I hesitated a moment; then turning to the boy, who stood gazing with wide-open eyes upon us, I cried:
"Art thou content that we should dice for thy life, or wilt thou have none of it?"
His face was pale, but he answered me quickly: "I am content; better that I should die, than be in the hands of such as he."
"So be it," I answered. "Where are the dice?"
Turning to the corner, he drew from a chest the dice, and a little round box, and with those in his hand, moved to the table.
"Wilt thou throw first?" he asked, "or shall I?"
"No," I answered; "do thou throw. I will follow thee."
It was a strange scene in that great room. The rough seamen gathered around the table watching, eager to see which way the dice would fall; the boy, Oliver Gates, as he stood behind me, watching the dice in the Count's hand—his life the stakes for which we gamed. DeNortier, a dark scowl upon his face, fingering coolly the box in which the dice lay, ready to cast without a tremor the little squares on which depended a human life; myself, with face as white as the boy's, as I thought of the great load which rested upon me, and of how much depended upon "Chance," the blind goddess.
DeNortier stood opposite me, only the little light in his dark eyes betraying his excitement. I watched his hand narrowly while he shook the dice in the box, preparing to throw. I have often thought of that scene since, and wondered if I fully appreciated its solemnity as I watched the Spaniard, and yet I was oppressed by the thought that a human life lay in my hands, either to be lost or to be gained; but as the lad had said, better that he should die than to live a captive in the pirate's hands and at his mercy.
He threw, and with a rattle the dice rolled out upon the table. For a moment I feared to look, and then summoning all my courage, with an effort I looked at the dice—double fours—could I beat that?