The answer seemed to fan the smoldering rage of the Count into a flame. With an oath, he caught up his sword which lay upon the table, and drew it from its sheath.
"Choose!" he cried. "Either thou shalt join me without more words, or prepare to meet thy doom; for as certain as thou dost stand there, I will run thee through if thou dost not join me."
The boy threw back his head, his cheeks were pale, but his look was high and unflinching.
"Strike," he said, "if thou wilt, for I refuse to join thee."
The Spaniard raised his sword, but leaning over I caught the hilt with my hand and held it.
"Ruffian!" I cried. "Wouldst thou slay the youth? He is but a child."
A slow, evil look was upon his face; for a moment his anger mastered him.
"Twice hast thou crossed my path to thwart me," he growled. "Take care, there shall be no third time." Then drawing back, he sheathed his sword.
"I will dice with thee for the lad's life," he said suddenly. "If thou dost win, he is thine to do with what thou wilt; if thou shouldst lose, then he is mine. Wilt cast with me?"