He is welcomed at the door by mine host, the obsequious Herman Van Oncle, who is making a fortune out of his famous supper parties and weddings, for this is the house of festivity par excellence of the town. Den Rooden Leeuw (“Red Lion”) may be more aristocratic, but for wine bibbing, beer drinking and gorgeous wedding festivities that last three days at a time, “The Painted House” of Antwerp easily holds the vantage. “Welcome to the Painted House!” cries the voluble innkeeper. “Welcome señor—colonel?” “No, captain,” says Guy. “Welcome to anyone who is in the employ of the State, civil or military.” “I would like a room and bed.” “Impossible!” “Impossible?” “Yes; my house has been crowded all day.” “You must give me a cot.” “Well, a cot over the stable. My house has been full—you have heard the news! The great drinking bout takes place to-morrow between our celebrated artist, Frans Floris and the Six Drunkards of Brussels. People have come from the neighboring places to see it. A delegation is here from Brussels itself. It is rumored that the Duke in person will arrive to-morrow. Perhaps he will honor me—perhaps he will come to see the greatest drinking bout that has ever taken place in Flanders, Brabant or Holland! I shall have twenty barrels of Rhine wine on tap.” “Twenty barrels for six drunkards?” laughs Chester. “Oh no; all the town will be here, all the town will get drunk also!” “I wish the town would be more quiet,” says Guy, who thinks he will have little chance of sleep, judging by the convivial sounds that come to them from within. “Hush!” whispers the innkeeper nervously, as they enter. “Don’t disturb them. They are,” and his eyes expand in admiration, “they are the Six Drunkards of Brussels taking supper!” “Apparently the Six Drunkards of Brussels,” remarks Guy, who is unimpressed by the sounding title, “are not holding themselves back much for to-morrow. They are doing pretty well now.” “Yes, that is the beauty of it,” says mine host, waving his Flemish hands in admiration. “That is the reason they are called drunkards; nothing will ever make them drunk. They have finished six gallons of wine and are just commencing. They have a lovely pigeon pie in front of them; I made it myself from birds furnished by Señor Vasco de Guerra himself. He is the leader of the Six Drunkards, though the betting is still two to one on our Netherland painter, the greatest artist of his day, the Raphael of the low countries, our honor, our glory, our debtor (for he owes me four thousand Carolus guilders), but still the pride of Antwerp! Will you not have bite and sup, señor Capitan, before retiring to the attic over the stable?” “Yes, a quart of Rhine wine will be enough for me,” says Guy. “Or, rather,” he suggests, “as you are celebrated for your beer, I will take some of that,” the Englishman upholding his national beverage. “The finest in all Flanders. And then we have some malt from London.”