I beg him at the time not to sell, knowing the value it must
come to have one day. But he sell all the same. Ah, meu Deus!"
The steward clasped his hands and raised rather prominent eyes to
the ceiling, protesting to his Maker against his master's folly.
"He say we have plenty, and now" - he spread fat hands in a gesture
of despair - "and now we have none. Some sons of dogs of French
who came with Marshal Soult happen this way on a forage they discover
the wine and they guzzle it like pigs." He swore, and his benignity
was eclipsed by wrathful memory. He heaved himself up in a passion.
"Think of that so priceless vintage drink like hogwash, as Mr.
Bearsley say, by those god-dammed French swine. "not a drop - not
a spoonful remain. But the monks at Tavora still have much of what
they buy, I am told. They treasure it for they know good wine. All
priests know good wine. Ah yes! Goddam!" He fell into deep
reflection.
Lieutenant Butler stirred, and became sympathetic.
"'San infern'l shame," said he indignantly. "I'll no forgerrit when
I . . . meet the French." Then he too fell into reflection.
He was a good Catholic, and, moreover, a Catholic who did not take
things for granted.
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