tle had gone the way of the second, and Mr. Bearsley's steward being
a man of extremely temperate habit, it follow: that most of the wine had
found its way down the lieutenant's thirsty gullet.

It was perhaps a more potent vintage than he had at first suspected, and
as the torpor produced by the dinner and the earlier, fuller wine was
wearing off, it was succeeded by an exhilaration that played havoc with
the few wits that Mr. Butler could call his own.

The steward was deeply learned in wines and wine growing and in very
little besides; consequently the talk was almost confined to that
subject in its many branches, and he could be interesting enough, like
all enthusiasts. To a fresh burst of praise from Butler of the ruby
vintage to which he had been introduced, the steward presently responded
with a sigh:

"Indeed, as you say, Captain, a great wine. But we had a greater."

"Impossible, by God," swore Butler, with a hiccup.

"You may say so; but it is the truth. We had a greater; a wonderful,
clear vintage it was, of the year 1798--a famous year on the Douro, the
quite most famous year that we have ever known. Mr. Bearsley sell some
pipes to the monks at Tavora, who have bottle it and keep it. I beg him
at the time not to sell, knowing the value it must come to have one day.
But he sell all the same. Ah, meu Deus!" The steward clasped his hands
and raised rather prominent eyes to the ceiling, protesting to his Maker
against his master's folly. "He say we have plenty, and now"--he spread
fat hands in a gesture of despair--"and now we have none. Some sons of
dogs of French who came with Marshal Soult happen this way on a forage
they discover the wine and they guzzle it like pigs." He swore, and his
benignity was eclipsed by wrathful memory. He heaved himself up in a
passion.

"Think of that so priceless vintage drink like hogwash, as Mr. Bearsley
say, by those god-dammed French swine, not a drop--not a spoonful
remain. But the monks at Tavora still have much of what they buy, I am
told. They treasure it for they know good wine. All priests know good
wine. Ah yes! Goddam!" He fell into deep reflection.

Lieutenant Butler stirred, and became sympathetic.

"'San infern'l shame," said he indignantly. "I'll no forgerrit when I...
meet the French." Then he too fell into reflection.

He was a good Catholic, and, moreover, a Catholic who did not take
things for granted. The sloth and self-indulgence of the clergy in
P