The Neapolitan bowed over the hand he pressed; but as he touched it, a shiver came over him, and his heart stood still. Zicci bent on him his dark, smiling eyes, and then seated himself with a familiar air. “Thus it is signed and sealed,--I mean our friendship, noble Prince. And now I will tell you the object of my visit. I find, your Excellency, that, unconsciously perhaps, we are rivals. Can we not accommodate our pretensions? A girl of no moment, an actress, bah! it is not worth a quarrel. Shall we throw for her? He who casts the lowest shall resign his claim?” Mascari opened his small eyes to their widest extent; the Prince, no less surprised, but far too well world-read even to show what he felt, laughed aloud. “And were you, then, the cavalier who spoiled my night’s chase and robbed me of my white doe? By Bacchus, it was prettily done.” “You must forgive me, my Prince; I knew not who it was, or my respect would have silenced my gallantry.” “All stratagems fair in love, as in war. Of course you profited by my defeat, and did not content yourself with leaving the little actress at her threshold?” “She is Diana for me,” answered Zicci, lightly; “whoever wins the wreath will not find a flower faded.” “And now you would cast for her,--well; but they tell me you are ever a sure player.” “Let Signor Mascari cast for us.” “Be it so. Mascari, the dice.” Surprised and perplexed, the parasite took up the three dice, deposited them gravely in the box, and rattled them noisily, while Zicci threw himself back carelessly in his chair and said, “I give the first chance to your Excellency.” Mascari interchanged a glance with his patron and threw the numbers were sixteen. “It is a high throw,” said Zicci, calmly; “nevertheless, Signor Mascari, I do not despond.” Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and rolled the contents once more upon the table; the number was the highest that can be thrown,--eighteen. The Prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who stood with gaping mouth staring at the dice, and shaking his head in puzzled wonder. “I have won, you see,” said Zicci: “may we be friends still?” “Signor,” said the Prince, obviously struggling with angel and confusion, “the victory is already yours. But, pardon me, you have spoken lightly of this young girl,--will anything tempt you to yield your claim?” “Ah, do not think so ill of my gallantry.” “Enough,” said the Prince, forcing a smile, “I yield. Let me prove that I do not yield ungraciously: will you honor me with your presence at a little feast I propose to give on the royal birthday?” “It is indeed a happiness to hear one command of yours which I can obey.” Zicci then turned the conversation, talked lightly and gayly and soon afterwards departed. “Villain,” then exclaimed the Prince, grasping Mascari by the collar, “you have betrayed me!”