"Bravo, Pierre! You are a gentleman. Pierre, do you hear? You are a gentleman, or a thief, I don't care which," giving a drunken chuckle. "Drink, Pierre," said he, handing him a flagon of wine with a trembling hand.
Pierre took the goblet and drained it to the last drop.
Vigneau took it again, and looked into it for a moment with maudlin pensiveness, as though he could scarcely realise that it was really the bottom he gazed at. But the quarrelsome humour in him was never so rampant as when he was in his cups.
"There's a pint of good Rhenish gone, Pierre. Gone, too, into a stomach that must be about rotted out with Saxon ale by this time."
"Well, we'll bring them round with soothing draughts of Rhenish, master."
"Eh, dog? Not with mine, Pierre. With swill if you like, Pierre! Swill will do for a hog like you, Pierre! Eh! Do you hear me? Swill will do for you!" said the Baron, becoming quarrelsome with drunken excitement.
Fortunately, Pierre was sober, or matters would speedily have become serious. Checking the rising choler, he said,—
"What is to be done with this Saxon—Ethel, as she is called?"
"What do you know about Ethel, eh? Have you got her, scurvy villain? I say, have you got her? Answer me that."
"I told you we had, not a minute since."