brian, squatted on the dry grasses of the bed, watched its preparation with thirsty, devouring eyes.
"He will be dead drunk before this is half empty," thought Erceldoune.
"There, tell me if that is not better than sour wines and rancid goat's milk," he asked, as he poured some into the little drinking-horn the monk had brought. It was swallowed in an ecstasy; the Umbrian had no need to dream of paradise, he was in it the moment the strong, odorous draught touched his lips. As fast as he stretched the horn out, so fast his host filled it; the pitcher held more than a quart, and Erceldoune scarcely drank himself, though he made a feint of so doing; he did not yet know how much or how little would be needed to steep the Italian in the slumberous intoxication he required to produce. As he had imagined, the first few draughts rose straight to the brain of the recluse, who, well as he loved it, had not tasted any alcohol for years; the luscious, fiery, highly-spiced liquid quickly flushed his face, and whirled his thoughts, and loosened his always loquacious tongue; he sat with the jovial content of a Sancho Panza, laughing, chattering, heeding very little what replies he had, and very rapidly forgetting all things except
