"Uh!" Ramsay remembered the fiery liquor. "No thanks. I would like some water."
"I can offer you milk."
"That will be fine."
Pierre disappeared, and returned with a bowl of milk and a beaker of the strong whisky. He gave the bowl to Ramsay and held the whisky aloft.
"Your health, M'sieu," he said.
He drained the beaker without even quivering, and Ramsay suppressed a shudder. Dipping the spoon in his venison stew, he tasted it. It was rich, with all the expertness of French cuisine behind it, and delicious. Ramsay took a chunk of venison in his mouth and chewed it with relish. Venison, fish and whatever else they could get out of the country doubtless meant much to the people who lived here.
"How long have you worked in the tannery?" he asked Pierre.
"Five years," the little Frenchman said. "Five long years. I shall work there much longer if God is kind."
"May He always be kind to you!" Ramsay said feelingly.
"My thanks to you, M'sieu Ramsay. And now, with your permission, I shall retire. I suggest that you sleep, for you look very weary. Should you want anything you have only to call."