t decides him
to go on dealing.

The bets are again made; to his dismay, almost everybody laying upon the
Queen, and, as before, increasing their stakes. And in like proportion
is heightened the interest in the game. It is too intense for any
display of noisy excitement now. And there is less throughout the
saloon; for many from the other tables, as all the saunterers, have
collected round, and standing several deep, gaze over one another's
shoulders, with as much eager earnestness as if a man were expiring in
their midst.

The ominous call at length comes--not in clear voice, or tone exultant,
but feeble, and as if rung reluctantly from the lips of the Monte
dealer. For it is again a verdict adverse to the bank:

"_Caballo en la puerta mozo_!"

As De Lara utters the words, he dashes the cards down, scattering them
all over the table. Then rising excitedly from his chair, adds in
faltering tone:

"Gentlemen, I'm sorry to tell you the bank's broke!"

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A PLUCKY "SPORT."

"_The bank's broke_!"

Three words, that, despite their bad grammar, have oft--too oft--
startled the ear, and made woe in many a heart.

At hearing them, the gamesters of the "El Dorado" seated around Frank
Lara's Monte table spring to their feet, as if their chairs had suddenly
become converted into iron at white heat. They rise simultaneously, as
though all were united in a chain, elbow and elbow together.

But while thus gesturing alike, very different is the expression upon
their faces. Some simply show surprise; others look incredulous; while
not a few give evidence of anger.

For an instant there is silence--the surprise, the incredulity, the
anger having suspended speech. This throughout the saloon; for all,
bar-drinkers as well as gamesters, have caught the ominous words, and
thoroughly understand their import. No longer resounds the chink of
ivory cheques, or the metallic ring of doubloons and dollars. No longer
the thudding down of decanters, nor the jingle of glasses. Instead, a
stillness so profound that one entering at this moment might fancy it a
Quakers' meeting, but for the symbols seen around--these, anything but
Quakerish. Easier to imagine it a grand gambling-hell, where dealers,
croupiers, players, and spectators have all been suddenly turned to
stone, or have become figures in wax-work.

The silence is of the shortest--as also the immobility of the men
composing the different grou