“Finish your game—I must tell you all about it,” said Heffernan, folding up a letter which he had taken from his pocket a few minutes before.
“Your pardon, my Lord,” said Darcy, with a look full of agitation; “I have just heard very bad news.—I play the knave.” A murmur ran through the crowd behind him.
“You meant the king, I know, Knight,” said Lord Drogheda, restoring the card to his hand as he spoke, but a loud expression of dissatisfaction arose from those at his side.
“You are right, my Lord, I did intend the king,” said the Knight; “but these gentlemen insist upon the knave, and, if you 'll permit me, I 'll play it.”
The whole fortune of the game hung upon the card, and, after a brief struggle, the Knight was beaten.
“Even so, my Lord,” said the Knight, smiling calmly, “you have beaten me against luck; Fortune will not do everything. The Roman satirist goes even further, and says she can do nothing.” He rose as he said these words, and looked around for Heffernan.
“If you want Con Heffernan, Knight,” said one of the party, “I think he has gone down to the House.”
“The very man,” said Darcy. “Good-night, my Lord,—good-night, gentlemen all.”
“I did not believe that anything could shake Darcy's nerve, but he certainly played that game ill,” said a bystander.
“Heffernan could tell us more about it,” said another; “rely on it, Master Con and the devil knew why that knave was played.”