"Brawling's bad
style; we don't do it. I was saying, I like your foes best; mere matter
of taste; no need to quarrel over it--that I see. I shall go into
their service or into yours, monsieur--will you play a game of dice to
decide?"
"Decide?--but how?"
"Why--this way," said the other, with the weary listlessness of one who
cares not two straws how things turn. "If I win, I go to the Arabs; if
you win, I come to your ranks."
"Mort de Dieu! it is a droll gambling," murmured Chanrellon. "But--if
you win, do you think we shall let you go off to our enemies? Pas si
bete, monsieur!"
"Yes, you will," said the other quietly. "Men who knew what honor meant
enough to redeem Rire-pour-tout's pledge of safety to the Bedouins, will
not take advantage of an openly confessed and unarmed adversary."
A murmur of ratification ran through his listeners.
Chanrellon swore a mighty oath.
"Pardieu, no. You are right. If you want to go, you shall go. Hola
there! bring the dice. Champagne, monsieur? Vermouth? Cognac?"
"Nothing, I thank you."
He leaned back with an apathetic indolence and indifference oddly at
contrast with the injudicious daring of his war-provoking words and
the rough campaigning that he sought. The assembled Chasseurs eyed him
curiously; they liked his manner and they resented his first speeches;
they noted every particular about him--his delicate white hands, his
weather-worn and travel-stained dress, his fair, aristocratic features,
his sweeping, abundant beard, his careless, cool, tired, reckless way;
and they were uncertain what to make of him.
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