“'T is such a cup, methinks,” I said, “as Medea may have filled for Theseus. The white hand of Circe may have closed around this stem when she stood to greet Ulysses, and knew not that he had the saving herb in his palm. Goneril may have sent this green and gilded shape to Regan. Fair Rosamond may have drunk from it while the Queen watched her. At some voluptuous feast, Caesar Borgia and his sister, sitting crowned with roses, side by side, may have pressed it upon a reluctant guest, who had, perhaps, a treasure of his own. I dare swear Rene, the Florentine, hath fingered many such a goblet before it went to whom Catherine de' Medici delighted to honor.” “She had the whitest hands,” maundered the Secretary. “I kissed them once before she died, in Blois, when I was young. Rene was one of your slow poisoners. Smell a rose, draw on a pair of perfumed gloves, drink from a certain cup, and you rang your own knell, though your bier might not receive you for many and many a day,--not till the rose was dust, the gloves lost, the cup forgotten.” “There's a fashion I have seen followed abroad, that I like,” I said. “Host and guest fill to each other, then change tankards. You are my host to-day, my lord, and I am your guest. I will drink to you, my lord, from your silver goblet.” With as frank a manner as his own of a while before, I pushed the green and gold glass over to him, and held out my hand for the silver goblet. That a man may smile and smile and be a villain is no new doctrine. My lord's laugh and gesture of courtesy were as free and ready as if the poisoned splendor he drew toward him had been as innocent as a pearl within the shell. I took the silver cup from before him. “I drink to the King,” I said, and drained it to the bottom. “Your lordship does not drink. 'T is a toast no man refuses.” He raised the glass to his lips, but set it down before its rim had touched them. “I have a headache,” he declared. “I will not drink to-day.” Master Pory pulled the flagon toward him, tilted it, and found it empty. His rueful face made me laugh. My lord laughed too,--somewhat loudly,--but ordered no more wine. “I would I were at the Mermaid again,” lamented the now drunken Secretary. “There we did n't split a flagon in three parts.... The Tsar of Muscovy drinks me down a quartern of aqua vitae at a gulp,--I've seen him do it....I would I were the Bacchus on this cup, with the purple grapes adangle above me.... Wine and women--wine and women... good wine needs no bush... good sherris sack”... His voice died into unintelligible mutterings, and his gray unreverend head sank upon the table.