“Are you a member of the Total Abstinence Society, then?”
“Oh, no! I take a little brandy now and then, when I really need it,” replied Justin.
“You need it now, or you will need it before many minutes are over your head. I beg that you will drink,” insisted Monck without a smile on his face.
“Oh, well, if you make so strong a point of it. I am under no pledge,” replied Justin, laughing again as he raised the glass to his lips.
“That is right. It will brace you up,” said Monck And with that he filled a large tumbler with brandy for himself and tossed it off, and then another and another, until the bottle was empty.
The quantity of brandy that would have intoxicated almost any other man only steadied him. To use a common phrase, he was himself again—the same cold, cruel, sensual monster, who could order a poor wretch hung up by the neck to a tree before his tent; and have the door left open, so that while eating his breakfast he might enjoy the dying agonies of the victim. In a word, he was the same man that he was reported, but that Justin had never really believed him to be.
“Take a cigar, Colonel. I see that Hoskins has brought us a really good lot. Bless that Scotch sutler! Try this one. The sedative effects of good tobacco upon a man’s nerves is really incomparable,” said Monck, handing what he considered a choice cigar to Colonel Rosenthal, and then selecting and lighting one for himself.
They puffed away in silence for awhile, and then Monck removing his “weed” to knock the ashes off, looked intently upon the face of his companion and inquired:
“How do you feel, Colonel Rosenthal?”
“Quite well, thank you,” answered Justin, raising his eyebrows in surprise.