“The wine!  The liquid amber from Trooidos!  I had forgotten it.  Noble knight, have I your leave to draw?”

“Ay, excellent merchant,” answered Sir Andrew.  “Certainly you can draw your own wine.”

So Georgios rose, and took a large jug and a silver tankard from the sideboard where such things were displayed.  With these he went to the little keg which, it will be remembered, had been stood ready upon the trestles, and, bending over it while he drew the spigots, filled the vessels to the brim.  Then he beckoned to a reeve sitting at the lower table to bring him a leather jack that stood upon the board.  Having rinsed it out with wine, he filled that also, handing it with the jug to the reeve to drink their lord’s health on this Yule night.  The silver vessel he bore back to the high table, and with his own hand filled the horn cups of all present, Rosamund alone excepted, for she would touch none, although he pressed her hard and looked vexed at her refusal.  Indeed, it was because it seemed to pain the man that Sir Andrew, ever courteous, took a little himself, although, when his back was turned, he filled the goblet up with water.  At length, when all was ready, Georgios charged, or seemed to charge, his own horn, and, lifting it, said: 

“Let us drink, everyone of us here, to the noble knight, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, to whom I wish, in the phrase of my own people, that he may live for ever.  Drink, friends, drink deep, for never will wine such as this pass your lips again.”

Then, lifting his beaker, he appeared to drain it in great gulps—­an example which all followed, even Sir Andrew drinking a little from his cup, which was three parts filled with water.  There followed a long murmur of satisfaction.

“Wine!  It is nectar!” said Wulf.

“Ay,” put in the chaplain, Matthew; “Adam might have drunk this in the Garden,” while from the lower table came jovial shouts of praise of this smooth, creamlike vintage.

Certainly that wine was both rich and strong.  Thus, after his sup of it, a veil as it were seemed to fall on the mind of Sir Andrew and to cover it up.  It lifted again, and lo! his brain was full of memories and foresights.  Circumstances which he had forgotten for many years came back to him altogether, like a crowd of children tumbling out to play.  These passed, and he grew suddenly afraid.  Yet what had he to fear that night?  The gates across the moat were locked and guarded.  Trusty men, a score or more of them, ate in his outbuildings within those gates; while others, still more trusted, sat in his hall; and on his right hand and on his left were those two strong and valiant knights, Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf.  No, there was nothing to fear—­and yet he felt afraid.  Suddenly he heard a voice speak.  It was Rosamund’s; and she said: 

“Why is there such silence, father?  A while ago I heard the servants and bondsmen carousing in the barn; now they are still as death.  Oh, and look!  Are all here drunken?  Godwin—­”