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Updated: May 16, 2025
And soft tones to the music of the flute shall meet and mingle with my verse, which beside famous Dirke hath come to light after long time.
He watched his progress with a curious interest, noting how the figure was at one moment lost in the shadow, only to emerge, the next instant, into the full light that streamed from some nocturnal haunt. As he came up with Dirke, the electric light over the entrance to the saloon shone full upon them both. Dirke waited for him to speak.
The ring which you are pleased to wear so so conspicuously is the property of The ring, Monsieur, is sacred to me!" "Sacred!" Dirke repeated. "Sacred!" The word was an arraignment, not to be overlooked. "Monsieur!" the count cried. "I was merely struck by your peculiar treatment of sacred things," Dirke replied, his tone dropping to the level of absolute indifference.
To him and to Zeus at once did wise Alkmene bear the strength of twin sons prevailing in battle. Dull is that man who lendeth not his voice to Herakles, nor hath in remembrance continually the waters of Dirke that nurtured him and Iphikles.
Just as surely as the white hand placed a coin upon the black, the red had it; just as certainly as the diamonds flashed above the red, the ball found its way into the black. The handsome face grew slightly strained and eager so slightly that the change would have escaped the ordinary observer. For the first time Dirke found a satisfaction in the contemplation of those high-bred features.
"O ray of the Sun, the fairest That over the rills of Dirke To Thebe the seven-gated Wast ever of yore unveil'd The eyelid of heaven gilding; At length thy splendour on us was shed, Urging to hasty reverse of rein The Argive warrior white of shield And laden in panoply all complete, Who sped in van of the routed.
"Because I am armed, and you are not." At the word Dirke had drawn his right hand from his pocket; the barrel of a pistol gleamed white between them. The Frenchman recoiled. His face was not pleasant to look upon, yet his antagonist would have been sorry to lose the sight of it. Dirke stood, tall and slim and commanding, his face set in the accustomed lines.
Oft did they bind about their hair a crowd of crowns, and showed themselves unto the waters of Dirke or on Eurotas' banks , the son of Iphikles a fellow-townsman of the Spartoi's race, the son of Tyndareus inhabiting the upland dwelling-place of Therapna among the Achaians.
Dabney Dirke, with his tragic intensity, had often been the occasion of humor in other men, but it is safe to say that his own mind had never been crossed by a single gleam of that illumining, revivifying flame. For that reason he took his fate and himself more seriously, Heaven help him! than even his peculiar ill-fortune warranted.
"Monsieur!" he cried, and there was a savage note in his voice, which Dirke would not have credited him with. "Monsieur! If you decline to permit me to pay for that ring to-morrow, I am ready to fight for it to-night!" He pronounced the word "fight" with a peculiar, hissing emphasis. "Not to-night," Dirke rejoined quietly. "And why not to-night, Monsieur, may I ask?"
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