They met at last, Dubarre, and Villiard, the man who had stolen from him
the woman he loved. Both had wronged the woman, but Villiard most, for
he had let her die because of jealousy.
They were now in a room alone in the forest of St. Sebastian. Both were
quiet, and both knew that the end of their feud was near.
Going to a cupboard Dubarre brought out four glasses and put them on the
table. Then from two bottles he poured out what looked like red wine,
two glasses from each bottle. Putting the bottles back he returned to
the table.
"Do you dare to drink with me?" Dubarre asked, nodding towards the
glasses. "Two of the glasses have poison in them, two have good red wine
only. We will move them about and then drink. Both may die, or only one
of us."
Villiard looked at the other with contracting, questioning eyes.
"You would play that game with me?" he asked, in a mechanical voice.
"It would give me great pleasure." The voice had a strange, ironical
tone. "It is a grand sport--as one would take a run at a crevasse and
clear it, or fall. If we both fall, we are in good company; if you fall,
I have the greater joy of escape; if I fall, you have the same joy."
"I am ready," was the answer. "But let us eat first."
A great fire burned in the chimney, for the night was cool. It filled
the room with a gracious heat and with huge, comfortable shadows. Here
and there on the wall a tin cup flashed back the radiance of the fire,
the barrel of a gun glistened soberly along a rafter, and the long, wiry
hair of an otter-skin in the corner sent out little needles of light.
Upon the fire a pot was simmering, and a good savour came from it. A
wind went lilting by outside the but in tune with the singing of the
kettle. The ticking of a huge, old-fashioned repeating-watch on the wall
was in unison with these.
Dubarre rose from the table, threw himself upon the little pile of otter-
skins, and lay watching Villiard and mechanically studying the little
room.
Villiard took the four glasses filled with the wine and laid them on a
shelf against the wall, then began to put the table in order for their
supper, and to take the pot from the fire.
Dubarre noticed that just above where the glasses stood on the shelf a
crucifix was hanging, and that red crystal sparkled in the hands and feet
where the nails should be driven in. There was a painful humour in the
association. He smiled, then turned his head away, for old memories
flashed through his brain--he had been an acolyte once; he had served at
the altar.
Suddenly Dubarre rose, took the glasses from the shelf and placed them in
the middle of the table--the death's head for the feast.
As they sat down to eat, the eyes of both men unconsciously wandered to
the crucifix, attracted by the red sparkle of the rubies. They drank
water with the well-cooked meat of the wapiti, though red wine faced them
on the table. Each ate heartily; as though a long day were before them
and not the shadow of the Long Night. There was no speech save that of
the usual courtesies of the table. The fire, and the wind, and the watch
seemed the only living things besides themselves, perched there between
heaven and earth.
At length the meal was finished, and the two turned in their chairs
towards the fire. There was no other light in the room, and on the faces
of the two, still and cold, the flame played idly.
"When?" said Dubarre at last. "Not yet," was the quiet reply.
"I was thinking of my first theft--an apple from my brother's plate,"
said Dubarre, with a dry smile. "You?"
"I, of my first lie."
"That apple was the sweetest fruit I ever tasted."
"And I took the penalty of the lie, but I had no sorrow."
Again there was silence.
"Now?" asked Villiard, after an hour had passed. "I am ready."
They came to the table.
"Shall we bind our eyes?" asked Dubarre. "I do not know the glasses
that hold the poison."
"Nor I the bottle that held it. I will turn my back, and do you change
about the glasses."
Villiard turned his face towards the timepiece on the wall. As he did so
it began to strike--a clear, silvery chime: "One! two! three--!"
Before it had finished striking both men were facing the glasses again.
"Take one," said Dubarre.
Villiard took the one nearest himself. Dubarre took one also. Without a
word they lifted the glasses and drank.
"Again," said Dubarre.
"You choose," responded Villiard.
Dubarre lifted the one nearest himself, and Villiard picked up the other.
Raising their glasses again, they bowed to each other and drank.
The watch struck twelve, and stopped its silvery chiming.
They both sat down, looking at each other, the light of an enormous
chance in their eyes, the tragedy of a great stake in their clinched
hands; but the deeper, intenser power was in the face of Dubarre, the
explorer.
There was more than power; malice drew down the brows and curled the
sensitive upper lip. Each man watched the other for knowledge of his own
fate. The glasses lay straggling along the table, emptied of death and
life.
All at once a horrible pallor spread over the face of Villiard, and his
head jerked forward. He grasped the table with both hands, twitching and
trembling. His eyes stared wildly at Dubarre, to whose face the flush of
wine had come, whose look was now maliciously triumphant.
Villiard had drunk both glasses of the poison!
"I win!" Dubarre stood up. Then, leaning over the table towards the
dying man, he added: "You let her die-well! Would you know the truth?
She loved you--always."
Villiard gasped, and his look wandered vaguely along the opposite wall.
Dubarre went on. "I played the game with you honestly, because--because
it was the greatest man could play. And I, too, sinned against her. Now
die! She loved you--murderer!"
The man's look still wandered distractedly along the wall. The sweat of
death was on his face; his lips were moving spasmodically.
Suddenly his look became fixed; he found voice. "Pardon--Jesu!" he
said, and stiffened where he sat. His eyes were fixed on the jewelled
crucifix. Dubarre snatched it from the wall, and hastening to him held
it to his lips: but the warm sparkle of the rubies fell on eyes that were
cold as frosted glass. Dubarre saw that he was dead.
"Because the woman loved him!" he said, gazing curiously at the dead
man.
He turned, went to the door and opened it, for his breath choked him.
All was still on the wooded heights and in the wide valley.
"Because the woman loved him he repented," said Dubarre again with a
half-cynical gentleness as he placed the crucifix on the dead man's
breast.