"Admirably," they replied.
Ellen took the cards from the monk and shuffled them, while a zarapé was laid on the ground by the fire, so that the colour of the cards might be distinguished by the flame.
"Cut," she said, placing the pack on the zarapé.
Fray Ambrosio thrust out his hand; but Red Cedar laughingly caught hold of his arm.
"A moment," he said; "those cards are yours, gossip, and I know your talent: permit me to cut."
"As you please," the monk said with a grimace of disappointment.
The squatter cut, and Ellen began dealing the cards.
There was something most strange about the scene. On a gloomy night, in the heart of this desolate gorge, with the wind moaning through the trees, these four men bending forward, anxiously watching the pale-browed girl, who, by the capricious and changing glare of the fire, seemed performing a cabalistic work, and the sinister looks of these men, staking their lives at this moment on a card—assuredly, a stranger who could have watched the extraordinary spectacle, himself unseen, would have fancied it an hallucination of the brain.
With frowning brows, pale faces, and heaving chests, they followed with a feverish glance each card as it fell, wiping away at intervals the cold perspiration that beaded on their temples. The cards still fell, but the two of spades had not yet appeared; Ellen had not more than ten cards left in her hand.
"Ouf!" the monk said, "It is a long job."