“Or the funereal cypress, and the feathers and eggs of a red owl soaked in toad’s blood,” added Don Gil.
“Or the poisonous herbs which grew in such abundance in Iolchos, and in far-off Iberia,” continued Quentin.
“Or the bones torn from the mouth of a hungry bitch,” added the archæologist.
“Señora Patrocinio! Señora Canidia!” shouted Quentin.
“Señora Patrocinio! Señora Canidia!” echoed Señor Sabadía.
“What do you want?” asked the old woman as she suddenly entered the room.
“Ah! She was here!” exclaimed Quentin.
“She was here!” echoed Señor Sabadía. “We want some more bottles.”
“What kind do you want?”
“I believe, venerable dame,” Quentin ejaculated, “that it is all the same to my friend here, whether it be wine from the vines of Falernus, Phormio, or Cécube, as long as it is wine. Is that not true, Don Gil?”