Mr. Butler, never dreaming--as indeed how could he?--that Fate was taking a hand in this business, gave way, and they sat down to dinner. Henceforth you see him the sport of pitiless circumstance. They dined within the half-hour, as Souza had promised, and they dined exceedingly well. If yesterday the steward had been able without warning of their coming to spread at short notice so excellent a feast, conceive what had been accomplished now by preparation. Emptying his fourth and final bumper of rich red Douro, Mr. Butler paid his host the compliment of a sigh and pushed back his chair. But Souza detained him, waving a hand that trembled with anxiety, and with anxiety stamped upon his benignly rotund and shaven countenance. “An instant yet,” he implored. “Mr. Bearsley would never pardon me did I let you go without what he call a stirrup-cup to keep you from the ills that lurk in the wind of the Serra. A glass--but one--of that Port you tasted yesterday. I say but a glass, yet I hope you will do honour to the bottle. But a glass at least, at least!” He implored it almost with tears. Mr. Butler had reached that state of delicious torpor in which to take the road is the last agony; but duty was duty, and Sir Robert Craufurd had the fiend’s own temper. Torn thus between consciousness of duty and the weakness of the flesh, he looked at O’Rourke. O’Rourke, a cherubic fellow, who had for his years a very pretty taste in wine, returned the glance with a moist eye, and licked his lips. “In your place I should let myself be tempted,” says he. “It’s an elegant wine, and ten minutes more or less is no great matter.” The lieutenant discovered a middle way which permitted him to take a prompt decision creditable to his military instincts, but revealing a disgraceful though quite characteristic selfishness. “Very well,” he said. “Leave Sergeant Flanagan and ten men to wait for me, O’Rourke, and do you set out at once with the rest of the troop. And take the cattle with you. I shall overtake you before you have gone very far.” O’Rourke’s crestfallen air stirred the sympathetic Souza’s pity. “But, Captain,” he besought, “will you not allow the lieutenant--” Mr. Butler cut him short. “Duty,” said he sententiously, “is duty. Be off, O’Rourke.” And O’Rourke, clicking his heels viciously, saluted and departed. Came presently the bottles in a basket--not one, as Souza had said, but three; and when the first was done Butler reflected that since O’Rourke and the cattle were already well upon the road there need no longer be any hurry about his own departure. A herd of bullocks does not travel very quickly, and even with a few hours’ start in a forty-mile journey is easily over-taken by a troop of horse travelling without encumbrance.