A murmur of astonishment ran through the room as he suffered the double stake to remain on the board; which speedily grew into a loader ham of voices, as the banker proceeded to count out the gains of a second victory. Affecting an insight into the game and its chances which he did not possess, Dalton now hesitated and pondered over his bets, increasing his stake at one moment, diminishing it at another, and assuming all the practised airs of old and tried gamblers. As though in obedience to every caprice, the fortune of the game followed him unerringly. If he lost, it was some mere trifle; when he won, the stake was sure to be a large one. At length even this affected prudence--this mock skill--became too slow for him, and he launched out into all his accustomed recklessness. Not waiting to take in his winnings, he threw fresh handfuls of gold amongst them, till the bank, trembling for its safety, more than once had to reduce the stakes he wished to venture. “They'd give him five hundred Naps, this moment if he 'd cease to play,” said some one behind Dalton's chair. “There 's nothing the bank dreads so much as a man with courage to back his luck.” “I 'd wish them a good-night,” said another, “if I 'd have made so good a-thing of it as that old fellow; he has won some thousand Napoleons, I 'm certain.” “_He_ knows better than that,” said the former. “This is a 'run' with him, and he feels it is. He 'll 'break' them before the night's over.” Dalton heard every word of this colloquy, and drank in the surmise as greedily as did Macbeth the Witches' prophecy. “He deserves to win, too,” resumed the last speaker, “for I never saw a man play more boldly.” “So much for boldness,” cried the other; “he has just risked a fifth time on the red and lost. See if it be not two hundred 'Naps.'” The defeat did not dishearten him, for again Dalton covered the board with gold. As if that moment had been the turning-point of his destiny, his losses now began, and with all the rapidity of his previous gains. At first he bore the reverse calmly and patiently; after a while a slight gesture of impatience, a half-muttered exclamation would escape him; but when loss followed loss unceasingly, and one immense stake disappeared after another, Dalton's fingers trembled, and his cheeks shook like one in ague. His straining bloodshot eyes were fixed on the play with the intensity of passion, and a convulsive shudder would shake his massive frame at each new tidings of loss. “Am I never to have luck again? Is it only to lead me on that I won? Can this go on forever?” were the low-muttered words which now he syllabled with difficulty, for already his utterance was thick, and his swollen tongue and flattened cheeks seemed threatened with paralysis.