"Yes, indeed," said the Count rising, "Drink me the contents of this flagon at a draught, and your citizens are free; else at noon they swing," and with a mocking smile on his lips he was about to stride out of the room, when the priest arrested his steps with,
"One moment, good Count, and I will e'en essay the task."
Then, taking up the flagon, which held thirteen pints, he emptied it to the very dregs, and fell back into his townsmen's arms.
Tilly was as good as his word, and released his captives.
"Whew!" whistled Alec; "where's the salt box? Thirteen pints at a draught—thirteen pints! Why, your old priest would make a good second to our maire's cat!"
"What did his cat do?" queried I, innocently.
"Oh, I thought everyone had heard of Curat's cat," premised Alec. "You must know that his cat was growing old and spiteful, so he determined to kill it; but although he tried various means, and got very near accomplishing his end on several occasions the cat would always appear again to trouble him. One evening, as a final effort in assassination, before retiring to bed, he tied a heavy piece of iron round the cat's neck, and dropped it into a water-butt which stood in his garden. Next morning he was down betimes, and standing on the tiptoe both of expectation and of his boots, he peeped over the edge of the tub, when lo! there, on the bottom of the butt sat the cat looking up at him with tears in her eyes, for she was too heavily anchored to climb out."
But I broke in, "Where was the water?"
"Well, you see," said Alec, "being her only means of escape, she had swallowed it, as your priest did the wine, which accounted for her swollen condition. So now, Mr. Thirteen Pints, I think we are about quits."
We were; Alec scored a point.