a black ace—it was the ace of clubs. The next received a diamond, the next a heart, and so on; but the ace of spades was still undelivered. At last, Geraldine, who sat upon the Prince’s left, turned his card; it was an ace, but the ace of hearts. 

 When Prince Florizel saw his fate upon the table in front of him, his heart stood still. He was a brave man, but the sweat poured off his face. There were exactly fifty chances out of a hundred that he was doomed. He reversed the card; it was the ace of spades. A loud roaring filled his brain, and the table swam before his eyes. He heard the player on his right break into a fit of laughter that sounded between mirth and disappointment; he saw the company rapidly dispersing, but his mind was full of other thoughts. He recognised how foolish, how criminal, had been his conduct. In perfect health, in the prime of his years, the heir to a throne, he had gambled away his future and that of a brave and loyal country. “God,” he cried, “God forgive me!” And with that, the confusion of his senses passed away, and he regained his self-possession in a moment. 

 To his surprise Geraldine had disappeared. There was no one in the card-room but his destined butcher consulting with the President, and the young man of the cream tarts, who slipped up to the Prince, and whispered in his ear:— 

 “I would give a million, if I had it, for your luck.” 

 His Highness could not help reflecting, as the young man departed, that he would have sold his opportunity for a much more moderate sum. 

 The whispered conference now came to an end. The holder of the ace of clubs left the room with a look of intelligence, and the President, approaching the unfortunate Prince, proffered him his hand. 

 “I am pleased to have met you, sir,” said he, “and pleased to have been in a position to do you this trifling service. At least, you cannot complain of delay. On the second evening—what a stroke of luck!” 

 The Prince endeavoured in vain to articulate something in response, but his mouth was dry and his tongue seemed paralysed. 

 “You feel a little sickish?” asked the President, with some show of solicitude. “Most gentlemen do. Will you take a little brandy?” 

 The Prince signified in the affirmative, and the other immediately filled some of the spirit into a tumbler. 

 

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