win, I go to the Arabs; if
you win, I come to your ranks."

"Mort de Dieu! it is a droll gambling," murmured Chanrellon. "But--if
you win, do you think we shall let you go off to our enemies? Pas si
bete, monsieur!"

"Yes, you will," said the other quietly. "Men who knew what honor meant
enough to redeem Rire-pour-tout's pledge of safety to the Bedouins, will
not take advantage of an openly confessed and unarmed adversary."

A murmur of ratification ran through his listeners.

Chanrellon swore a mighty oath.

"Pardieu, no. You are right. If you want to go, you shall go. Hola
there! bring the dice. Champagne, monsieur? Vermouth? Cognac?"

"Nothing, I thank you."

He leaned back with an apathetic indolence and indifference oddly at
contrast with the injudicious daring of his war-provoking words and
the rough campaigning that he sought. The assembled Chasseurs eyed him
curiously; they liked his manner and they resented his first speeches;
they noted every particular about him--his delicate white hands, his
weather-worn and travel-stained dress, his fair, aristocratic features,
his sweeping, abundant beard, his careless, cool, tired, reckless way;
and they were uncertain what to make of him.

The dice were brought.

"What stakes, monsieur?" asked Chanrellon.

"Ten napoleons a side--and--the Arabs."

He set ten napoleons down on the table; they were the only coins he had
in the world; it was very characteristic that he risked them.

They threw the main--two sixes.

"You see," he murmured, with a half smile, "the dice know it is a drawn
duel between you and the Arabs."

"C'est un drole, c'est un brave!" muttered Chanrellon; and they threw
again.

The Chasseur cast a five; his was a five again.

"The dice cannot make up their minds," said the other listlessly, "they
know you are Might and the Arabs are Right."

The Frenchmen laughed; they could take a jest good-humoredly, and alone
amid so many of them, he was made sacred at once by the very length of
odds against him.

They rattled the boxes and threw again--Chanrellon's was three; his two.

"Ah!" he murmured. "Right kicks the beam and loses; it always does, poor
devil!"

The Chasseur leaned across the table, with his brown, fearless sunny
eyes full of pleasure.

"Monsieur! never lament such good fortune for France. You belong to us
now; let me claim you!"

He bowed more gravely than he had borne himself hitherto.

"You do me much honor; fortun