“He played then much as you do now.  There was against him then, as there is now against you, a man who admired not so much just one woman in all the world as, let us say, one particular woman then and there present.  Perhaps you remember his name—­Mr. Parish—­later ennobled by the German government and long known as a land baron in New York.  Come!  Think of it!  Picture that snowbound train, that great citizen, and Parish, playing and playing, until at last it came to the question of a woman—­not so beautiful as this one here, but in her own way shrewd, the same sort of woman, I might say—­mysterious, beautiful, and—­no, don’t protest, and I’ll not describe.  You remember very well her name.  It was pleasant property not so long ago for everybody.  They played for the love, not for the hand, of that woman.  Parish won her.  Do you remember now?”

The younger man sat looking at him silently, his face now grown quite pale.  “I am unwilling, sir, to allow any man to mention such details regarding the past life of my commander-in-chief, a president of the United States.  It is not seemly.  My profession should free me, by its very nature, from conversation such as this.  My errand should free me.  My place as a gentleman should free me, and her, from such discussion.  It must, it shall, sir!”

“Forgive me,” said Dunwody, coloring.  “Your rebuke is just.  I ask your pardon freely; but remember, what I say here is between us two, and no one else.  Why deny yourself the luxury of remembering such a game as that?  It was a man’s game, and well worth the playing.  Your former head of the army, at least, lost; and he paid.  The other won.  All Ogdensburg can tell you about that to-day.  They lived there—­together—­Parish and the woman, till he went abroad.  Yes, and she was a prisoner there not simply for a short time; she lived and died there.  Whatever Parish did, whoever he was, he never loved any other woman as he did that one.  And by the Lord! when it comes to that, no other woman in that town ever was loved more than she by everybody.  Odd creatures, women, eh?  Who can find them out?  Who can weigh them, who can plumb their souls?  But, my God! who can do without them?”

Carlisle made no answer, and Dunwody went on.  “She had political intrigues back of her, just as this woman here has, for all I know.  But one lost in that game, and the other, won.  I’ve often wondered about that particular game of cards, my friend,—­whether after all she loved the man who won her, right or wrong,—­what became of her,—­who she was?  But now, tell me, was not our drunken friend right?  Has human nature changed since Rome?  And has not the conqueror always ruled?  Have not the spolia opima, the rarest prizes, always been his?”

Carlisle only sat silent, looking at him, pale now, and rigid.  He still made no comment.