"Be it so. Mascari, the dice."
Surprised and perplexed, the parasite took up the three dice, deposited them gravely in the box, and rattled them noisily, while Zicci threw himself back carelessly in his chair and said, "I give the first chance to your Excellency."
Mascari interchanged a glance with his patron and threw the numbers were sixteen.
"It is a high throw," said Zicci, calmly; "nevertheless, Signor Mascari,
I do not despond."
Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and rolled the contents once more upon the table; the number was the highest that can be thrown,—eighteen.
The Prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who stood with gaping mouth staring at the dice, and shaking his head in puzzled wonder.
"I have won, you see," said Zicci: "may we be friends still?"
"Signor," said the Prince, obviously struggling with angel and confusion, "the victory is already 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."
"Enough," said the Prince, forcing a smile, "I yield. Let me prove that I do not yield ungraciously: will you honor me with your presence at a little feast I propose to give on the royal birthday?"