"What is your will," he said, "Master Flammock? or what are your commands, since it is my lord's pleasure that they shall be laws to me for a time?" "Only a cup of wine, good Meister Keller-master--butler, I mean." "I am glad you remember the name of mine office," said Reinold, with some of the petty resentment of a spoiled domestic, who thinks that a stranger has been irregularly put in command over him. "A flagon of Rhenish, if you love me," answered the Fleming, "for my heart is low and poor within me, and I must needs drink of the best." "And drink you shall," said Reinold, "if drink will give you the courage which perhaps you want."--He descended to the secret crypts, of which he was the guardian, and returned with a silver flagon, which might contain about a quart.--"Here is such wine," said Reinold, "as thou hast seldom tasted," and was about to pour it out into a cup. "Nay, the flagon--the flagon, friend Reinold; I love a deep and solemn draught when the business is weighty," said Wilkin. He seized on the flagon accordingly, and drinking a preparatory mouthful, paused as if to estimate the strength and flavour of the generous liquor. Apparently he was pleased with both, for he nodded in approbation to the butler; and, raising the flagon to his mouth once more, he slowly and gradually brought the bottom of the vessel parallel with the roof of the apartment, without suffering one drop of the contents to escape him. "That hath savour, Herr Keller-master," said he, while he was recovering his breath by intervals, after so long a suspense of respiration; "but, may Heaven forgive you for thinking it the best I have ever tasted! You little know the cellars of Ghent and of Ypres." "And I care not for them," said Reinold; "those of gentle Norman blood hold the wines of Gascony and France, generous, light, and cordial, worth all the acid potations of the Rhine and the Neckar." "All is matter of taste," said the Fleming; "but hark ye--Is there much of this wine in the cellar?" "Methought but now it pleased not your dainty palate?" said Reinold. "Nay, nay, my friend," said Wilkin, "I said it had savour--I may have drunk better--but this is right good, where better may not be had.--Again, how much of it hast thou?" "The whole butt, man," answered the butler; "I have broached a fresh piece for you." "Good," replied Flammock; "get the quart-pot of Christian measure; heave the cask up into this same buttery, and let each soldier of this castle be served with such a cup as I have here swallowed. I feel it hath done me much good--my heart was sinking when I saw the black smoke arising from mine own fulling-mills yonder. Let each man, I say, have a full quart-pot--men defend not castles on thin liquors."