“Ten napoleons a side—and—the Arabs.”
He set ten napoleons down on the table; they were the only coins he had in the world; it was very characteristic that he risked them.
They threw the main—two sixes.
“You see,” he murmured, with a half smile, “the dice know it is a drawn duel between you and the Arabs.”
“C'est un drole, c'est un brave!” muttered Chanrellon; and they threw again.
The Chasseur cast a five; his was a five again.
“The dice cannot make up their minds,” said the other listlessly, “they know you are Might and the Arabs are Right.”
The Frenchmen laughed; they could take a jest good-humoredly, and alone amid so many of them, he was made sacred at once by the very length of odds against him.
They rattled the boxes and threw again—Chanrellon's was three; his two.
“Ah!” he murmured. “Right kicks the beam and loses; it always does, poor devil!”