“It does—it does!” murmured Sir Miles, gazing thoughtfully at the bottle.
“He ought to have been a poet!” whispered Solomon.
The Doctor looked round impatiently, and swept the folds of his gown behind him with a large gesture.
“For what did the grapes rejoice? Why was the vintage more than commonly rich? Because in the fulness of time it was destined to comfort the heart and to strengthen the courage of a most worthy and cruelly tried lady. Indeed, Mrs. Pimpernel, wonderful are the decrees of heaven! Drink, madam.”
He poured out a glass of wine and handed it to her. She stared in his face almost stupidly: she was trying to repress a wild thought which seized her: her lips were parted, her gaze fixed, her hands trembling.
“Drink it, madam,” ordered the Doctor.
“What is it? oh! what is it?” she cried.
“Drink the wine, madam,” said Sir Miles kindly. “Believe me, the wine will give you courage.”
I took the glass and held it to her lips, while she drank submissively.
“With a bottle of port before him,” said Sir Miles encouragingly, “a man may have patience for anything. With the help of such a friend, would I receive with resignation and joy, good fortune for myself or disasters to all my cousins, male and female. Go on, Doctor. The lady hath taken one glass to prepare her palate for the next.”