Don Estevan shuffled the cards with the greatest care, and then made each of the adversaries cut them in turn.
"Attention, señores," said he; "I am going to begin."
The two, negligently leaning on their elbows, smoked their pajillos with a perfect assumption of indifference, which was only belied by the flashing of their eyes.
Meanwhile the cards continued to fall on the zarapé: Don Estevan held only about a dozen more in his hand, when he paused.
"Caballeros," said he, "for the last time—reflect."
"Go on, go on!" cried Don Torribio excitedly; "the first card belongs to me."
"Look at it," said Don Estevan, turning it up.
"Oh," said Don Fernando, throwing away his cigarette, "el as de copas. Look, Don Torribio; it is curious. ¡Vive Dios! you can reproach no one; you are the author of your own death."
Don Torribio made a violent gesture, which he repressed immediately, and resumed the tone of affected civility which had characterised the conversation.
"Upon my honour, it is true," said he. "I must confess, Don Fernando, I have no chance with you in anything."