"Twenty-five round coffins, full of wine. Come, my dear sir, taste them all. I assure you you won't regret it."
The magistrate was now really in a fury: fury made a lion of him, so that he was quite capable of tearing his wrists by sheer force out of the imprisoning hands.
"An end to all familiarity! You stand before the authority of the law, with whom you cannot trifle. Give me the keys of the cloister, that I may clean the profaned place."
"Please break open the door."
"Would you not be sorry to ruin a patent lock?" suggested the lawyer.
"Well, promise me that you will taste at least 'one' brand: then I will open the door, for I don't intend to open any door under the title of 'cloister,' but any number under the title of 'cellar;' and in that case I shall pay in ready money."
The worthy lawyer tugged at the magistrate's sleeve; prudence yielded, and there are bounds to severity, too.
"Very well, the lawyer will taste the wine, but I am no drinker."
Topándy whispered some words in his butler's ears, whereupon that worthy suddenly disappeared.
"So you see, my dear fellow, we are agreed at last: now I should like to see the account of how much I owe to the county for my slight upon the Brotherhood."