nties; or,
with his head resting on his hand, deep in serious thought. Twice he
placed a heavy stake upon the table, and recalled it at the very moment
of the game's beginning. Every gesture and action showed the terrible
struggle between hope and fear that went on within him. A red spot
glowed on one cheek, while the other was pale as death, and his lips
from time to time were moved with a short spasmodic jerk, as if some
sudden pain shot through him. At last, with a great effort, he pushed
all the gold into the centre of the table, and cried out, but in a voice
so strange and inarticulate that the words could not be distinguished.

"You said 'rouge,' Count, I think?" asked the croupier.

"I fancy the gentleman said 'noir,'" remarked a bystander.

"Let him declare for himself," observed another.

"But the game has already begun," said the banker.

"So much the worse for the bank," remarked another, laughing, "for it's
easy to see what will win."

"Pray declare your color, sir," said an impatient gambler at Dalton's
side; "the whole table is waiting for you."

Dalton started, and, darting an angry look at the speaker, made an
effort to rise from the table. He failed at first, but grasping the
shoulder of the croupier, he arose to his full height, and stared
around him. All was hushed and still, not a sound was heard, as in that
assembly, torn with so many passions, every eye was turned towards the
gigantic old man, who, with red eyeballs and outstretched hands, seemed
to hurl defiance at them. Backwards and forwards he swayed for a second
or two, and then, with a low, faint cry,--the last wail of a broken
heart,--he fell with a crash upon the table. There he lay, his white
hairs streaming over the gold and silver pieces, and his bony fingers
flattened upon the cards. "A fit!----he's in a fit!" cried some, as they
endeavored to raise him.--"Worse still!" remarked another, and he passed
his hand from the pulse to the heart, "he is dead!"

The hero of a hundred fights, he who has seen death in every shape and
on every field, must yield the palm of indifference to its terrors to
the gambler. All the glorious insanity of a battle, all the reckless
enthusiasm of a storm, even the headlong impetuosity of a charge, cannot
supply the cold apathy of the gambler's heart; and so was it that they
saw in that lifeless form nothing beyond a disagreeable interruption to
their game, and muttered their impatience at the delay in