“Yes, but that is only postponing my destruction. Vasco’s suspicions are aroused—the torture chamber gapes for me. I shall have to fly. I can no longer do the work I had laid out for myself.” This is sighed from white lips. But another shout goes up from the surrounding crowd; at the fourteenth round two of the remaining Drunkards of Brussels have gone down. Two more are left for the painter to vanquish, but these are very tough ones. De Vriendt smiles in triumph; his Flemish face, though red and flushed, appears mocking now; but his legs are a little shaky. Thus four more rounds pass; another of the Drunkards of Brussels joins the company of those beneath the table. Now only one, little Tomasito, is standing up for the ducats his friends have wagered upon him, and the honor of the capital; when suddenly (for Guy has turned away his head, only awaiting his opportunity at the finish of the bout to rob De Guerra of the papers, and cares but little who wins the contest) the Englishman feels his sleeve plucked, and looking up, sees Antony’s eyes blazing. “He’s recovering!” whispers Oliver. “Who?” “Vasco! See him! He is staggering up to his feet again. He will win the bout. It’s a trick—a trick to gain the advantage of so many flagons over De Vriendt.” This is the feeling of Floris’s friends; and when De Guerra, staggering up, shouts: “Another stoup of Rhine wine for the Drunkards of Brussels,” they interpose and engage in angry altercation. But De Vriendt says: “I give him the advantage of five flagons, I will finish him up also.” Another round is quaffed. Before it little Tomasito goes down as if struck by a cannon ball, leaving only De Guerra and Floris standing fronting each other, looking in each other’s faces, one with the smile of the Fleming, the other filled with that curious rage peculiar to the Spaniard, who, when excited, becomes savage in everything—savage in war, savage in play, savage in love. Each pours down another beaker, and Floris is reeling. “Now’s your last chance,” whispers Guy. Calling a waiter Antony says: “A flagon of your strongest Rhine wine at once.” While De Vriendt and the Spaniard are appetizing themselves for another bout, one eating caviare savagely and the other lovingly dallying with some pickled cod’s livers, to give him greater thirst, is the opportunity of Oliver. The waiter, pouring the wine from the flask into the flagon, goes his way, and a moment after, with a hand that has become deft by using the delicate brushes of his art, the hunted artist skillfully unseals the little vial and drops unnoticed a portion of its subtle poison into the beaker. “Be sure you give him enough,” whispers Guy, who has been standing in front of his friend to screen him, though the crowd is so great and the excitement so intense, bets being offered two to one on the Spaniard, it would have been unnoticed had no precaution been taken.