The Dark Star

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Neeland. "That girl is dead right!"

Sengoun threw back his handsome head and laughed without restraint;

and the gipsies laughed, too, their beautiful eyes and teeth flashing

under their black cascades of unbound hair.

"Show me your palms," said Nini, and drew Sengoun's and Neeland's

hands across the table, holding them in both of hers.

"See," she added, nudging Fifi with her shoulder, "both of them born

under the Dark Star! It is war they shall live to see--war!"

"Under the Dark Star, Erlik," repeated the other girl, looking closely

into the two palms, "and there is war there!"

"And death?" inquired Sengoun gaily. "I don't care, if I can lead a

sotnia up Achi-Baba and twist the gullet of the Padisha before I say

Fifi--Nini!"

The gipsies searched his palm with intent and brilliant gaze.

"Zut!" said Fifi. "Je ne vois rien que d'l'amour et la guerre aux

dames!"

"T'en fais pas!" laughed Sengoun. "I ask no further favour of

Fortune; I'll manage my regiment myself. And, listen to me, Fifi," he

added with a frightful frown, "if the war you predict doesn't arrive,

I'll come back and beat you as though you were married to a Turk!"

While they still explored his palm, whispering together at intervals,

Sengoun caught the chorus of the air which the orchestra was playing,

and sang it lustily and with intense pleasure to himself.

Neeland, unquiet to discover how much these casual strangers knew

about his own and intimate affairs, had become silent and almost

glum.

But the slight gloom which invaded him came from resentment toward

those people who had followed him from Brookhollow to Paris, and who,

in the very moment of victory, had snatched that satisfaction from

him.

He thought of Kestner and of Breslau--of Scheherazade, and the

terrible episode in her stateroom.

Except that he had seized the box in the Brookhollow house, there was

nothing in his subsequent conduct on which he could plume himself. He

could not congratulate himself on his wisdom; sheer luck had carried

him through as far as the rue Soleil d'Or--mere chance, and that

capricious fortune which sometimes convoys the stupid, fatuous, and

astigmatic.

Then he thought of Rue Carew. And, in his bosom, an intense desire to

distinguish himself began to burn.

If there were any way on earth to trace that accursed box---He turned abruptly and looked at the two gipsies, who had relinquished

Sangoun's hand and who were still conversing together in low tones

while Sangoun beat time on the jingling table top and sang joyously

at the top of his baritone voice: