Seeing that we had just had one melancholy recital I thought it best to start something more pleasant, so I handed Alec a large mug of coffee, and said: 

“Take a drink, my comrade, and while you are slaking your thirst I will spin you a drinking story.”

Then I recounted to him the story of Count Tilly of Brabant, and the Holy Prior.  How, during one of Tilly’s numerous campaigns, a certain town held out far too long for the general’s liking, but at last it was forced to surrender.  Tilly had six of the chief men brought before him, and commanded, as the town had laughed at his terms, that they should die, to expiate the rest of the citizens.  All kinds of conditions were laid before him to avoid the doom of these unfortunate men, but they were of no avail with him; he was implacable.  One, Prior Hirsch, sought him and tried to melt his adamantine heart, and being a man of experience with human foibles, concluded to try the effect of some of the good old wine for which the country is famous, and his own monastery in particular.  A huge flagon being introduced, filled with some of the very “A1” of the district, Tilly was induced to try some.

“Very good wine indeed,” exclaimed the General, “but it is no use your trying to get round me in that way to pardon your burgesses, for I can no more turn from my word than you can empty this goodly flagon at a draught.”

“Is the case indeed so hopeless?” said the priest.

“Yes, indeed,” said the Count rising, “Drink me the contents of this flagon at a draught, and your citizens are free; else at noon they swing,” and with a mocking smile on his lips he was about to stride out of the room, when the priest arrested his steps with,

“One moment, good Count, and I will e’en essay the task.”

Then, taking up the flagon, which held thirteen pints, he emptied it to the very dregs, and fell back into his townsmen’s arms.

Tilly was as good as his word, and released his captives.

“Whew!” whistled Alec; “where’s the salt box?  Thirteen pints at a draught—­thirteen pints!  Why, your old priest would make a good second to our maire’s cat!”

“What did his cat do?” queried I, innocently.

“Oh, I thought everyone had heard of Curat’s cat,” premised Alec.  “You must know that his cat was growing old and spiteful, so he determined to kill it; but although he tried various means, and got very near accomplishing his end on several occasions the cat would always appear again to trouble him.  One evening, as a final effort in assassination, before retiring to bed, he tied a heavy piece of iron round the cat’s neck, and dropped it into a water-butt which stood in his garden.  Next morning he was down betimes, and standing on the tiptoe both of expectation and of his boots, he peeped over the edge of the tub, when lo! there, on the bottom of the butt sat the cat looking up at him with tears in her eyes, for she was too heavily anchored to climb out.”