h
being delivered by the tongue become excellent wit? Wherefore let us
drink, gentlemen, and beget fancies." He filled for himself again, and
buried his nose in the cup.

"'T is such a cup, methinks," I said, "as Medea may have filled for
Theseus. The white hand of Circe may have closed around this stem when
she stood to greet Ulysses, and knew not that he had the saving herb in
his palm. Goneril may have sent this green and gilded shape to Regan.
Fair Rosamond may have drunk from it while the Queen watched her. At
some voluptuous feast, Caesar Borgia and his sister, sitting crowned with
roses, side by side, may have pressed it upon a reluctant guest, who
had, perhaps, a treasure of his own. I dare swear Rene, the Florentine,
hath fingered many such a goblet before it went to whom Catherine de'
Medici delighted to honor."

"She had the whitest hands," maundered the Secretary. "I kissed them
once before she died, in Blois, when I was young. Rene was one of your
slow poisoners. Smell a rose, draw on a pair of perfumed gloves, drink
from a certain cup, and you rang your own knell, though your bier might
not receive you for many and many a day,--not till the rose was dust,
the gloves lost, the cup forgotten."

"There's a fashion I have seen followed abroad, that I like," I said.
"Host and guest fill to each other, then change tankards. You are my
host to-day, my lord, and I am your guest. I will drink to you, my lord,
from your silver goblet."

With as frank a manner as his own of a while before, I pushed the green
and gold glass over to him, and held out my hand for the silver goblet.
That a man may smile and smile and be a villain is no new doctrine. My
lord's laugh and gesture of courtesy were as free and ready as if the
poisoned splendor he drew toward him had been as innocent as a pearl
within the shell. I took the silver cup from before him. "I drink to
the King," I said, and drained it to the bottom. "Your lordship does not
drink. 'T is a toast no man refuses."

He raised the glass to his lips, but set it down before its rim had
touched them. "I have a headache," he declared. "I will not drink
to-day."

Master Pory pulled the flagon toward him, tilted it, and found it
empty. His rueful face made me laugh. My lord laughed too,--somewhat
loudly,--but ordered no more wine. "I would I were at the Mermaid
again," lamented the now drunken Secretary. "There we did n't split a
flagon in three parts.... The Tsar of Mu