“How can that be?” I asked. “Where could he get it?”
“Please, sir, I don’t know,” said the Sergeant. “But he seems to have got too much of it, and he has some with him now.”
“Bring him in,” said I.
Glorious, but a little stupid, Sam was brought in. His hand grasped the neck of a half-emptied bottle. Under his arm was another bottle, corked and full.
“I see what’s the matter,” said the Padre. “The man has found his way into the store-closet, and got at the wine which was brought here yesterday. Francisco, how could you be so negligent? Step into the back-room, and see whether he has left us any.”
Francisco went as directed, and promptly returned. “Not a bottle is missing,” said he.
“Señor Capitan,” said the Padre, “this is an enigma. With the exception of my stock, there is no bottled wine in the village.”
“To make sure, suppose we try it,” said I.
“No need of that,” answered the Padre. “The villagers keep their wine in skins. The Alcalde keeps his in a barrel. Within a circuit of three or four leagues, my cellar, since our convent here was plundered, is the only depôt of bottled wine. My reason for keeping a stock you will readily understand. My poor self-denying fraternity, when they do drink wine, prefer it from the bottle, not from the wood.”
“Why then, according to that,” said I, “this drunken fellow must, since last night, have found his way into the cellar of the house which we are presently to attack and carry by storm.”