The prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who stood with gaping mouth, staring at the dice, and trembling from head to foot.
“I have won, you see,” said Zanoni; “may we be friends still?”
“Signor,” said the prince, obviously struggling with anger and confusion, “the victory is yours. But pardon me, you have spoken lightly of this young girl,—will anything tempt you to yield your claim?”
“Ah, do not think so ill of my gallantry; and,” resumed Zanoni, with a stern meaning in his voice, “forget not the forfeit your own lips have named.”
The prince knit his brow, but constrained the haughty answer that was his first impulse.
“Enough!” he said, forcing a smile; “I yield. Let me prove that I do not yield ungraciously; will you favour me with your presence at a little feast I propose to give in honour,” he added, with a sardonic mockery, “of the elevation of my kinsman, the late Cardinal, of pious memory, to the true seat of St. Peter?”
“It is, indeed, a happiness to hear one command of yours I can obey.”
Zanoni then turned the conversation, talked lightly and gayly, and soon afterwards departed.
“Villain!” then exclaimed the prince, grasping Mascari by the collar, “you betrayed me!”
“I assure your Excellency that the dice were properly arranged; he should have thrown twelve; but he is the Devil, and that’s the end of it.”