The Spaniard now seemed compelled to look up from the gold Hough’s comrades were pocketing. When he saw Allie another slow and remarkable transformation came over him. At first he started slightly at Hough’s hand on Allie’s arm. The radiance of his strange passion for gold, that had put a leaping glory into his haggard face, faded into a dark and mounting surprise. A blaze burned away the shadows. His eyes betrayed an unsupportable sense of loss and the spirit that repudiated it. For a single instant he was magnificent—and perhaps in that instant race and blood spoke; then, with bewildering suddenness, surely with the suddenness of a memory, he became a black, dripping-faced victim of unutterable and unquenchable hate.
Allie recoiled in the divination that Durade saw her mother in her. No memory, no love, no gold, no wager, could ever thwart the Spaniard.
“Senor, you tricked me!” he whispered.
“I beat you at your own game,” said Hough. “My friends and your men heard the stake—saw the game.”
“Senor, I would not—bet—that girl—for any stake!”
“You have LOST her... Let me warn you, Durade. Be careful, once in your life!... You’re welcome to what gold is left there.”
Durade shoved back the gold so fiercely that he upset the table, and its contents jangled on the floor. The spill and the crash of a scattered fortune released Durade’s men from their motionless suspense. They began to pick up the coins.
The Spaniard was halted by the gleam of a derringer in Hough’s hand. Hissing like a snake, Durade stood still, momentarily held back by a fear that quickly gave place to insane rage.
“Shoot him!” said Ancliffe, with a coolness which proved his foresight.
One of Hough’s friends swung a cane, smashing a lamp; then with like swift action he broke the other lamp, instantly plunging the room into darkness. This appeared to be the signal for Durade’s men to break loose into a mad scramble for the gold. Durade began to scream and rush forward.