observing that he had emptied his glass, inquired “What think you of this wine?”
“It’s poor stuff,” answered Frank; “surely it is not your best. It is tolerable, perhaps, for table drink.” “You are a connoisseur, I see,” replied Sir Egbert, and ordered the butler to bring some of the best. Frank tasted it. “Come, this is noble! pray let us keep to this!” This they both did: they filled bumpers, and drank healths to each other, until they grew very merry and complimentary. The Knight gave his guest an account of his campaigns; how he had fought against the Venetians, cut his way through their encampment, and slaughtered them like a flock of sheep. The subject appeared to revive the old soldier’s enthusiasm; he began to break the bottles, brandished his huge carving-knife for a broad sword, approaching so near his companion, as to put his nose and ears into great jeopardy.
The Knight continued talking of his campaigns; and though it grew late, he was so much in his element, that he appeared to entertain no idea of going to rest. His narrative grew more animated at every bumper, and his guest began to be uneasy, lest this might prove the prologue to the principal plot, in which he was destined to perform a conspicuous, but not very pleasing part. He called, therefore,
