They swore him to the toast by every bond of honour. Their throats were ragged with drought.
“Well, well,” he said. “I’ll first dismiss these witnesses to their father’s shame. I’ll be no Noah to my children.”
He drove the servitors, with feeble playfulness, into the passage; pursued them a pace or two. In a moment he was back alone, his cowl pulled about his face.
“Give me the draught,” he said hoarsely, “nor look ye upon the old man’s abasement. I am soon to answer for my frailties.”
Cheering and bantering, they mixed him a cup from every flagon, and put it into his hand, which gripped it through the cloth. He turned his back on them, and took the liquor down by slow degrees, chuckling and gasping and protesting. Then, still coughing, he handed the cup, backwards, to the nearest.
“Bumpers, all!” roared de Regnac. “We toast old Noah for our king of hosts!”
Even as he drank, as they all drank, thirsty and uproarious, the great door of the refectory clanged to, and the Prior spun with a scream to the floor. De Regnac’s cup fell from his hand; a dead silence succeeded.
Suddenly the Colonel was on his feet, ghastly and terrible.
“Something foul!” he whispered; “something foul!”
Staggering, he swerved out, and drove with all his weight against the door. It had been locked and bolted upon them. Not a massive panel creaked. They were entombed!