"How he sweats!" he said, "and he never turned
a hair when he played Colet. I suppose he is nervous."
"Probably," I said.
And so they chattered and laughed--chattered and laughed, seeing
an ordinary game between the King and a marker; while I, for whom
the court had grown sombre as a dungeon, saw a villain struggling
in his own toils, livid with the fear of death, and tortured by
horrible apprehensions. Use and habit were still so powerful
with the man that he played on mechanically with his hands, but
his eyes every now and then sought mine with the look of the
trapped beast; and on these occasions I could see his lips move
in prayer or cursing. The sweat poured down his face as he moved
to and fro, and I, fancied that his features were beginning to
twitch. Presently--I have said that the light was failing, so
that it was not in my imagination only that the court was sombre
--the King held his ball. "My friend, your man is not well," he
said, turning to me.
"It is nothing, sire; the honour you do him makes him nervous," I
answered.
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