“Capoul Monteith paced to and fro the tent with quick, nervous strides; he was young, handsome, possessed of vast wealth, and fond of life, and he cared not to be thus shot down like dog; but he was a brave man, and thought of Garnet Weston, whom he had always admired, and half wished to be the loser rather than see his friend die.
“‘I am ready,’ he at length said, and the two friends, strangers in a strange land, sat down to play the game of life or death.
“Capoul Monteith played with the utmost caution, for, ‘if one must die, I have as good a right to struggle for life as has Garnet,’ he thought.
“Garnet Weston played with indifference, a quiet, sad smile upon his face, and around them stood the three officers, and the platoon that were to be the executioners of the losing one.
“Ten minutes passed, twenty, and the game was won by Capoul Monteith, whose face flushed crimson, and then paled again.
“Garnet Weston’s face never changed an expression, for the same smile rested there.
“The second game passed quickly, Garnet making his moves the instant Capoul had raised his hand, and surprising all by his reckless indifference, but cool manner.
“Five minutes passed, and the second game was won by Capoul Monteith.
“‘My God! Garnet, old fellow, I feel for you from my heart,’ cried the winner, the tears starting to his eyes.
“Garnet pressed his friend’s hand, the same smile upon his face as he said, quietly—