“In the right, arm. He was nursing it in a sling. There must have been a fight, I suppose. Did you hear nothing of it outside?”
“How could I? I’ve been too busy, and in a different direction.”
“I hope you’ve not been so busy as to hinder you from filling your flask, Signor Tommaso.”
“Por Bacco, no!” answered the latter, evidently more pleased than offended by the reminder. “I always find time for that. You want a pull, I suppose?”
“You’re right there, compagno; it’s a bit chilly upon post to-night, and a gill of rosolio would give me an infinite amount of comfort.”
“You shall have it. I can’t accommodate you with a cup. Can I trust the bottle in your hands?”
“Che demonio! yes. You don’t suppose, signor, I am going to rob you? A single pull will content me.”
“Here, then,” said Tommaso, handing over the leather bottle. “I’ll give you a good chance. You can swig away while I am counting twenty. Will that suffice?”
“Mille grazzie! yes. You are very generous, Signor Tommaso.”
The man, laying aside his carbine, caught hold of the proffered flask, from which Tommaso had already removed the stopper. Then, with the exclamation, “Oh me felice!” he took the neck between his lips. Turning his countenance skywards, he commenced imbibing the delicious liquor in long, copious draughts.