“That’s it!” cries Guy, forgetting his Spanish character, “English malt for me!” then checks himself and mutters: “I’ve been drinking Rhine wine all day.” His host departing, he lounges about while his meal is being prepared, tracing figures with his toe on the white sand of the floor, and reading among other placards on the walls of this, the wine room of the inn, one announcing the grand drinking bout between Frans de Vriendt, nicknamed Floris, and the six most celebrated topers of Brussels. This is placarded side by side with Alva’s generous offer of three thousand carolus guilders for the Englishman’s head. A moment later he finds himself placed at a table near the one occupied by the six champions of Brussels. Carelessly he gets interested in them, for they are six of the most remarkable looking people his eyes have ever rested upon. During their conversation he catches their names. Vasco de Guerra, apparently the leader of the party; Tomasito, called by his companions the one-eyed, an ensign of De Billy’s Waloons, who lost an optic at Aremburg’s defeat, and Pablo Mendez are Spanish officers, and apparently, from their conversation, consider themselves nobles of rank and distinction. The other champions are more modest in their self-assertion, except as regards the amount of liquid that they can consume. Two are addressed as Alphonse de la Noel and Conrad de Ryk, both Netherlanders, one of Brabant and the other of Holland; the last member of the party is a sneaking little Italian, designated as Guisseppi Pisa, a dealer in perfumes and women’s powders from the capital. Having nothing better to do as he drinks his beer, Guy Chester listens to their conversation in a languid, dreamy way, as the exertions of the night have made him very tired. “Par Dios!” remarks Vasco de Guerra, who is tall and has big, opaque, fishy eyes, and a long drooping mustache which has in it that single lock of grey which is generally considered proof of extreme dissipation, “I see our adversary Floris has painted a caricature of us.” “Diablo! Is it insulting?” cries Tomasito, the one-eyed, a little Spaniard of diabolical disposition, famous as well for his cruelty on the battle-field as for his dissipation in the banquet hall. “No,” says Mendez, laughing, “only he has painted us all under the table.” “Sapristi!” chuckles the Italian Pisa. “He may paint us under the table, but he can’t drink us under the table.” Then he calls: “Pot-boy! another stoup of strong Rhine wine. I must get in training for to-morrow’s bout. Marietta is coming from Brussels to do honor to my drinking powers.” This is emphasized by a hideous wink and a leer at his companions, who cry: “Brava! the health of Marietta, the prettiest light of love in Brussels!” and pour down great flagons of wine in compliment to wicked little Guisseppi, whose powders and laces have captured the leader of the demi-monde of the capital.