"Shall I fill for you, signori," continued Belcastro, taking out the stoppers and filling our cups from one of the flasks; then, as if inadvertently, he filled his own from the other, and drank it off. The commander of Malta crossed himself: his brow was black as night, but his emotion was unnoticed; he took up his cup, and bowing to the host, drained the bright Muscatelle fearlessly. I had no pretence for delay, and to have lingered would have seemed cowardice to Castelermo. It was a horrid dilemma. My brain reeled, my pulses beat thick and fast, my heart sank, and my whole soul was troubled with sensations such as I had never before experienced—and certainly never have since. It was a frightful moment of doubt and agony. But I drank off the wine (which, for aught that I knew, was charged with a deadly drug), resolving to run the Cavaliere Galdino through the body, the instant I felt the least symptom of illness from it. "Well, signori, I hope you like my favourite wine," said he, as we set down our cups; a dark smile gathering on his sombre features. But Baptistello, too, was smiling; and I gathered comfort from that. The liquor tasted like ordinary Muscatelle: a little sweeter perhaps in flavour. We had soon no doubt, from the grave, grim, and altered aspect of the cavaliere, that he had filled his own goblet with the poisoned wine intended for our destruction (as it had, perhaps, already been for others) and drugged with an infusion of Solarium, or the deadly nightshade; called Bella-donna by the Italians, because ladies make a cosmetic of the juice. I felt that our safety was entirely owing to Castelermo’s presence of mind in changing the stoppers, and became deeply grateful to Varro for his tact and friendly warning. An awkward pause ensued as we set down our cups. It was a grave moment for us all: we felt in our hearts that a terrible crisis was past. But for my friend’s peculiar tact and stern example, I would have flung the goblet at Galdino’s head on his invitation to drink, and by refusing to taste the Muscatelle have discovered the dark suspicions we entertained. However, we were safe, while this modern Borgia had fallen into his own snare. "Come, signori, why pause you thus? You seem not to have relished the wine," said our entertainer, again filling his silver cup from the fatal vase, and draining it to the dregs. "Buono! of all our Italian wines, I prefer the Muscatelle; but this, of course, I produce only on certain occasions, and to certain friends," he added, with a hideous laugh, which made the dark corners of the hall echo hollowly. My heart chilled with abhorrence of the man, and apprehension of what was to ensue. "Croce di Malta!" muttered Marco, surveying him with a glance of stern curiosity; "his potion operates already." "His death rests with himself—the guilt, I mean: the deed was his own doing," said I, in the same low tone.