Laudadio had firmly determined that he would
not leave Santa Croce till the clock should strike
the quarter to twelve. Never did hours appear so
interminable to him. Yet as they wore away, and
the moment, big with fate, approached, he
trembled at the nearness of the minute that was to
decide his fate. He had found in the adjoining
cloister the gravestone of some one who had died
at the age of thirty-seven, on the twenty-fifth of the
month, in the year eighteen 'twenty-eight. The
combination thus met with appeared to him a
wonderful confirmation of the justice of his expectations.
He was much comforted and strengthened
by it; and had several times wandered back into
the cloister to gaze on the auspicious numbers.
He was standing thus dreamily staring at them,
when the long-expected quarter to twelve was
tolled from the convent belfry. He started, and
all the blood in his body seemed to rush back to
his heart. It appeared to him that he would
fain have yet had one of those hours which had
passed so laggingly interposed between him and
the moment which now, at the last, he could not
prevent himself from regarding with as much of
sickening dread as of hope.

He left the church, however, at once, and
walked with a quicker step than usual to the
café in the piazza, at which he had agreed to
meet his faithful friend and admirer, Sestini.
The placid little cavaliere was at his tryst,
calmly sipping a glass of water into which he had
poured the remaining third of his little cup of
black coffee, after regaling himself with the other
two-thirds neat and hot; a favourite mode with
the Italians of spreading the enjoyment derivable
from three-halfpenny-worth of coffee over as large
space of time as possible. Sestini, little observant
as he was, could not help noticing the excited
manner, the haggard look, and the feverishly
gleaming eye of his friend. It still wanted a few
minutes of the hour, and Sestini tried to persuade
the old man to take some refreshment before
going out into the crowd with which the great
square was by this time full. But he could not
induce him even to sit down. So the two strongly
contrasted old men went out to make their way
through the crowd to the immediate front of the
hustings prepared for the drawing. The figure
and face of the old gambler, stooping with hoary
age, yet expressing in every shaking movement
and every restless glance an excess of highly-
strung nervous excitement, might well have
caused remark at any other time or place. But
amid the crowd in front of the lottery wheel
every one was too much occupied with self, and
strangely-moved faces were too common to
attract attention.

The band had already begun to play a noisy
lively air; the three magistrates in their gowns
and high round flat-topped cloth caps were in
their places; and two little boys in gay fancy
dresses were standing one on each side of that
terrible wheel—the instrument of torment little
less in amount and in intensity than that caused
by the other instrument of the same name the
express object of which was torture. And now
began the tedious process of unfolding the little
rolled-up scrolls containing the numbers, holding
them up to the public view, calling them aloud,
handing them from one to the other of the
presiding functionaries, and finally dropping them
one by one into the wheel. And once again
Laudadio thought that the minutes went slowly,
and that the preliminary formalities would never
be completed.

But at length the whole tale from One to
Ninety had been deposited in the wheel. The
music sounds; the little boys churn away at the
fateful churn; two or three turns have tumbled
the numbers into a confusion sufficient to make
—to all human ken—CHANCE the sole blind
master of the position of them; and then, amid
sudden and profound silence, the first number is
drawn. The boy plunges his bared arm into the
machine, brings out one rolled-up scroll between
his finger and thumb, holds it aloft, and passes
it, always keeping his hand at arm's length, to
one of the presiding trio. He unrols it, proclaims
aloud "EIGHTY-EIGHT," hands it to his
colleague, who holds it up aloft open to the
people, and passes it to the third officer, who
affixes it to the conspicuous board provided for
the purpose. Then out blare the trumpets again,
and out bursts a tempest of tongues. Nothing
is lost yet. Five numbers are to be drawn; and
there is yet room for a terno to come up—and to
spare. Those, indeed, who have betted that some
other number would come up first (which is
termed playing an "estratto determinato")—
those, indeed, have already lost; but for all
others "the game is still alive."

Again the music ceases, and again every voice
is suddenly hushed. The same mode of operation
is repeated, and this time "TWENTY-FIVE" is
called aloud, and takes its place on the board by
the side of its predecessor.

Again the music and the roar of voices burst
forth.

"It's right!" said Laudadio to his sympathising
friend, in a faint and choking voice. "Oh
yes! it's all right. I have no doubt; none."
And Sestini could feel the old man's arm shaking
as if he had been struck by sudden paralysis.

Once again the ceremony is repeated, and
"37" is the result.

"/ knew it! / knew it!" cried the old man,
trembling all over, while the big drops of
perspiration started to his brow. "Oh! there could
be no doubt. Of course I was certain of it."
And drawing from his pocket with difficulty, so
violently were his hands shaking, the ticket with
his numbers, he showed them to his friend,
carefully hiding with his lean old hand the sum for
which the ticket was made out.

"Ah, my dear friend," said the little cavaliere,
"if you had only played for an ambo, you would
have been all right." (The ambo is when two
numbers are named to come up.) "An ambo
makes a nice little bit of money, I wish it were
an ambo."