“Those are the terms, Señor Floris,” murmurs De Guerra, a snicker in his voice, and the six topers stand up, each man in his place, and each with flagon in his hand, filled to the brim with the same strong wine that faces De Vriendt. “Then DOWN!” cries Floris, and each man tosses off his ration with a smack of delight, at which the crowd cries bravo. But the contestants have hardly seated themselves and got pick at caviare or salted herring or potted anchovy, when the attendants have refilled their beakers, and Floris shouts: “Again!” With this they rise once more, and down flies the Rhenish wine; then take to eating—for with drunkenness goes gluttony. So the drinking bout goes on, viewed with varying faces by the crowd, the excitement growing higher; but none have faces like Guy Chester and Antony Oliver, for none, not even the greatest gambler in the town, has so high a stake at risk upon this battle of giants at the shrine of Bacchus. All the time the crowd gets greater, and dogs creep snarling in—they have scented the feast, and hope for bones and pickings—and the dresses of women can be seen in the great balcony used by musicians at the wedding banquets, that stands at the further end of the hall; and friends commence to send flagons of wine with their compliments and good wishes to the various contestants. But the drinking is even, flagon for flagon, each man tossing off his goblet at the same moment with the others, and then calling for another—though sometimes the brand of wine is changed to stimulate their appetites by varying flavors. Rothenberger has succeeded Markobrunner and been displaced by Hochheimer. It is the tenth round. Seven immense silver mugs of strongest Rhine wine are just passing the lips and sizzling down the gullets of the contestants. “At the fifteenth,” whispers Oliver. “Why not do it now?” says Guy in his ear. “No, it wouldn’t be prudent before the fifteenth,” returns the painter. “No one would believe that ten goblets would be the death of him.” A minute or two and the twelfth turn has passed, and after drinking this one of the contestants, the little weazened Italian, Guisseppi Pisa, attempting to rise from his chair—staggers, and goes down quietly under the table. “Do it now,” whispers Guy. “I dare not—not yet,” returns Oliver. The thirteenth round is quaffed amid laughter and cheers, and as De Guerra takes the goblet from his lips, Oliver’s face grows white and drawn, and Guy’s also, for to their horror they see the man they intended to poison at the fifteenth round, reel and fall insensible beneath the table. “Too late! My God, he’s escaped me,” falters Antony. “We can get the documents anyway, from his insensible carcass when the bout is over,” mutters the Englishman, recovering first.