diligently fell to, without waiting to be pressed. When he had satisfied himself: “Your kitchen,” said he, “is not ill-furnished, I perceive; if your cellar corresponds to it, I shall almost praise your housekeeping.”
Bronkhorst nodded to his Butler, who directly filled the cup of welcome with common table wine, tasted, and presented it to his master, and the latter cleared it at a draught to the health of his guest. Franz pledged him honestly, and Bronkhorst asked: “Now, fair sir, what say you to the wine?”
“I say,” answered Franz, “that it is bad, if it is the best sort in your catacombs; and good, if it is your meanest number.”
“You are a judge,” replied the Ritter: “Here, Butler, bring us of the mother-cask.”
The Butler put a stoup upon the table, as a sample, and Franz having tasted it, said, “Ay, this is genuine last year’s growth; we will stick by this.”
The Ritter made a vast pitcher of it be brought in; soon drank himself into hilarity and glee beside his guest; began to talk of his campaigns, how he had been encamped against the Venetians, had broken through their barricado, and butchered the Italian squadrons, like a flock of sheep. In this narrative he rose into such a warlike enthusiasm, that he hewed down bottles and glasses, brandishing the carving-knife like a lance, and in the fire of action came so near his messmate with it, that the latter was in fright for his nose and ears.
It grew late, but no sleep came into the eyes of the Ritter; he seemed to be in his proper element, when he got to speak of his Venetian campaigns. The vivacity of his narration increased with every cup he emptied; and Franz was afraid that this would prove the prologue to the melodrama, in which he himself was to play the most interesting part. To learn whether it was meant that he should lodge within the Castle, or without, he demanded a bumper by way of good-night. Now, he thought, his host would first force him to drink more wine, and if he refused, would, under pretext of a drinking quarrel, send him forth, according to the custom of the house, with the usual viaticum. Contrary to his expectation, the request was granted without remonstrance; the Ritter instantly cut asunder the thread of his narrative, and said: “Time will wait on no one; more of it tomorrow!”
