In that very group yonder there probably was more than one who knew the evil genius in person, and yet they were held in a thralldom of fear which no offer of riches could break. What manner of man was this Cardi? What hellish methods did he follow to wield such despotism? Those card-players were impudent, unscrupulous blades, as ready to gamble with death as with their jingling coins, and yet they dared not lift a hand against him.
Blake saw that the game had reached a point of unusual intensity; the players were deeply engrossed; the spectators had fallen silent, with bright eyes fixed upon the mounting stakes. When the tension broke Norvin saw that Caesar had lost again, and smiled at the excited conversation which ensued. There was a babble of laughter, of curses, of expostulation, shafts of badinage flew at the Sicilian merchant. In the midst of it he raised a huge, hairy fist and brought it down, smiting the table until the coins, the cards, and the glasses leaped. His face was distorted; his voice was thick with passion.
[Illustration: "SILENZIO" HE GROWLED, "I PLAY MY OWN GAME, AND I LOSE">[
"Silenzio!" he growled, with such imperative fury that the others fell silent; then hoarsely: "I play my own game, and I lose. That is all! You are like old wives with your advice. It is my accursed luck, which will some day bring me to the gallows. Now deal!"
That same nausea which invariably seized Norvin Blake in moments of extreme excitement swept over him now. His whole body went cold, the knot of figures faded from his vision, he heard the noisy voices as if from a great distance. A giant hand had reached forth and gripped him, halting his breath and his heart-beats. The room swam dizzily, in a haze.
He found, an instant later, that he had risen and was gripping the table in front of him as if for support. He had upset his goblet of wine, and a wide red stain was spreading over the white cloth. To him it was the blood of Martel Savigno. He stared down at it dazedly, his eyes glazed with horror and surprise.
As the crimson splotch widened his heart took up its halting labors, then began to race, faster and faster, until he felt himself smothering; his frame was swept with tremors. Then the raucous voices grew louder and louder, mounting into a roar, as if he were coming out from a swoon, and all the time that red blotch grew until he could see no other color; it blurred the room and the quarreling gamblers; it steeped the very air. He was still deathly sick, as only those men are whose blood sours, whose bones and muscles disintegrate at the touch of fear.
He did not remember leaving the place, but found the cool night air fanning fresh upon his face as he lurched blindly down the dark street, within his eyes the picture of a scowling, black-browed visage; in his ears that hoarse, unforgettable command, "Silenzio!"
A single word, burdened with rage and venom, had carried him back over the years to a certain moment and a certain spot on a Sicilian mountain-side. The peculiar arrogance, the harsh vibrations of that voice permitted no mistake. He saw again a ghost-gray road walled in with fearful shadows, and at his feet two silent, twisted bodies dimly outlined against the dust. A match flared and Ricardo Ferara grinned up into the night beneath his grizzled mustache, Narcone, the butcher, his hands still wet, was whining for the blood of the American. He heard Martel Savigno call, heard the young Count's voice rise and break in a shriek, heard a thunder of hoofs retreating into the blackness. Sicilian men were peering into his face, talking excitedly; through their chatter came that same voice, imperative, furious, filled with rage, and it cried:
"Silenzio!"