to toast and coffee for the
morning meal. On a great wooden platter which occupied half the surface
of the table, Isaac put down two chickens, roasted brown. A horn-handled
hunting knife, razor sharp, was the only implement at each place, and
fingers must serve as forks. To David that was a small impediment. Under
the deft edge of his knife the breast of one chicken divided rapidly; he
ate the white slices like bread. Indeed, the example was easy to follow;
the mountain air had given him a vigorous appetite, and when Connor next
looked up it was at the sound of glass tinkling. He saw Isaac holding
toward the master a bucket of water in which a bottle was immersed
almost to the cork; David tried the temperature of the water with his
fingers with a critical air, and then nodded to Isaac, who instantly
drew the cork. A moment later red wine was trickling into Connor's cup.
He viewed it with grateful astonishment, but David, poising his cup,
looked across at his guest with a puzzled air.

"In the old days," he said gravely, "when my masters drank they spoke to
one another in a kindly fashion. It is now five years since a man has
sat at my table, and I am moved to say this to you, Benjamin: it is
pleasant to speak to another not as a master who must be obeyed, but as
an equal who may be answered, and this is my wish, that if I have doubts
of Benjamin, and unfriendly thoughts, they may disappear with the wine
we drink."

"Thank you," said Connor, and a thrill went through him as he met the
eye of David. "That wish is my wish also--and long life to you, David."

There was a glint of pleasure in the face of David, and they drank
together.

"By Heaven," cried Connor, putting down the cup, "it is Medoc! It is
Chateau Lafite, upon my life!"

He tasted it again.

"And the vintage of '96! Is that true?"

David shook his head.

"I have never heard of Medoc or Chateau Lafite."

"At least," said Connor, raising his cup and breathing the delicate
bouquet, "this wine is Bordeaux you imported from France? The grapes
which made this never grew outside of the Gironde!"

But David smiled.

"In the north of the Garden," he said, "there are some low rolling
hills, Benjamin; and there the grapes grow from which we make this
wine."

Connor tasted the claret again. His respect for David had suddenly
mounted; the hermit seemed nearer to him.

"You grew these grapes in your valley?" he repeated softly.

"This very bottle we are d