“You appear to have studied my family affairs to some purpose, sir.” “Mr. Orme is a better man than I, nor would I willingly do him an injury,” continued De Laprade softly, “but all things are fair in love, and I think I must ask your help.” “What hath Mr. Orme to do with the matter? You put more, sir, on me than I can bear, and by heaven, I will put up with your gibes no longer. I am not a schoolboy to be lectured by a bully.” “I have told you that we will not quarrel. I ask not your friendship but your help, and it may be also much to your own advantage. Therefore listen to me with all the patience you can command. I am mad enough to love Miss Carew--I, the prodigal, the spendthrift, whose career was run before I was a man, but so it is! She is much under your influence--the wise and prudent elder brother. Lend me your assistance, not to coerce her affections or thwart her will, for by heaven, I would not wrong her tender heart! but to bring her with all kindness to think favourably of her poor kinsman, and in the end it may be to return his passion. Hear me to the conclusion. I would not buy your help--you would not sell your aid. We both love the rattle of the dice-box. On the one side I place my gains, the rich lands, the fair demesnes, the ancestral house, the broad pieces--and on the other you will stake your persuasive speeches and fraternal affection. Let chance decide the fate: I would not do dishonour to your sister even by a thought. I do not think the stakes unequal; why should you?” Carew stared at the speaker, unable to gather his meaning, and said never a word. “Why, my friend, there is your chance of redemption,” said the Vicomte, taking up the box and rattling it gaily, “three is the number of the Graces; three throws for fortune and love; three throws for honour, riches, and reputation. Ah! there is a royal stake, and heaven send me favour.” “This is but a piece of midsummer fooling; you do not mean this?” “Truly I am in a sad and serious vein. Your barren acres grow heavy on my back and I would be rid of them.” “Then have with you,” cried the other eagerly. But hardly had he spoken than the sound of footsteps was heard on the stone passage, and an importunate knocking upon the door. Carew rose to his feet, pushing back his chair with an oath. The Vicomte did not stir. “It is best to see your impatient visitor,” he said. “Do not hurry fortune.” Carew went to the door and threw it open. “Well, sir, what is your errand at this unseasonable hour?” he said, peering out into the darkness which screened the intruder. “My errand is with Vicomte de Laprade,” said a voice, “and is of the most urgent. I must see him immediately.” “Ah! that is the true Israelite, Mr. Orme,” said the Vicomte, in his usual nonchalant tone, without turning in his chair. “You are arrived most opportunely. This is the Temple of Fortune and here are her worshippers.”