The “swizzle” bowl stood on the side-board. While breakfast was being placed on the table, Cynthia had been seen refilling the bowl with this delicious drink, which she had mixed in an outside chamber. Some one asked her why she was performing that, her diurnal duty, at so early an hour—especially as master would be gone before the time of swizzle-drinking should arrive: usually during the hotter hours of the day.
“P’raps massr like drink ob swizzle ’fore he go,” was the explanatory reply vouchsafed by Cynthy.
The girl made a successful conjecture. Just as the Custos was about to step outside for the purpose of descending the stairway, a fit of choking thirst once more came upon him, and he called for drink.
“Massr like glass ob swizzle?” inquired Cynthia, stepping up to his side. “I’ve mixed for massa some berry good,” added she, with impressive earnestness.
“Yes, girl,” replied her master. “That’s the best thing I can take. Bring me a large goblet of it.”
He had scarce time to turn round, before the goblet was presented to him, full to the rim. He did not see that the slave’s hand trembled as she held it up, nor yet that her eyes were averted—as if to hinder them from beholding some fearful sight.
His thirst prevented him from seeing anything, but that which promised to assuage it.
He caught hold of the goblet, and gulped down the whole of its contents, without once removing it from his lips.
“You’ve overrated its quality, girl,” said he, returning her the glass. “It doesn’t seem at all good. There’s a bitterish taste about it; but I suppose it’s my palate that’s out of order, and one shouldn’t be particular about the stirrup-cup.”
With this melancholy attempt at appearing gay, Loftus Vaughan bade adieu to his daughter, and, climbing into the saddle, rode off upon his journey.