“Nothing: they elected him to the council, then they made him lieutenant-mayor, and now he is a wealthy merchant, a banker; and we who were rich once, haven’t a penny now. Eh? Well, that is the story. Come—pass me some more wine.”
Don Gil seized the bottle with one hand, brought it to his mouth, and began to drink.
“Enough, man, enough,” said Señora Patrocinio.
The archæologist paid no attention to her, and never stopped until he had emptied the bottle. Then he gazed about the room, shut his eyes, leaned his head upon the table, and an instant later, commenced to snore noisily.
“The compadre is rather intoxicated,” said Quentin as he looked at Don Gil.
“Come, you’re feeling pretty good yourself,” replied the old woman.
“I? I was never so calm in my life. It takes a lot to get us people from England drunk.”
“Ah! Are you English?”
“No; I come from here.”
“And are you a friend of the Quentin of whom there has been so much talk tonight?”