My lord was pursuing with a vengeance our
senseless fashion of wasting in drinking bouts powder that would
have been better spent against the Indians. The noise increased.
The door was flung open, and there issued a tide of drawers and
servants headed by mine host himself, and followed by a hail of
such minor breakables as the house contained and by Olympian
laughter.
I made my way past the indignant host and his staff, and standing
upon the threshold looked at the riot within. The long room was
thick with the smoke of tobacco and the smoke of powder, through
which the many torches burned yellow. Upon the great table wine
had been spilt, and dripped to swell a red pool upon the floor.
Underneath the table, still grasping his empty tankard, lay the first
of my lord's guests to fall, an up-river Burgess with white hair. The
rest of the company were fast reeling to a like fate. Young Hamor
had a fiddle, and, one foot upon a settle, the other upon the table,
drew across it a fast and furious bow. Master Pory, arrived at the
maudlin stage, alternately sang a slow and melancholy ditty and
wiped the tears from his eyes with elaborate care. Master Edward
Sharpless, now in a high voice, now in an undistinguishable
murmur, argued some imaginary case. Peaceable Sherwood was
drunk, and Giles Allen, and Pettiplace Clause.
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