“But we must be prepared in case he does not,” says the Englishman; then he adds slowly: “Perhaps I can aid you; I have here,” he produces from his breast a small glass flagon of Venetian manufacture, this is protected from breakage by golden filigree work and its stopper carefully sealed, in it is a colorless, limpid fluid. “What is it? Poison?” asks the painter. “The poison of the Borgias?” “No, the poison of the Antilles. This is the juice of the Manchineel tree, prepared by the Indians of the Carrabees, after some secret process of their own. You know the wonderful properties of the tree; to sleep under it even for the night is death. It is peculiarly volatile, therefore I keep it sealed. I have carried this with me in case I should be captured and given over to the rack, to make me sleep so that my tortured lips can tell no secrets of my Queen. If it should happen that the painter doesn’t drink Vasco de Guerra insensible and inert, a few drops of this in his flagon will make the Spanish spy sleep forever.” “Then if Frans Floris doesn’t succeed—the poison of the Antilles,” mutters the painter. “It is his life or ours.” After a second’s thought he continues: “I must kill mine enemy Vasco anyway. Were he only made insensible, even did I recover the letters of Louis of Nassau, he would still suspect me. Some day he would get other proof. If I don’t kill him now I must fly at once, and William the Silent will have no spy at Alva’s elbow. For my country’s cause, I stay here. At the drinking bout Vasco de Guerra dies. The lion’s jaws gape for me. By heaven, they shall not close!” “That’s well said,” returns Guy, briefly. “Put a dose of this into the Spanish spy.” He presses the flagon of Manchineel poison into the painter’s hand, but suddenly looks doubtful, and asks anxiously this pertinent question: “How, by all the saints, will you get this into Vasco’s drinking cup and not into the flagons of the others?” CHAPTER VI. THE DRINKING BOUT AT THE PAINTED INN. This question seems to stagger the artist. He mutters feebly, “How?” then says: “Let me think. I know the customs of this country,” and meditates with knitted brows. A few moments thought and he cries: “I have solved the problem.” “How?” asks the Englishman eagerly.