“This is no drunken revel, but a Council of State,” said the Archbishop sternly; “and I drink no wine when the host is not here to proffer it. “Indeed, my Lord,” said Beilstein, with a shrug of the shoulders, “some of us are so thirsty that we care not who makes the offer, so long as the wine be sound.” What reply the Archbishop would have made can only be conjectured, for at that moment the door burst open and in came Count Winneburg, a head and shoulders above any man in that room, and huge in proportion. “My Lords, my Lords,” he cried, his loud voice booming to the rafters, “how can I ask you to excuse such a breach of hospitality. What! Not a single flagon of wine in the room? This makes my deep regret almost unbearable. Surely, Beilstein, you might have amended that, if only for the sake of an old and constant comrade. Truth, gentlemen, until I heard the bell of the castle toll, I had no thought that this was the day of our meeting, and then, to my despair, I found myself an hour away, and have ridden hard to be among you.” Then, noticing there was something ominous in the air, and an unaccustomed silence to greet his words, he looked from one to the other, and his eye, travelling up the table, finally rested upon the Archbishop in his chair. Count Winneburg drew himself up, his ruddy face colouring like fire. Then, before any person could reach out hand to check him, or move lip in counsel, the Count, with a fierce oath, strode to the usurper, grasped him by the shoulders, whirled his heels high above his head, and flung him like a sack of corn to the smooth floor, where the unfortunate Archbishop, huddled in a helpless heap, slid along the polished surface as if he were on ice. The fifteen nobles stood stock-still, appalled at this unexpected outrage upon their over-lord. Winneburg seated himself in the chair with an emphasis that made even the solid table rattle, and bringing down his huge fist crashing on the board before him, shouted: “Let no man occupy my chair, unless he has weight enough to remain there.” Baron Beilstein, and one or two others, hurried to the prostrate Archbishop and assisted him to his feet. “Count Winneburg,” said Beilstein, “you can expect no sympathy from us for such an act of violence in your own hall.” “I want none of your sympathy,” roared the angry Count. “Bestow it on the man now in your hands who needs it. If you want the Archbishop of Treves to act as your chairman, elect him to that position and welcome. I shall have no usurpation in my Castle. While I am president I sit in the chair, and none other.” There was a murmur of approval at this, for one and all were deeply suspicious of the Archbishop’s continued encroachments.