From a sudden influx of energy, Alec stretched his hand likewise towards the same glass, and laying hold on it as Mr Cupples was raising it to his lips, cried:
"I sweir to God likewise—And noo," he added, leaving his hold of the glass, "ye daurna drink it."
Mr Cupples threw glass and all into the fire.
"That's my fareweel libation to the infernal Bacchus," he said. "Lat it gang to swall the low o' Phlegethon. But eh! it's a terrible undertakin'. It's mair nor Hercules himsel' could hae made onything o'. Bantam! I hae saicrifeesed mysel' to you. Haud to your pairt, or I canna haud to mine."
It was indeed a terrible undertaking. I doubt whether either of them would have had courage for it, had he not been under those same exciting influences�-which, undermining all power of manly action, yet give for the moment a certain amount of energy to expend. But the limits are narrow within which, by wasting his capital, a man secures a supply of pocket-money. And for them the tug of war was to come.
They sat on opposite sides of the table and stared at each other. As the spirituous tide ebbed from the brain, more and more painful visions of the near future steamed up. Yet even already conscience began to sustain them. Her wine was strong, and they were so little used to it that it even excited them.
With Alec the struggle would soon be over. His nervous system would speedily recover its healthy operations. But Cupples�-from whose veins alcohol had expelled the blood, whose skull was a Circean cup of hurtful spells�-would not delirium follow for him?
Suddenly Alec laid his hand on the bottle. Mr Cupples trembled. Was he going to break his vow already?
"Wadna't be better to fling this into the neist yard, Mr Cupples?" said Alec. "We daurna fling 't i' the fire. It wad set the chimley in a low (flame)."
"Na, na. Lat ye 't sit," returned Mr Cupples.