At last all the lots were taken, and Johan Zegota lit up the gas-burners in the centre of the room. A sigh of relief came from the lips of many of the men who, on opening their papers found a blank instead of a name. But Leroy, unfolding his, sat in dumb amazement,—feeling, and not for the first time either, that surely God, or some special Providence, is always on the side of a strong man’s just aim, fulfilling it to entire accomplishment. For to him was assigned the Red Cross, marked with the name of ‘The King!’ The words of Sergius Thord, uttered that very night, rushed back on his mind;—“Whosoever draws the name of the King must be swift and sure in his business!”
His heart beat high; he occupied at that moment a position no man in all the world had ever occupied before;—he was the centre of a drama such as had never before been enacted,—he had the greatest move to play on the chess-board of life that could possibly be desired;—and the greatest chance to prove himself the Man he was, that had ever been given to one of his quality. His brain whirled,—his pulses throbbed,—his eyes rested on Lotys with a passionate longing; something of the god-like as well as the heroic warmed his soul,—for Danger and Death stood as intimately close to him as Safety and Victory! What a strange, what a marvellous card he held in the game of life!—and yet one false move might mean ruin and annihilation! As in a dream he saw the members of the Committee go up, one by one, to Sergius Thord, who, as each laid their open papers before him, declared their contents. When Paul Zouche’s paper was declared he was found to have drawn Carl Pérousse, whereat he smiled grimly; and retired to his seat, walking rather unsteadily. Max Graub had drawn a blank,—so had Axel Regor,—so had Louis Valdor and many others.
At last it came to Leroy’s turn, and as he walked up to the platform and ascended it, there was a look on his face which attracted the instant attention of all present. His eyes were singularly bright,—his lithe handsome figure seemed taller and more erect,—he bore himself with a proud, even grand air,—and Lotys, moved at last from her chill and melancholy apathy, gazed at him as he approached, with eyes in which a profound sadness was mingled with the dark tenderness of many passionate thoughts and dreams. He laid down his paper before Thord, who, taking it up read aloud:
“Our friend and comrade, Pasquin Leroy, has received the Red Cross Signal.”
Then pausing before uttering his next words he raised his voice a little, so that he might be heard by everyone in the room, and added slowly:
“To Pasquin Leroy, Fate gives—the King!”
A low murmur of deep applause ran through the room. Max Graub and Axel Regor sprang up with a kind of smothered cry, but Leroy stood immovable. Instead of returning to his seat as the others had done, he remained standing on the platform in front of the Committee table, between Lotys and Sergius Thord. A strange smile rested on his lips,—his attitude was inexplicable. Surveying all the men’s faces which were grouped before him in a kind of chiaro-oscuro, he studied them for a moment, and then turned his head towards Thord.
“Sergius,—so far, I have served you well! Destiny has now chosen me out for even a greater service! May I speak a few words?”
Thord assented,—but a sudden sense of inquietude stirred in him as he saw that Lotys had half risen, that her lips quivered, and that great tears stood in her eyes.
“She grieves!” he thought, sullenly, in his strange and confused way of balancing justice and injustice—“She grieves that the worthless life of the King she saved, is now to be taken by a righteous hand!”