Captain John
Martin, sitting with outstretched legs, called now for a fresh
tankard, which he emptied at a gulp; now for his pistols, which, as
fast as my lord's servants brought them to him new primed, he
discharged at the ceiling. The loud wind rattled doors and
windows, and made the flame of the torches stream sideways. The
music grew madder and madder, the shots more frequent, the
drunken voices thicker and louder.
The master of the feast carried his wine better than did his guests,
or had drunk less, but his spirit too was quite without bounds. A
color burned in his cheeks, a wicked light in his eyes; he laughed
to himself. In the gray smoke cloud he saw me not, or saw me only
as one of the many who thronged the doorway and stared at the
revel within. He raised his silver cup with a slow and wavering
hand. "Drink, you dogs!" he chanted. "Drink to the Santa Teresa!
Drink to to-morrow night! Drink to a proud lady within my arms
and an enemy in my power!"
The wine that had made him mad had maddened those others,
also. In that hour they were dead to honor. With shameless
laughter and as little spilling as might be, they raised their tankards
as my lord raised his. A stone thrown by some one behind me
struck the cup from my lord's hand, sending it clattering to the
floor and dashing him with the red wine.
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