Notwithstanding the general confusion, Vulich calmly finished the deal—seven was the card. By the time he reached the cordon a violent fusillade was in progress. Vulich did not trouble himself about the bullets or the sabres of the Chechenes, but sought for the lucky gambler.
“Seven it was!” he cried out, as at length he perceived him in the cordon of skirmishers who were beginning to dislodge the enemy from the wood; and going up to him, he drew out his purse and pocket-book and handed them to the winner, notwithstanding the latter’s objections on the score of the inconvenience of the payment. That unpleasant duty discharged, Vulich dashed forward, carried the soldiers along after him, and, to the very end of the affair, fought the Chechenes with the utmost coolness.
When Lieutenant Vulich came up to the table, we all became silent, expecting to hear, as usual, something original.
“Gentlemen!” he said—and his voice was quiet though lower in tone than usual—“gentlemen, what is the good of futile discussions? You wish for proofs? I propose that we try the experiment on ourselves: whether a man can of his own accord dispose of his life, or whether the fateful moment is appointed beforehand for each of us. Who is agreeable?”
“Not I. Not I,” came from all sides.
“There’s a queer fellow for you! He does get strange ideas into his head!”
“I propose a wager,” I said in jest.
“What sort of wager?”
“I maintain that there is no such thing as predestination,” I said, scattering on the table a score or so of ducats—all I had in my pocket.
“Done,” answered Vulich in a hollow voice. “Major, you will be judge. Here are fifteen ducats, the remaining five you owe me, kindly add them to the others.”