"No!—I thought not. Drink this and eat some of these sandwiches. I myself have fasted longer than is agreeable!"
And a huge goblet of the ice-cold creaming nectar was handed to P. C. Breagh, who immediately realized that his tongue and palate were dry as the sun-baked asphalt of the Linden.
"Prosit!" said his host, and drained his glass, adding, as the guest duly responded according to the classic formula and drank: "You are University-bred, I see! What Alma Mater had the preference? Schwärz-Brettingen! ... Ah, they thought very badly of me there about the time of the Luxembourg Garrison Question. Nearly all the little foxes barked at me as I passed through. However, we are now reconciled, and more than a thousand of the students have applied to serve as volunteers in this war,—there's an item of interest for your paper!—though you have Quixotically determined, you say, not to make use of any information that I may be enabled to offer you. All Quixotism is weakness, in my estimation; a man, according to my code, should pursue his advantage where he finds it irrespective of ethical laws or religious prejudice. Now eat some of these stuffed rolls. Here are caviar, smoked goose-breast, Westphalian ham and liver-sausage. You see I set you an example!—and a would-be campaigner should be able to sleep soundly under any and all conditions; and eat whenever anything eatable is obtainable, with unflinching appetite!"
The savory rolls were vanishing under the speaker's repeated attacks, and the golden tide in the great crystal decanter was sinking visibly. He said, lifting and holding it so that between the light of the green-shaded table-lamp and the red glow of sunset pouring through the unblinded western windows, the liquid in it shone ruby and emerald....
"Come, let me fill your glass again, and then I shall send you about your business. Absolved, you understand, from that ridiculous vow of yours—and with a magic talisman to enable you to use your eyes."
The steady hand set down the now emptied jug, and took from the red marble mantelshelf a small and perfectly-finished pair of field-glasses, covered in black Russia leather and mounted in ivory. An inlaid silver shield bore a monogram, "O. v. B.-S.," and a date.
"You can shoot with a pistol?—Good!—then I should advise you to buy one, if possible. A revolver of the American Colt's invention—six-barreled—a feature which increases weight in proportion as it adds to effectiveness—would be useful. Indeed, I carry one myself! One day they will turn out such things with one barrel—but we must wait for that, I am afraid. Here is the case belonging to the glasses, with a strap to sling it round your shoulders—and one thing more I will give you—though I am less certain about its ultimate usefulness!"
The writing-table stood in the middle of the room. He moved to it with one of his long, heavy strides, sat down—dipped quill in ink—and penned a few lines rapidly, glancing at the sunburned, freckled face as though to refresh his memory—holding up an imperious baud for silence when the recipient of the field-glasses seemed about to protest against the value of the gift.
"Your nationality?—'British.' Name, 'Patrick Carolan Breagh—pronounced "Brack." Your height?—Be very accurate. One half-inch too much or too little might bring you into trouble of a serious kind. 'Five feet nine' ... you promise to be taller. Your age ... twenty-three last January.... Shoulders broad, good muscular development. Your hair ... Reddish, is it not? ... You have gray eyes with what the French would call taches of yellow in them. Complexion fresh, considerably freckled. Nose short and straight, ears small, teeth white and regular. Chin square and with a cleft—weaklings have not such chins!..."
He added a brief sentence to the hastily scrawled description, signed and blotted it, rose and came to P. C. Breagh and thrust it in his hand.