louis Nevillon. It was Gallon's finest
hour, the peak of a distinguished career in death.

'Have you anything to say?' The priest was standing back as though suddenly he
felt guilty about this mental torture, sought to make amends for the sake of
his own conscience.

'Ottif Nevillon laughed softly. 'You are a man of God.' A faint sneer. 'So
doubtless you are well acquainted with the happenings of the third day
following the crucifixion of the man purporting to be the Son of God.'

'I am' a haughtiness. 'Why?'

'Because, my friend,' Nevillon had stopped laughing, his voice a hoarse
whisper that all four of them heard clearly, their flesh prickling even before
he had got the words out, 'on the third day I shall live and you will fear my
coming!'

'This is blasphemy!' the padre paled, almost dropped his prayer book.
'Monsieur Gallon, delay no longer in the name of Our Lord!'

'I shall rise again!' Nevillon repeated and saw the reflection of the
executioner's hand on the switch; he heard a faint click but had no time to
anticipate the falling heavy blade.

The priest turned his head away, heard the first thud as the knife struck,
followed by a lighter one as the severed head rolled into the basket. A
spurting gurgling sound, the main artery jetting, the drain below the basket
taking the flow of blood. Somewhere below, water was flowing to wash the
scarlet fluid into the city's sewers.

Gallon paused to survey his handiwork. Perfect. So quick, and that was always