“Zese woods of different shortness,” said Milosch, advancing with a couple of twigs. “You select each, and we tell you which has drawn ze black ball.”
“But which represents the black ball—the long one or the short one?” demanded Maurice.
“Zat not for you to know. We tell you when ze lot is drawn.”
“I told you so,” murmured Wylie. “Whichever I draw is the fatal one. Here, Milosch, let me choose.”
He took one of the twigs, the shorter, and Maurice found himself with the other in his hand. Stoyan, coming forward, measured their length with great deliberation, and announced that the lot had fallen upon Wylie. Maurice sprang forward furiously, but Wylie pinned his arms to his sides.
“Now don’t let us give ourselves away,” the doomed man entreated. “I know what you feel like, and what you would like to do, but your business just now is to think of your sisters. They must not be left in the hands of these scoundrels without a protector. You’ll have to look after them both now. Don’t let them know what’s happened to me if you can help it. Can’t you let them think I have been taken away to be kept safe somewhere? Remember, they have a lot to bear already.”
“I can’t stand by and see you murdered,” panted Maurice.
“I don’t want you to. Go back to the hut. Your sisters will be terrified if they wake and find us both gone. Good-bye, and good luck to you. I wouldn’t ask for a better comrade at a pinch than you have been all through this.”
“Any messages?” asked Maurice shortly.
“No, I have no one to trouble about me, and my affairs are all in order. Some day you might tell your eldest sister that I was sorry to leave without saying good-bye to her.”