Through stained glass Part 8

Lewis played and lost. Despair seized upon him now with no uncertain hand. His money, his pony, even his little bundle gone! This was calamity. He suffered as only the young can suffer. His world had suddenly become a blank. Through bloodshot eyes he looked upon the stranger and tried to hate him, but could not.

"Come," said the stranger, rising and lighting a lantern. "I'm going to make you a foolish offer of big odds against me. I'll wager all I've won from you against one year's service that you can't beat the game in one hand. Eleven cards out of the fifty-two beats the game."

What was a year's service? thought Lewis. He had been willing to give that for nothing. He played and lost. Suddenly shame was added to his despair. To give service is n.o.ble, but to have it bought from you, won from you! Lewis fought back his tears desperately. What a fool, what a fool this man, this stranger, had made of him!

The stranger took out his watch and looked at it.

"In seven hours and seven minutes," he remarked, "I have given you one of my seven lives that it took almost seven years to live. Seven, by the way, is one of the mystic numbers."

At his first words Lewis felt a wave of relief--the relief of the diver in deep waters who feels himself rising to the surface. Perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps this man could restore their imperiled friendship, so sudden, already so dear.

The stranger went on:

"Ashamed to stop when you're ahead, too keen to stop when you're behind, you've lost all you possessed, jarred your trust in your fellow-man, and bartered freedom for slavery--mortgaged a year of your life. You've climbed the cliff of greed, got one whiff of sordid elation at the top, and tumbled down the precipice of despair. In short, you've lived the whole life of a gambler--all in seven hours."

He picked up Lewis's two notes and stuffed them into his own well-filled wallet. "They say," he continued, "that only experience teaches. You may gamble all the rest of your life, but take it from me, my friend, gambling holds no emotion you haven't gone through today."

Their eyes met. Lewis's gaze was puzzled, but intent. The stranger's eyes were almost twinkling.

"By the way," he said, "what's in the bundle? Let's see."

Lewis brought his sorry little bundle and laid it on the table. He untied the knots with trembling fingers. The stranger poked around the contents with his finger. He picked out the little kid of clay, already minus a leg.

"Hallo! What's this?"

"A toy," said Lewis, coloring.

"Who made it?"

"I did."

"You did, eh? Well, I'll keep it." The stranger fingered around until he found the missing leg. "You can take the rest of your things away. I'll lend 'em to you, and your pony. Now let's eat."

That night Lewis, too excited to sleep, lay awake for hours smiling at the moon. He was smiling because he felt that somehow, out of the wreck, friendship had been saved.

CHAPTER XII

The country through which they traveled was familiar to Lewis, tedious to the stranger. Sand, spa.r.s.e gra.s.s, and thorn-trees; thorn-trees and sand, was their daily portion. The sun beat down and up. They traveled long hours by night, less and less by day. They talked little, for night has a way of sealing the lips of those who journey under her wing.

Water was scarce. The day before that on which they hoped to make the river, a forced march brought them to a certain water-hole. The stranger, Lewis, and the guide arrived at it far ahead of the pack-train. The water-hole was dry. They were thirsty. They pushed on to a little mud house a short way off the trail. The stranger looked up as they approached it.

"Do you think it will stand till we get there?" he asked.

Lewis smiled. The house was leaning in three directions. The weight of its tiled roof threatened at any moment to crush the long-suffering walls to the ground. At one corner stood a great earthen jar, and beside the jar an old hag. She held a gourd to her lips. On some straw in the shade of the eaves was a setting hen.

"Auntie," called Lewis, "we thirst. Give us water."

The old woman turned and stared at them. Her face, all but her eyes, was as dilapidated as her house. Her black eyes, brilliant and piercing, shone out of the ruin.

"I have no water for thee to drink, my pretty son," she answered.

"Shameless one!" cried Lewis. "Dost thou drink thyself and deny the traveler?"

"Eh, eh!" cackled the old woman. "Thou wouldst share my gourd? Then drink, for thy tongue is not so pretty as thy face." She held up the gourd to Lewis in both her hands. He took it from her and pa.s.sed it to the stranger.

The stranger made a grimace, but sipped the water. Then he flung gourd and water to the ground with; half an oath.

"Bah!" he said to Lewis. "It is salt."

"Salt!" cried Lewis. "But she drank of it. I saw her drink."

"Yes," said the stranger; "she's got an alkalified stomach. Let those who hanker after immortality look upon this woman. She will never die."

The old hag laughed.

"Ah, shameless one, eh?" she mumbled. "'Tis the young one should have tasted, but no matter, for the son is the spit of the father."

"Auntie," said Lewis, smiling, "give us of thy shade."

"Willingly, my pretty son, for thou hast smiled."

They dismounted. The stranger and Lewis entered the house.

"Here," cried the old woman, "sit here; for when the house falls, the weight will go yonder."

Lewis explained to the stranger. He glanced at the old woman.

"Old Immortality has brains," he said. "Might have known it, with those eyes."

They sat on the floor of beaten earth. The old woman went out. Through the gaps in the walls Lewis saw her build a fire and put a pot of the brackish water on to boil. Then he saw her drag the setting hen from her nest and wring its neck. He jumped up and rushed out.

"What are you doing?" he cried. "Why kill a setting hen?"

"Aye," said the old woman, "it is a pity, for she is the last chicken in the world."

Lewis and the stranger were hungry. Night was falling. There was no sign of their belated pack-train. When boiling had done its utmost, they ate the last chicken on earth. Before they had finished, a child, pitifully thin, came in, bearing on her head a small jar of water.

"Now drink," said the old woman, "for this water came from the river, twelve miles away."

They drank, then the stranger set his helmet on the floor for a pillow, laid his head upon it, and slept. Lewis sat beside him. The child had curled up in a corner. The guide was snoring outside. In the doorway the old woman crouched and crooned.

Presently she turned and peered into the house. She beckoned to Lewis.

He rose and followed her. She led him around the house, through a thicket of thorn-trees, and up the slope of a small sand-dune. Toward the west sand-dunes rose and fell in monotonous succession.

At the top of the dune the old woman crouched on her heels and motioned to Lewis to sit.