how could I keep the tears from my eyes? And as they came
welling up--tears of appreciation for the generous fineness of his
spirit--he took them to be tears of grief, brought on by thoughts of
home and friends and all those haunting memories. But he was
equal to the occasion.

In a little vacant space he made a circle of cigarettes and small
Belgian coins. In the center he placed a small box, and on it laid a
ruler. "This is the roulette wheel at Monte Carlo, and you are the
rich American," he whispered, and with a snap of the finger he
spun the ruler round. Whenever it stopped, he presented me my
prize with sundry winkings and chucklings, interrupted by furtive
glances towards the door.

Rouge-et-noir upon a prison floor! To him existence was such a
game--red life or black death, as the fates ordained. His spirit was
contagious, and I found myself smiling through my tears. When he
saw his task accomplished, gathering in his coins, he crawled
away.

His was a restless spirit. Only once did I see him steadfastly quiet.
That was the next morning, when he sat with his eyes fixed upon
an opening in the shutter. He insisted upon my taking his seat, and
adjusting my angle of vision properly. There, framed in a window
across the forbidden courtyard, was a pretty girl watering flowers.
She was indeed a distracting creature, and de Burgher danced
around me with unfeigned glee. His previous experience with
Americans had evidently led him to believe that we were all
connoisseurs in pretty girls. I tried valiantly to uphold our national
reputation, but my thoughts at the time were much more heavenly