In the center is a large oaken table, with seats for seven, covered with everything that can increase the thirst and appetite for wine—salt fish, caviare, and viands steeped in oil, which is supposed to develop the capacity of man for liquor—all these decorated and arranged in highest style of Netherland garniture; for there are flowers on the table, and a wreath of roses with which to crown the victor. The whole is a horrible hurly-burly of art, mediæval luxury and barbaric vice. Six seats about the board are occupied by the Drunkards of Brussels, Vasco de Guerra sitting at the foot of the table as manager and captain of his band of topers. Each man has before him an immense silver frankforter or beaker glass holding a quantity of wine that would put a temperance society in convulsions of righteous indignation. The seat at the head of the table is reserved for the one man who contests against the many; the glory of Antwerp; the great genius who is going to drown it in drink; the great toper who, in honor of his city and a wager of five hundred guilders, is going to drink these six other topers under the table; while all around this board dedicated to gluttony and to Bacchus stands a melange of the masculine society of the town, from Spanish General Vargas to little Ensign de Busaco; from the fat merchant prince to the brawny representative of the Butchers’ Guild—even to little Achille Touraine, who comes crawling and sneaking in between the legs of the assembly to reach his master, getting viciously kicked and spurred in this business by several dandy officers whose uniforms he disarranges in his transit. “I am here as you directed, Monsieur Oliver,” he pants. “That is, part of me—one of the officer’s spurs lanced me like my father does his bleeding patients, and my face has been scraped as papa does his shaving customers. But I—I couldn’t get here before, it took so long for Marvedie and me to eat the last of the pigeon pie.” Here the boy’s voice is drowned by the buzz that greets the entrance of the painter; as De Vriendt comes striding in, his pale Flemish face and mild blue eyes lighted with a convivial smile, while tossing his hat on high he cries: “Welcome, brother junketers of Brussels!” taking his seat at the head of the table. This is responded to in kind, little Tomasito remarking: “Greeting, brother pig of Antwerp.” A sally of mediæval wit, that makes the crowd roar with laughter, though Floris’s pale face grows red with humiliation—for one moment. The next he has forgotten all save the pleasure of the wine cup, for a serving man places before him an immense Frankforter of strongest Markobrunner, and in the love of the liquor he forgets his love of the esteem of his fellows and townsmen. Rising from his chair he calls out: “Let us begin, Drunkards of Brussels. The terms of the wager are settled. I drink every one of you under the table, and leave you all there.”