“Yes, on my faith.”
“And for him who breaks his word so plighted, what shall be the forfeit?”
“The sword lies next to the dice-box, Signor Zanoni. Let him who stands not by his honour fall by the sword.”
“And you invoke that sentence if either of us fail his word? Be it so; let Signor Mascari cast for us.”
“Well said!—Mascari, the dice!”
The prince threw himself back in his chair; and, world-hardened as he was, could not suppress the glow of triumph and satisfaction that spread itself over his features. Mascari took up the three dice, and rattled them noisily in the box. Zanoni, leaning his cheek on his hand, and bending over the table, fixed his eyes steadfastly on the parasite; Mascari in vain struggled to extricate from that searching gaze; he grew pale, and trembled, he put down the box.
“I give the first throw to your Excellency. Signor Mascari, be pleased to terminate our suspense.”
Again Mascari took up the box; again his hand shook so that the dice rattled within. He threw; the numbers were sixteen.
“It is a high throw,” said Zanoni, calmly; “nevertheless, Signor Mascari, I do not despond.”
Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and rolled the contents once more on the table: the number was the highest that can be thrown,—eighteen.