Then was the wine delivered by Sir Silas into the hand of his worship, who drank it off in a beaker of about half a pint,—but little to his satisfaction, for he said shortly afterward,—
“Hast thou poured no water into the sack, good Master Silas? It seemeth weaker and washier than ordinary, and affordeth small comfort unto the breast and stomach.”
“Not I, truly, sir,” replied Master Silas “and the bottle is a fresh and sound one. The cork reported on drawing, as the best diver doth on sousing from Warwick bridge into Avon. A rare cork! as bright as the glass bottle, and as smooth as the lips of any cow.”
Sir Thomas.
“My mouth is out of taste this morning; or the same wine, mayhap, hath a different force and flavor in the dining-room and among friends. But to business—what more?”
“Euseby Treen, what may it be?” said I.
“I know,” quoth he, “but dare not breathe it.”
Sir Thomas.
“I thought I had taken a glass of wine, verily. Attention to my duty as a magistrate is paramount. I mind nothing else when that lies before me.
“Carnaby! I credit thy honesty, but doubt thy manhood. Why not breathe it, with a vengeance?”