But she only looked at him in the same scared, stupid way, and kept edging away towards the door.
"Let her go," I said. "She is evidently half an idiot."
"She's no idiot to refuse that wine," replied Bergheim, as the door closed after her. "It's the most abominable mixture I ever put inside my lips. Have you tasted it?"
I had not tasted it as yet, and now I would not; so, the elder brother coming back just at that moment, we called for beer.
"Don't you like the wine?" he said, scowling.
"No," replied Bergheim. "Do you? If so you're welcome to the rest of it."
The landlord took up the bottle and held it between his eyes and the lamp.
"Bad as it is," he said, "you've drunk half of it."
"Not I—only one glass, thanks be to Bacchus! There stands the other. Let us have a Schoppen of your best beer—and I hope it will be better than your best wine."
The landlord looked from Bergheim to the glass—from the glass to the bottle. He seemed to be measuring with his eye how much had really been drunk. Then he went to the inner door; called to Friedrich to bring a Schoppen of the Bairisch, and went away, shutting the door after him. From the sound of his footsteps, it seemed to us as if he also was gone upstairs, but into some more distant part of the house. Presently the younger brother reappeared with the beer, placed it before us in silence, and went away as before.