"Yes, of the year," repeated our host.
"Might I ask of what year?" said Pierce.
"Of 1793," replied St. Maur; "the fatal year. Permit me"; and he held the basket wine-cradle while the Duke put on his glasses, and, turning the lantern-light on to a shelf, said: "There are but twelve left."
"Enough for us, friend," said Des Illes, lifting a bottle. "It has the black ribbon on the neck, but the spiders have so covered everything as with a pall, that it was hard to be sure." With this, he turned to me. "It has a black ribbon, you perceive."
"It has," I said, rather puzzled.
"And now, my friends, choose as you will, you cannot go far wrong. The sun of many summers is locked up in these bottles."
"I wall take Chambertin," said the Duke.
"And I, Pomard," said his son.
"And I," said Des Illes, "Romanée Conti. But all here are in the peerage of wines."
Then, when each of this curious company had made his choice, our host said to us: