erhaps the pride and hope of others! Have you no tie, no
affection, no kindred; are you lord of yourself?"

Legard was moved by the tone of the stranger, as well as by the words.

"It is not the loss of money," said he, gloomily,--"it is the loss of
honour. To-morrow I must go forth a shunned and despised man,--I, a
gentleman and a soldier! They may insult me--and I have no reply!"

The Englishman seemed to muse, for his brow lowered, and he made no
answer. Legard threw himself back, overcome with his own excitement,
and wept like a child. The stranger, who imagined himself above the
indulgence of emotion (vain man!), woke from his revery at this burst
of passion. He gazed at first (I grieve to write) with a curl of the
haughty lip that had in it contempt; but it passed quickly away; and
the hard man remembered that he too had been young and weak, and his own
errors greater perhaps than those of the one he had ventured to despise.
He walked to and fro the room, still without speaking. At last he
approached the gamester, and took his hand.

"What is your debt?" he asked gently.

"What matters it?--more than I can pay."

"If life is a trust, so is wealth: _you_ have the first in charge for
others, _I_ may have the last. What is the debt?"

Legard started; it was a strong struggle between shame and hope. "If I
could borrow it, I could repay it hereafter,--I know I could; I would
not think of it otherwise."

"Very well, so be it,--I will lend you the money on one condition.
Solemnly promise me, on your faith as a soldier and a gentleman, that
you will not, for ten years to come--even if you grow rich, and can ruin
others--touch card or dice-box. Promise me that you will shun all gaming
for gain, under whatever disguise, whatever appellation. I will take
your word as my bond."

Legard, overjoyed, and scarcely trusting his senses, gave the promise.

"Sleep then, to-night, in hope and assurance of the morrow," said the
Englishman: "let this event be an omen to you, that while there is a
future there is no despair. One word more,--I do not want your thanks!
it is easy to be generous at the expense of justice. Perhaps I have
been so now. This sum, which is to save your life--a life you so little
value--might have blessed fifty human beings,--better men than either
the giver or receiver. What is given to error may perhaps be a wrong
to virtue. When you would ask others to support a career of blind and
selfish extravaga