CHAPTER VI.
THE DRINKING BOUT AT THE PAINTED INN.
This question seems to stagger the artist. He mutters feebly, “How?” then says: “Let me think. I know the customs of this country,” and meditates with knitted brows.
A few moments thought and he cries: “I have solved the problem.”
“How?” asks the Englishman eagerly.
“How? Why, it is the usage at these drinking bouts when the banquet is at its height for friends of the combatants, for the honor of Bacchus, to send huge drinking beakers full of the finest wine with their compliments to the various contestants. Vasco de Guerra is a suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle Bodé Volcker, the fair Mina that I love. That shall be his destruction. After the tenth round, it would not be prudent before—perhaps in his case I had better make it the fifteenth huge goblet that he drinks—I shall send to him a flagon of wine containing this, the poison of the Antilles,” he taps the vial the Englishman has given him, “with the compliments of Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker. De Guerra will not refuse a wine cup with such a message as this, and then—, then—you and I,” he whispers this last, “my dear Guido, in some quiet, happy, peaceful country would be called murderers; but here we are simply playing out the game of life and death. Now to business.” [[71]]
The two now go to mapping out their plan with the cool precision of men who, having made up their minds, act rapidly upon their resolutions.
“The drinking bout will take place at twelve. It is now ten o’clock. I don’t think De Guerra has yet risen,” says Guy, “but I’ll watch him to see that he doesn’t leave the inn to give your secret to any one. If he makes any effort toward this, by some means I will detain him; while you, my dear friend, go to the Citadel, get word with the lady Hermoine, and arrange the meeting that is necessary, not only to my safety but to my love.”
Then, while Chester secures upon his person the cipher letters of Vitelli and the key furnished by the artist, and perchance with even greater care deposits in his bosom the miniature and letter of his love, Antony Oliver arms himself with sword and pistols and looks carefully to the keen Italian stiletto he always wears ready to his hand.