“No; champagne. Aye, these damned cuirassiers shall play a hard game ere the week is done, or my name is not Johann Kopf. They kicked me out of the palace grounds yesterday; me, me, me!” hammering the oak with his fist.
“Who?”
“Von Mitter, the English-bred dog! I'll kill him one of these days. Is it play to-night, or are they serious?” nodding again toward the hall.
“Go in,” said Stuler, “and look at some of those heads; a look will answer the purpose.”
Johann followed this advice. The picture he saw was one which agreed with the idea that had come into his mind. He returned to the bar-room. and drank his wine thirstily, refilled the glass and emptied it. Stuler shook his head. Johann was in a bad way when he gulped wine instead of sipping it. Yet it was always so after a carouse.
“Where have you been keeping yourself the past week?” he asked. If the students were his purse, Johann was his budget of news.
“You ask that?” surlily. “You knew I had money; you knew that I was off somewhere spending it—God knows where, I don't. Another bottle of wine. There's enough left from the gold to pay for it.”
Stuler complied. Johann's thirst seemed in no way assuaged; but soon the sullen expression, the aftermath of his spree, was replaced by one of reckless jollity. His eyes began to sparkle.
“A great game, Stuler; they're playing a great game, and you and I will be in at the reaping. The town is quiet, you say? The troops have ceased murmuring, eh? A lull that comes before the storm. And when it breaks—and break it will!—gay times for you and me. There will be sacking. I have the list of those who lean toward the Osians. There will be loot, old war dog!”
Stuler smiled indulgently; Johann was beginning to feel the wine. Perhaps he was to learn something. “Yes, 'twill be a glorious day.”