e, they were
not the identical casks out of which the old monks drew their potions,
but they were now, as then, filled with the produce of the vine-clad
hills of Hegyalla, with the rosy wine of Menes, with the pride of
OEdenburg, and the mild juice of the careful vintage of Rust.

"A hundred and fifty casks at eighteen, four-and-twenty, and thirty
ducats the cask," said the agent, beginning the inventory.

Meanwhile Wendel went from one cask to another, the waxlight in his
hand. He stood a little time before each, carefully wiping off with a
clean linen cloth the very slightest trace of mould. "This was my
favorite walk," said he to Anton. "For twenty years I have attended
every vintage as a purchaser. Those were happy days, Mr. Wohlfart, and
now they are gone forever. I have often walked up and down here, looking
at the sunlight that shone down upon the barrels, and thinking of those
that walked here before me. To-day I am here for the last time. And what
will become of the wine? It will all be exported; they will drink it in
foreign parts, without knowing its merits; and some brandy distiller
will take possession of this cellar, or some new brewer will keep his
Bavarian beer in it. The old times are over for me too. This is the
noblest wine of all," said he, going up to a particular cask. "I might
have excepted it from my surrender. But what should I do with this
barrel only? Drink it? I shall never drink wine more. It shall go with
the rest, only I must take leave of it." He filled his glass. "Did you
ever drink wine like that before?" asked he, mournfully, holding out the
glass to Anton, who willingly owned he never had.

They slowly reascended the steps. Arrived at the top, the wine-merchant
cast one last long look into the cellar, then turned round like one
fully resolved, locked the secret door, took out the key, and laid it
solemnly in Anton's hand. "There is the key of your property. Our
accounts are settled. Fare you well, gentlemen." Slowly and with bent
head he went through the ruined cloister, looking, in the gray light of
the early morning, like the ghost of some ancient cellarer still
haunting the relics of his past glory.

The agent called after him, "But our breakfast, Mr. Wendel!" The old man
shook his head, and made a gesture of refusal.

Yes, indeed, the breakfast. Every transaction was drowned in wine in
this town. The long sittings in drinking-houses, which even the bad
times did not prevent,