“Do it now,” whispers Guy.
“I dare not—not yet,” returns Oliver.
The thirteenth round is quaffed amid laughter and cheers, and as De Guerra takes the goblet from his lips, Oliver’s face grows white and drawn, and Guy’s also, for to their horror they see the man they intended to [[80]]poison at the fifteenth round, reel and fall insensible beneath the table.
“Too late! My God, he’s escaped me,” falters Antony.
“We can get the documents anyway, from his insensible carcass when the bout is over,” mutters the Englishman, recovering first.
“Yes, but that is only postponing my destruction. Vasco’s suspicions are aroused—the torture chamber gapes for me. I shall have to fly. I can no longer do the work I had laid out for myself.” This is sighed from white lips.
But another shout goes up from the surrounding crowd; at the fourteenth round two of the remaining Drunkards of Brussels have gone down. Two more are left for the painter to vanquish, but these are very tough ones. De Vriendt smiles in triumph; his Flemish face, though red and flushed, appears mocking now; but his legs are a little shaky.
Thus four more rounds pass; another of the Drunkards of Brussels joins the company of those beneath the table. Now only one, little Tomasito, is standing up for the ducats his friends have wagered upon him, and the honor of the capital; when suddenly (for Guy has turned away his head, only awaiting his opportunity at the finish of the bout to rob De Guerra of the papers, and cares but little who wins the contest) the Englishman feels his sleeve plucked, and looking up, sees Antony’s eyes blazing.
“He’s recovering!” whispers Oliver.
“Who?”