At this suggestion Oliver pours a double dose into the flagon. Then, handing it to Achille, who has been devoting his time to sucking the oranges thrown from the table by the reeling and unsteady hands of the contestants, he whispers: “Take this to the Spaniard, Vasco de Guerra.”
“Yes!”
“Be sure! The one with the black mustache with the single gray lock!”
“Certainly, the brunette, I’m not a fool!”
“Give it to him with the compliments and good wishes of Mademoiselle Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker. Quick! get it to him at once!”
As the two contestants rise and confront each other for another round, the Spaniard standing up more [[82]]strongly, for his tactics have given him a great advantage, the boy Achille glides to De Guerra, gives him the beaker prepared for him by the hand of the hunted one, and whispers words into his ear that makes a flush of delight run over the drunken redness of his face.
Tossing aside the goblet that was to his hand, Vasco de Guerra cries: “This is old red Rhine wine; I drink this, my reeling Floris, to the beauty of Antwerp!”
And clapping the flagon to his lips he pours down the whole stoup in one long continued, triumphant gulp. Then looking at his rival the joy of winning comes into Vasco de Guerra’s eye, for the painter, having drunk his flagon, can scarce keep his feet.
“Malediction!” whispers Oliver, “The drug does not work.”
“Wait,” answers Guy.