Mr. Butler, never dreaming - as indeed how could he? - that Fate
was taking a hand in this business, gave way, and they sat down to
dinner. Henceforth you see him the sport of pitiless circumstance.

They dined within the half-hour, as Souza had promised, and they
dined exceedingly well. If yesterday the steward had been able
without warning of their coming to spread at short notice so
excellent a feast, conceive what had been accomplished now by
preparation. Emptying his fourth and final bumper of rich red
Douro, Mr. Butler paid his host the compliment of a sigh and pushed
back his chair.

But Souza detained him, waving a hand that trembled with anxiety,
and with anxiety stamped upon his benignly rotund and shaven
countenance.

"An instant yet," he implored. "Mr. Bearsley would never pardon me
did I let you go without what he call a stirrup-cup to keep you from
the ills that lurk in the wind of the Serra. A glass - but one - of
that Port you tasted yesterday. I say but a glass, yet I hope you
will do honour to the bottle. But a glass at least, at least!" He
implored it almost with tears. Mr. Butler had reached that state of
delicious torpor in which to take the road is the last agony; but
duty was duty, and Sir Robert Craufurd had the fiend's own temper.
Torn thus between consciousness of duty and the weakness of the
flesh, he looked at O'Rourke. O'Rourke, a cherubic fellow, who had
for his years a very pretty taste in wine, returned the glance with
a moist eye, and licked his lips.