Durade was the only man who moved. Slowly he arose, shaking in every limb, and not till he became erect did he unrivet his eyes from that yellow heap on the table.
“Senor—do you—mock me?” he gasped, hoarsely.
“I offer you my winnings—ALL—FOR THE GIRL YOU HAVE HERE!”
“You are crazy!” ejaculated the Spaniard.
“Certainly... But hurry! Do you accept?”
“Senor, I would not sell that girl for all the gold of the Indies,” replied Durade, instantly. No vacillation—no indecision in him here. Hough’s offer held no lure for this Spaniard who had committed many crimes for gold.
“BUT YOU’LL GAMBLE HER!” asserted Hough, and now indeed his words were mockery. In one splendid gesture he swept his winnings into the middle of the table, and the gold gave out a ringing clash. As a gambler he read the soul of his opponent.
Durade’s jaw worked convulsively, as if he had difficulty in holding it firm enough for utterance. What he would not sell for any price he would risk on a gambler’s strange faith in chance.
“All my winnings against this girl,” went on Hough, relentlessly. Scorn and a taunting dare and an insidious persuasion mingled with the passion of his offer. He knew how to inflame. Durade, as a gambler, was a weakling in the grasp of a giant. “Come!... Do you accept?”
Durade’s body leaped, as if an irresistible current had been shot into it.