"Rise!"
"Firenzi, make your appeal."
Firenzi started forward on a rush. But after a step or two he halted, glared about him as if just waking up, and then went forward, sagging like a drunkard. Arrived at the table he crossed himself, shook the dice, and, whimpering, fell on his knees. His shaking hand crawled along the table, groping for the dice-box and lifted it. The crowd, straining in upon him, buzzed. For the number was moderate. He had thrown a three and a two. And kneeled there, blubbering. The courage of the Honorable Society does not remain fast in all washes.
"Pachotto, make the appeal."
He, too, started with bravado; he was perhaps half way across when they had to catch and drag him forward. He threw wild and they had to support his wrist. Even so one die fell underneath the edge of the saucer in which the box had stood. That in view was another two-spot. If, however, that under the saucer were even a four he was ahead in the throw. They moved the saucer—the die was a five. Pachotto leaped in the air with triumph—Firenzi, yellow and cursing, tried to fold his arms. Frightful sounds issued from his throat, upon which the cords stood out.
"Alieni, you will make the appeal."
He who had been a gentleman drew himself together and came slowly forward. He was now the darling of the crowd. But he did not guess that; he came of a superstitious tribe and to him, too, it seemed important to win from the start. His soul trembled, but steadily and softly he stole to the table. Now he was arrived, looking down, one concentrated apprehension, on his fate. Lifting the dice-box he once more threw out his bright suspicious glance into the crowding faces. "Whatever gods there be!"—he threw the dice. Over these he bent with a sort of sweep and then, uttering a sharp hiss, sprang up like a jack-knife. The crowd swayed, yelped and shivered with amusement into a triumphing crow. He had thrown two sixes. Pachotto uttered a piercing yell and fell on his stomach in a dead faint.
"Filippi Alieni, of the jugs you have the first choice."
He stood as if nothing had happened. He had suddenly realized that his situation was really more terrible than ever. Watching, watching, he could descry no help. None of those alert, elated faces had a hint in it, not a congratulating hand pointed toward the fateful jug. He moistened his lips and looked mechanically at the dice which had thrown him this choice. But the dice, too, were dumb. Then, at last, he looked at the jugs.
There was the red design, the white and the green. His hand crept up and touched the chord at his throat. Scarlet was her favorite! But did she know? White—there was no luck in white. Green, the color of hope! Of resurrection! Yes, but to be resurrected one must first die! Red, again, was blood-color—but there was blood at every turn! Whose blood did this stand for—whose? Ah, yes, the scales—the scales were different! Gold, silver, and gray! The scales were very little, so it was they that held the secret! Silver, gray and gold! Why gray? Silver—hadn't he heard them whispering about silver? Why, there were some words—He dropped to the ground with the jug, leaning on the table and pressing the scrolled legend to the lantern.—Silver pays! Pays whom? Pays what? Oh, God, to understand! What was the other—gold? He was panting—his breath smeared the glass of the lantern. It was dry and cut his lips like grass-blades! Yet he reeked with cold sweat, it was running into his mouth! He wiped the glass clear with one cuff. Steady! Take care! Can't you read, you fool! Gold buys. Oh, heaven, what would it buy here? Life—freedom—what else would anybody buy? What was the sense of it, if it meant anything else? But it might be a lie! "She's a natcherul-born devil." It was a lie she would delight in! One chance! One! Everything on it—everything! Never to leave here—to die here—here, where no one would ever know! Without doing what he had secretly meant to do, without ever having lifted a hand—to die in torment, squirming on the floor like a rat with torn bowels—There was one other jug. Gray—what a color! Ghost-color—was that what she meant? Lead slays! But, once more, slays whom? Lead slays—lead—lead—Lead!