“Come on,” said Corvinus, whom Fulvius had pressed to his work by a look.
They began to throw for the most trifling stakes, and Torquatus generally won. Fulvius made him drink still, from time to time, and he became very talkative.
“Corvinus, Corvinus,” he said at length, as if recollecting himself, “was not that the name that Cassianus mentioned?”
“Who?” asked the other, surprised.
“Yes, it was,” continued Torquatus to himself,—“the bully, the big brute. Were you the person,” he asked, looking up to Corvinus, “who struck that nice Christian boy Pancratius?”
Corvinus was on the point of bursting into a rage; but Fulvius checked him by a gesture, and said, with timely interference:
“That Cassianus whom you mentioned is an eminent school-master; pray, where does he live?”
This he knew his companion wished to ascertain; and thus he quieted him. Torquatus answered:
“He lives, let me see,—no, no; I won’t turn traitor. No; I am ready to be burnt, or tortured, or die for my faith; but I won’t betray any one,—that I won’t.”
“Let me take your place, Corvinus,” said Fulvius, who saw Torquatus’s interest in the game deepening. He put forth sufficient skill to make his antagonist more careful and more intent. He threw down a somewhat larger stake. Torquatus, after a moment’s pause of deliberation, matched it. He won it. Fulvius seemed vexed. Torquatus threw back both sums. Fulvius seemed to hesitate, but put down an equivalent, and lost again. The play was now silent: each won and lost; but Fulvius had steadily the advantage, and he was the more collected of the two.