The throw was completed.
“I’m done!” said Rust. “I’ve nothing more to stake!”
“Oh, come,” said Suffle, tauntingly, “play your sword, your—surely you must have something you prize. What, no resources? Must we cease the play so soon?”
“My sword? No!” said Adam, with temper. “But stay; since you speak so slightingly of my sword, I have one more stake to offer.”
“By all means name it and play.”
“My stake, sir, is the Lady Margaret,” Adam growled at him, angrily. “Betrothed to you, she loves me more. Come, sir, stake me a thousand against my chances to win her and take her away from you, heart and soul. A thousand, sir, and if you can win it—your field shall be open, you shall hear nor fear no more from me!”
“By my faith,” said Suffle, rising, as Adam had done, “you hold this lady lightly, that you prattle of her name like this. Better I should run you through, for an arrant knave.”
“Bah!” said Rust, “you think more of your winnings than you do of your lady. You hesitate and scold over a paltry thousand. Stake it, man, or by my troth I shall tell her what valuation you put upon her worth.”
Lady Margaret’s face appeared for a second at the curtain. It was white with rage.
“You insult this lady with your monstrous proposition,” cried Suffle.