“He means that you are to judge us by the quipos.  The meaning is this—­yellow, slavery, white, mercy; purple, reward; black, death.  The lengths of the cords and the number of knots indicate the degree of punishment or reward.  Attached to the frame you will find a knife.  With that detach the cord of judgment and lay it at the feet of the king.”

Again silence; and not one of the vast throng, nor the king himself, appeared to pay the slightest attention to my voice.  The king continued his gestures to Desiree.

She rose and walked to the frame of quipos and took in her hand the knife which she found there suspended by a cord.  There she hesitated, with the knife poised in the air, while her eyes sought mine—­and found them.

I felt a tug at my arm, but I had no time for Harry then.  I was looking at Desiree, and what I saw caused a cold shudder to flutter through my body.  Not of fear; it was the utter surprise of the thing—­its incredible horror.  To die by the hands of those hairy brutes was not hard, but Desiree to be the judge!

For she meant death for us; I read it in her eyes.  One of the old stale proverbs of the stale old world was to have another justification.  I repeat that I was astounded, taken completely by surprise; and yet I had known something of “the fury of a woman scorned.”

It was as though our eyes shot out to meet each other in an embrace of death.  She saw that I understood and she smiled—­what a smile!  It was triumphant, and yet sad; a vengeance, and a farewell.  She put forth her hand.

It wavered among the quipos as though uncertainly, then closed firmly on the black cord of death.

A thought flashed through my mind with the speed of lightning.  I raised my voice and sang out: 

“Desiree!”

She hesitated; the hand which held the knife fell to her side and again her eyes sought mine.

“What of Harry?” I called.  “Take two—­the white for him, the black for me.”

She shook her head and again raised the knife; and I played my last card.

“Bah!  Who are you?  For you are not Le Mire!” I weighted my voice with contempt.  “Le Mire is a child of fortune, but not of hell!”

At last she spoke.

“I play a fair hand, monsieur!” she cried, and her voice trembled.

“With marked cards!” I exclaimed scornfully.  “The advantage is yours, madame; may you find pleasure in it.”

There was a silence, while our eyes met.  I thought I had lost.  Le Mire stood motionless.  Not a sound came from the audience.  I felt Harry pulling at my arm, but shook myself free, without taking my eyes from Le Mire’s face.

Suddenly she spoke: 

“You are right, my friend Paul.  I take no advantage.  Leave it to Fortune.  Have you a coin?”

I had won my chance.  That was all—­a chance—­but that was better than nothing.  I took a silver peseta from my pocket—­by luck it had not been lost—­and held it in the air above my head.