The Count had thrown himself upon a velvet couch, which stood near the center of the great room into which he had led me. Stretching out his hand he touched a little silver gong, which stood upon a pedestal near his elbow. A soft-footed attendant stood noiselessly in the doorway. A word in that same unknown language, and the servant disappeared.
A moment later he reappeared, a bottle and two goblets in his hand. Drawing up a small table, he pushed another soft couch opposite me as I stood gazing around the room, and silently passed out of the apartment.
"Be seated, sir," the Count said. "Drink one glass with me. This wine," he continued, filling a golden goblet and holding it up to the light, "was intended for his Catholic Majesty, the King of Spain. I took it from a galleon near the coast of Cuba, a year ago, after a bitter fight. Little thinks his Majesty that to-day we drink it." And he poured a glass for himself, his goblet matching mine.
"Come, Sir Thomas, let us lay aside all enmity for a few brief moments, and drink one glass together. I give thee a toast which thou canst not refuse," he cried, rising to his feet, and holding out the glass at arm's length—"Her Royal Majesty, the Queen of England!"
"Her Royal Majesty, the Queen of England"
"The Queen!" I rejoined, rising. "May her glory never wane or fade!"
"Amen to that," the pirate said, and we both sank back upon our couches.
"Where, pray, didst thou find these rich treasures which adorn thy mansion? If all be of the same quality as the wine we have just drank, thou art well named King of Eldorado."
He glanced around the room before replying, and then answered, speaking slowly and clearly: