Then, too anxious to speak, their faces distorted with suspense, the two gaze on while the contesting topers sink into their chairs and fortify themselves with condiments for the next round.
As the Spaniard eats he smiles on the painter, whose hands seem scarce able to do their office.
But their goblets are re-filled, and the two rise once more, Floris supporting himself with one hand, as his feet need help now.
“Drink!” says De Guerra, and the painter manages to get his portion down, his competitor standing firm, erect and mocking.
“Now see me!” and Vasco raises his flagon lightly, easily, triumphantly, his backers giving a shout of joy.
But just as he gets the goblet to his lips a kind of dazed expression comes into De Guerra’s face, his hand falls nerveless by his side, and the beaker, dropping from it, goes clattering to the floor, then clutching with both hands at his throat as if for breath, he sinks down, senseless and inert, upon the bodies of his companions, who lie there in drunken stupor, while a cry of triumph goes up from the assembled backers of Floris.
A moment after De Vriendt, staggering, reeling, surrounded by his friends, gets to the fresh air of the street, which gives him new strength. Assisted by his six pupils, who will take him home and put him to bed and nurse him after his drunken bout, he cries: “Ho! [[83]]for another stoup of Rhine wine, strong Rhine wine, landlord of the Painted Inn!” and putting one foot in the stirrup, quaffs down a mighty libation to his defeated ones. Then he rides reeling to his palace on the street named after him, surrounded by happy creditors, who think if Floris lives he will paint more pictures and pay some of his debts.
The crowd, as it surges about, gives very little attention to the Drunkards of Brussels, save one who indulges in a sly kick or two at the recumbent forms that have lost him his money; but almost as he fell Guy and Oliver have taken De Guerra, who is breathing heavily, and borne him to an adjoining room.
Here hastily opening his doublet the painter slips his hand in, and sewn between the linings of his garments he feels a little packet.
Ripping this out, he whispers, as he examines it, “Thank God! the six letters from Louis of Nassau!”