_Strange is the game of Rouge et Noir,— Never a point have the little ones won. The winners are strong and flushed with gain, The losers are weak with want and pain, And still the game goes on._
But those rich players grew so very few, So many grew the poor ones, that one day They rose up from that table, side by side, Calm, countless, terrible—they rose and cried In one great voice that shook the heavens wide, “WE WILL NOT PLAY!”
_Where is the game of Rouge et Noir? Where is the wealth of yesterday? What availeth the power ye tell, And the skill in the game ye play so well? If the players will not play?_
The world was full of the battle, The whole world far and wide; Men and women and children Were fighting on either side.
I was sent from the hottest combat With a message of life and death, Black with smoke and red with blood, Weary and out of breath,
Forced to linger a moment, And bind a stubborn wound, Cursing the hurt that kept me back From the fiery battle-ground.
When I found a cheerful stranger, Calm, critical, serene, Well sheltered from all danger, Painting a battle-scene.
He was cordially glad to see me— The coolly smiling wretch— And inquired with admiration, “Do you mind if I make a sketch?”
So he had me down in a minute, With murmurs of real delight; My “color” was “delicious,” My “action” was “just right!”
And he prattled on with ardor Of the moving scene below; Of the “values” of the smoke-wreaths, And “the splendid rush and go”
Of the headlong desperate charges Where a thousand lives were spent; Of the “massing” in the foreground With the “middle distance” blent.
Said I, “You speak serenely Of the living death in view. These are human creatures dying— Are you not human too?
“This is a present battle, Where all men strive to-day. How does it chance you sit apart? Which is your banner—say!”
His fresh cheek blanched a little, But he answered with a smile That he fought not on either side; He was watching a little while.
“Watching!” said I, “and neutral! Neutral in times like these!” And I plucked him off his sketching stool And brought him to his knees.
I stripped him of his travelling cloak And showed him to the sky: By his uniform—a traitor! By his handiwork—a spy!