his glass again. She mechanically poured brandy into it.

"You've had more than enough," she said, in a low voice.

"Every man knows his own capacity, Suzon. Love me little, love me long,"
he added, again raising his glass to her, as the men behind suddenly
moved forward upon the bar.

"Don't--for God's sake!" she whispered hastily. "Do go--or there'll be
trouble!"

The black face of Theophile Charlemagne was also turned anxiously in
Charley's direction as he pushed out glasses for those who called for
liquor.

"Oh, do, do go--like a good soul!" Suzon urged. Charley laughed
disdainfully. "Like a good soul!" Had it come to this, that Suzon
pleaded with him as if he were a foolish, obstreperous child!

"Faithless and unbelieving!" he said to Suzon in English. "Didn't I play
my game well a minute ago--eh--eh--eh, Suzon?"

"Oh, yes, yes, M'sieu'," she replied in English; "but now you are
differen' and so are they. You must goah, so, you must!"

He laughed again, a queer sardonic sort of laugh, yet he put out his
hand and touched the girl's arm lightly with a forefinger. "I am a
Quaker born; I never stir till the spirit moves me," he said.

He scented conflict, and his spirits rose at the thought. Some reckless
demon of adventure possessed him; some fatalistic courage was upon him.
So far as the eye could see, the liquor he had drunk had done no more
than darken the blue of his eye, for his hand was steady, his body was
well poised, his look was direct; there seemed some strange electric
force in leash behind his face, a watchful yet nonchalant energy of
spirit, joined to an indolent pose of body. As the girl looked at
him something of his unreckoning courage passed into her. Somehow she
believed in him, felt that by some wild chance he might again conquer
this truculent element now almost surrounding him. She spoke quickly to
her step-father. "He won't go. What can we do?"

"You go, and he'll follow," said Theophile, who didn't want a row--a
dangerous row-in his house.

"No, he won't," she said; "and I don't believe they'd let him follow
me."

There was no time to say more. The crowd were insistent and restless
now. They seemed to have a plan of campaign, and they began to carry it
out. First one, then another, brushed roughly against Charley. Cool and
collected, he refused to accept the insults.

"Pardon," he said, in each case; "I am very awkward."

He smiled all the time; he seemed waiting. The pushing a