"How much of that do you bet, Saavedra?" asked the fat gambler, lifting his eyes which were full of terror and seemed to ask for mercy.
"All," replied the Andalusian caballero dryly.
"How much is there?"
"I don't know."
His tone was depreciative enough. However, the banker seemed not to mind it: he took the package and began to count it under the watchful eyes of the group of players who were gathered around the table, some seated, some standing.
"There are forty-one thousand reals."
"There is not enough in the bank," said one player, stretching out his hand for his stake.
"My credit is good for it," replied the banker, growing redder and redder; it seemed as though he were going to burst. While the banker was distributing the cards, absolute silence reigned. Don Alfonso's was a seven.
"That is the end of it," said the banker, with ill-concealed dismay, throwing the pack down on the table.
Immediately he began to pay the smaller stakes, leaving Saavedra's till the last. When he came to him there were left only twenty-nine thousand reals.