well-cooked meat of the wapiti, though red wine faced them on the table. Each ate heartily; as though a long day were before them and not the shadow of the Long Night. There was no speech save that of the usual courtesies of the table. The fire, and the wind, and the watch seemed the only living things besides themselves, perched there between heaven and earth.
At length the meal was finished, and the two turned in their chairs towards the fire. There was no other light in the room, and on the faces of the two, still and cold, the flame played idly.
"When?" said Dubarre at last.
"Not yet," was the quiet reply.
"I was thinking of my first theft—an apple from my brother’s plate," said Dubarre, with a dry smile. "You?"
"I, of my first lie."
"That apple was the sweetest fruit I ever tasted."
"And I took the penalty of the lie, but I had no sorrow."
Again there was silence.
"Now?" asked Villiard, after an hour had passed.
"I am ready."
They came to the table.
"Shall we bind our eyes?" asked Dubarre. "I do not know the glasses that hold the poison."
"Nor I the bottle that held it. I will turn my back, and do you change about the glasses."
Villiard turned his face towards the timepiece on the wall. As he did so it began to strike—a clear, silvery chime: "One! two! three!"
Before it had finished striking both men were facing the glasses again.
"Take one," said Dubarre.
