"Monsieur, I know not what stakes you had in mind, but this I know: if 'twere a lady's hand it were unworthy you and her. A lady's hand is for the winning by deeds of prowess or by proof of worth, not by betting for it as though 'twere a horse or a pile of louis d'or."
"Mademoiselle," I cried in an agony of shame, "forgive me, I beg. Forgive a poor wretch who saw no chance of winning by prowess or worth, and who was so desperate that he would clutch at any straw to help him win his heart's desire."
Her look softened at once, and when she spoke again 'twas in her gentlest tones.
"Monsieur," she said, "to-morrow we part, and it would seem there is but little chance that we shall see each other again in this world. Fate has placed our lots on different continents, with wide seas between. But for to-night let us forget that. Let us think we are to meet every day, as we have met in these weeks, and let us have a happy memory of this last evening to cherish always."
I could not speak for a moment. Her voice, its sweet tones breaking a little at the last, unmanned me. I turned away my head, for I would not let her see the workings of my face, nor my wet eyes, lest she think me boyish again. It was the sealing of my doom, but I had known it always. And there was a drop of sweet amid the bitter that I had never dared hope for. She, too, was sad—then she must care a little. In a minute I was able to turn toward her again and speak in a firm, low voice.
"You are right, Mademoiselle; we will be happy to-night. Come," I said, rising and extending my hand to her, "let us go watch the revelers on the other boat; they, at least, are troubled by no useless regrets."
She put her hand in mine, and we went back by the stern rail and stood watching the scene below us.
A plank had been thrown from one boat to the other to make easy communication, and the crew of our boat, with the exception of the two left always on guard, had crossed over. They had cleared a space for dancing, and lighted it by great pine-knots cut from the forest close by. Yorke, set high on a pile of forage with his beloved banjo, was playing such music as put springs into their heels. Canadians and negroes were all dancing together—the Frenchmen with graceful agility, the negroes more clumsily, even grotesquely, but with a rhythm that proved their musical ear. Clotilde and a negress cook were the only women, and greatly in demand by both Frenchmen and negroes. Clotilde rather scorned partners of her own color, and was choosing only the best-looking and the best dancers of the white men, with a caprice worthy of her mistress, I thought, and probably in imitation of her. Yorke did not seem to mind, but with the gayest good humor called out the figures as he played. Suddenly, as he wound up the last figure with a grand flourish, he beckoned to a little Canadian who had been specially agile in the dance, and they held a whispered consultation. Then Yorke resigned his banjo to him, and, leaping down into the middle of the floor, seized Clotilde about the waist without so much as saying "By your leave," and shouted:
"Choose partners for a waltz!"
Consternation followed, for not more than half a dozen had ever seen the new French dance. But when the little Canadian started up with his witching trois-temps, Yorke and Clotilde glided off rhythmically to its strains, the half-dozen followed, more or less skilfully, and the rest stood round gazing in respectful admiration.