’Poleon’s big hand closed over hers; in a voice too low for any but her ears he said:  “Somet’ing is kill de song in your heart, ma petite.  I give my life for mak’ you happy.  Sometam you care for tell me, mebbe I can he’p li’l bit.”

The girl suddenly bowed her head; her struggling tears overflowed reluctantly; in a weary, heartsick murmur she confessed: 

“I’m the most miserable girl in the world.  I’m so—­unhappy.”

Some instinct of delicacy prompted the woodsman to refrain from speaking.  In the same listless monotone Rouletta continued: 

“I’ve always been a lucky gambler, but—­the cards have turned against me.  I’ve been playing my own stakes and I’ve lost.”

“You been playing de bank?” he queried, in some bewilderment.

“No, a gambler never plays his own game.  He always bucks the other fellow’s.  I’ve been playing—­hearts.”

’Poleon’s grasp upon her hand tightened.  “I see,” he said.  “Wal, bad luck is boun’ to change.”

In Rouletta’s eyes, when she looked up, was a vision of some glory far beyond the woodsman’s sight.  Her lips had parted, her tears had dried.  “I wonder—­” she breathed.  “Father’s luck always turned.  ‘Don’t weaken; be a thoroughbred!’ That’s what he used to tell me.  He’d be ashamed of me now, wouldn’t he?  I’ve told you my troubles, ’Poleon, because you’re all I have left.  Forgive me, please, big brother.”

“Forgive?  Mon Dieu!” said he.

Their midnight meal was set out; to them it was tasteless, and neither one made more than a silent pretense of eating it.  They were absorbed in their own thoughts when the sound of high voices, a commotion of some sort at the front of the saloon, attracted their attention.  Rouletta’s ears were the first to catch it; she turned, then uttered a breathless exclamation.  The next instant she had slid down from her perch and was hurrying away.  ’Poleon strode after her; he was at her back when she paused on the outskirts of a group which had assembled near the cashier’s cage.

Pierce Phillips had left his post behind the scales; he, Count Courteau, and Ben Miller, the proprietor, were arguing hotly.  Rock, the Police lieutenant, was listening to first one then another.  The Count was deeply intoxicated; nevertheless, he managed to carry himself with something of an air, and at the moment he was making himself heard with considerable vehemence.

“I have been drinking, to be sure,” he acknowledged, “but am I drunk?  No.  Damnation!  There is the evidence.”  In his hand he was holding a small gold-sack, and this he shook defiantly under the officer’s nose.  “Do you call that eight hundred dollars?  I ask you.  Weigh it!  Weigh it!”

Rock took the little leather bag in his fingers; then he agreed.  “It’s a lot short of eight hundred, for a fact, but—­”

In a strong voice Phillips cried:  “I don’t know what he had.  That’s all there was in the sack when he paid his check.”