It was now the turn of the Teuton. He drew German beer from Togoland, Cameroon; German South-West and South-East Africa yielded an indifferent brand of the beverage. German New Guinea in the Pacific, the Solomon, Caroline, and other islands, with Asian Kiao-Chao, merely wetted the bottom of the glass with a pale fluid, German beer by courtesy. "_Sapperlot_! _Der Teufel_! _Kreuzdonnerwetter_!" He tasted, spat, stamped, and sputtered forth strange expletives, M. Prud’homme’s terror at these unearthly utterances being provocative of more humour of the Rabelaisian kind. Then he decided to try again, excited to envy by the spectacle of the stout Briton drawing gold from Australia, gold from Canada, gold from New Zealand and the West Indies, and gold from Ceylon, gold from the Crown Colonies in China, gold from the Gold Coast, gold from Rhodesia and Nigeria, gold from everywhere; filling the capacious pockets of his blue brass-buttoned coat, of his tight breeches, of his nankeen waistcoat, until he bulked enormously, a Bull of Gargantuan size. Such wealth roused respect in Prud’homme, who esteems the yellow metal. He embraced the Briton, heartily congratulating him. This roused the Teuton’s ire. He seized the spigot and once more plunged it into Germany, Prussia, Bavaria, Saxony—each of the States yielding beer, beer, BEER. He went on, tapping, filling, and guzzling.... Twelve full tumblers and he had begun to swell most horribly. Fifteen—and his rotundity equalled that of John Bull. But one State remained untapped. He swilled down the twenty-fourth bock, drawn out of Lubeck—plunged the spigot into the Reichsland—once Alsace-Lorraine—— And the big glass crimsoned with a sudden spurt of blood. It was over in an instant, the comedians had skipped nimbly from the scene, the globe had developed a pair of very thin human legs and followed them off at a proscenium-wing, before many of those who had witnessed, clearly understood. Only the men and women of Gallic race among the cosmopolitan, polyglot audience answered with a deep, inward thrill to the ruby gush that told how the blood of France still ran red in the throbbing arteries of the beloved, reft, alienated province, in spite of her forty-five years of separation, in defiance of the loathed laws, customs, language, service, all the gyves rivetted on her by the Teuton, her conqueror. Now round after round of applause signified their comprehension. But the comedians did not answer the call. Von Herrnung, who had worn the same contemptuous smile for every phase of the clumsy by-play, relaxed his stiff features. A stout tenor from the Opera appeared and sang a Spring song by Tchaikovsky, following it with the exquisite Serenade of Rimsky Korsakov, "Sleep, Sad Friend."