Chapter 15 - Page 2

virtue of his
sailor's dress, when he entered, came over to him now and asked him to
come and sit with them; but as he rather felt himself under Federigo's
charge, he declined just then. Shortly after, to his surprise, he saw
the señorita standing at the gaming-table, with her head, which was all
he could see, beautifully dressed; and he observed that the eyes of the
keeper of the tavern--a tall, lean Portuguese, with a long, sallow face,
and hardly any hair on his head, who himself presided at the table--were
turned towards her continually with a look of humble, tender concern.
She was playing excitedly, and losing every time. At last she stopped,
in evident irritation, and beckoned him to one side, with a certain
authority, in spite of his having the table to attend to.

They spoke eagerly together, and Salvé caught a rapid glance directed
towards himself by the señorita, which he did not at all like. She was
unnaturally pale; and he saw that she finally gave the other her hand,
which he kissed with an enraptured expression, and she then disappeared
from the room.

The landlord's face beamed the whole evening afterwards, and he bowed
politely to Federigo as he passed the table. The latter, the next time
he came near Salvé, whispered rather scornfully--

"I believe my sister has bartered away her soul this evening, and
promised to marry that old money-bag there who keeps the tavern.
Congratulate us, _amigo mio_!"

Salvé observed that the said money-bag conferred now more than once with
the man at the head of his own table, and was apparently making terms
with him; and that the latter also, when he thought he was not observed,
glanced over at himself in a way that was very far from putting him at
his ease.

The American who had spoken to him before--a tall, athletic-looking man,
with a fair beard round a hard Yankee face, and with a remnant of gold
lace on the sleeve of his jacket--had since been at the gaming-table,
and had been losing one doubloon after another.

"They don't play fair, my lad!" he cried in English to Salvé, to whom he
seemed anxious to make up.

"I daresay not," was the reply; "it's a vile den."

"What country do you hail from?"

"Norway."

"Ah! Norwegian. Good sailors."

"Deserted at Rio?" he asked then, with a laugh, as if he expected, as a
matter of course, an answer in the affirmative.

"Shall I play for you?" he asked presently.

"No money."

"Here's a guinea on account of your wages on board the 'Stars and
Stripes,' for Valparaiso and Chinchas!" he cried, with a