It was a disgrace to love him; it was a disgrace to be loved by him, a shame worse than death. He would never dance again. He wished never to see them again, those lovely women. He knew it too well. Those beautiful eyes, those red cheeks burned not for him. Not for him floated those light feet, nor rung that low laugh. Yes, dance with him, flirt with him, that they could do, but not one of them would be his in earnest. The poet went into the smoking-room to the old men, and sat down by one of the card-tables. He happened to throw himself down by the same table where the powerful master of Björne sat and played “baccarat” holding the bank with a great pile of silver in front of him. The play was already high. Gösta gave it an even greater impulse. Green bank-notes appeared, and always the pile of money grew in front of the powerful Melchior Sinclair. But before Gösta also gathered both coins and notes, and soon he was the only one who held out in the struggle against the great land-owner at Björne. Soon the great pile of money changed over from Melchior Sinclair to Gösta Berling. “Gösta, my boy,” cried the land-owner, laughing, when he had played away everything he had in his pocket-book and purse, “what shall we do now? I am bankrupt, and I never play with borrowed money. I promised my wife that.” He discovered a way. He played away his watch and his beaver coat, and was just going to stake his horse and sledge when Sintram checked him. “Stake something to win on,” he advised him. “Stake something to turn the luck.” “What the devil have I got?” “Play your reddest heart’s blood, brother Melchior. Stake your daughter!” “You would never venture that,” said Gösta, laughing. “That prize I would never get under my roof.” Melchior could not help laughing also. He could not endure that Marianne’s name should be mentioned at the card-tables, but this was so insanely ridiculous that he could not be angry. To play away Marianne to Gösta, yes, that he certainly could venture. “That is to say,” he explained, “that if you can win her consent, Gösta, I will stake my blessing to the marriage on this card.” Gösta staked all his winnings and the play began. He won, and Sinclair stopped playing. He could not fight against such bad luck; he saw that. The night slipped by; it was past midnight. The lovely women’s cheeks began to grow pale; curls hung straight, ruffles were crumpled. The old ladies rose up from the sofa-corners and said that as they had been there twelve hours, it was about time for them to be thinking of home. And the beautiful ball should be over, but then Lilliecrona himself seized the fiddle and struck up the last polka. The horses stood at the door; the old ladies were dressed in their cloaks and shawls; the old men wound their plaids about them and buckled their galoshes.