But Mrs. Bishop waddled on contemptuously, declaring she meant to go to the hospital, and that he could die o' thirst for aught she cared.
Dulcima, who stood in her doorway across the corridor, watched the scene stolidly. Bishop turned on her with an oath, and ordered her to draw his evening cup; she unhooked the tankard which hung under the lanthorn, hesitated, and looked straight at her father. He gave her a brutal shove, demanding to know why she dawdled while he thirsted, and the girl moved off sullenly, with flaming cheeks and eyes averted.
When she returned from the buttry I saw the warden take the frothing tankard, brush the foam away with his forefinger, and drain the measure to the dregs.
He handed the empty tankard to his daughter, smacking his lips with a wry face, and drawing the back of his hand across his chin. Then he became angry again.
"Ugh!" he muttered; "the ale's spoiled! What's in it, you baggage?" he demanded, suddenly swinging around on his daughter. "Draw me a cider cup to wash this cursed brew out o' me!"
There was a crash. The girl had dropped the tankard at her feet.
Quick as a flash Bishop raised his hand and dealt his daughter a blow on the neck that sent her to her knees.
"Break another pot and I'll break your head, you drab!" he roared. "Get up or I'll—"
He choked, gasped, lifted his shaking hand to his mouth, and wiped it.
"Curse that ale!" he stammered; "it's sickened me to the bones! What in God's name is in that brew?"