"Why dost thou not drink?" he said. "It is nectar for gods and men." "Thou forgettest," I replied, "that I have already drunk with DeNortier, and my head will stand no more at present." Suspicion died out of his eyes, and in its place there appeared a look of gentle merriment. "Ah! you boys! You boys!" he chuckled. "Wait until thou hast reached my years; then thy head will be stronger; thou wilt learn wisdom." Solemnly shaking his head, he poured another brimming goblet and slowly drank it down. "Such trinkets as these," he went on, still holding the massive goblet in his hand, "should belong to the faithful servants of Mother Church, to reward them for their constant prayer and vigil," and he fetched a great sigh, that caused the very candles on the wall to flare. "See the carving upon the sides of the goblet--a miter and robe. Who knows that I may not wear the miter?" His face brightened at the thought, and he looked at me inquiringly, a drunken smile upon his face. "A miter would surely become so pious a man," I said, "who spends his days and nights in vigil and fastings." His head had fallen to one side; his red cheeks shone in the candlelight; the bald pate; the hair white around the edges; his cassock ruffled and disheveled--surely he was a sight to make the gods weep. I judged that the moment was ripe to broach the subject. I looked cautiously around--not a soul was in sight but the drunken priest. I leaned forward. "Why not?" I said. "Why not? My uncle, thou knowest, is an Archbishop, a few words spoken in his ear by one whom he loves, and presto--Francis, Bishop of the Holy Catholic Church!" I leaned back and watched the effect of this announcement upon him. A look of avarice replaced that of drunken wisdom, and bending, he placed his head upon his hands, looking up at me. His eyes swam with the liquor he had drunk. I saw plainly that he was hesitating. He sat thus for a moment; then looking at me broke the silence: "Sayest thou so? Would I had known this before; rather had I burnt my right hand to the stump, than to have helped to bring thee here," and he broke into sobs, the tears running between his fingers and mingling with the little puddle of wine upon the table. "My last chance gone," he gurgled, "gone!--gone!" "No," I continued, still watching narrowly his face, "thou hast only to say one word, and the place is thine." "What?" he cried, looking up, a smile swiftly replacing the tears. "But no; promises are easy to make, hard to keep. How do I know that thou canst fulfill that which thou dost now promise?"