At this suggestion Oliver pours a double dose into the flagon. Then, handing it to Achille, who has been devoting his time to sucking the oranges thrown from the table by the reeling and unsteady hands of the contestants, he whispers: “Take this to the Spaniard, Vasco de Guerra.” “Yes!” “Be sure! The one with the black mustache with the single gray lock!” “Certainly, the brunette, I’m not a fool!” “Give it to him with the compliments and good wishes of Mademoiselle Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker. Quick! get it to him at once!” As the two contestants rise and confront each other for another round, the Spaniard standing up more strongly, for his tactics have given him a great advantage, the boy Achille glides to De Guerra, gives him the beaker prepared for him by the hand of the hunted one, and whispers words into his ear that makes a flush of delight run over the drunken redness of his face. Tossing aside the goblet that was to his hand, Vasco de Guerra cries: “This is old red Rhine wine; I drink this, my reeling Floris, to the beauty of Antwerp!” And clapping the flagon to his lips he pours down the whole stoup in one long continued, triumphant gulp. Then looking at his rival the joy of winning comes into Vasco de Guerra’s eye, for the painter, having drunk his flagon, can scarce keep his feet. “Malediction!” whispers Oliver, “The drug does not work.” “Wait,” answers Guy. Then, too anxious to speak, their faces distorted with suspense, the two gaze on while the contesting topers sink into their chairs and fortify themselves with condiments for the next round. As the Spaniard eats he smiles on the painter, whose hands seem scarce able to do their office. But their goblets are re-filled, and the two rise once more, Floris supporting himself with one hand, as his feet need help now. “Drink!” says De Guerra, and the painter manages to get his portion down, his competitor standing firm, erect and mocking. “Now see me!” and Vasco raises his flagon lightly, easily, triumphantly, his backers giving a shout of joy. But just as he gets the goblet to his lips a kind of dazed expression comes into De Guerra’s face, his hand falls nerveless by his side, and the beaker, dropping from it, goes clattering to the floor, then clutching with both hands at his throat as if for breath, he sinks down, senseless and inert, upon the bodies of his companions, who lie there in drunken stupor, while a cry of triumph goes up from the assembled backers of Floris.