the luxurious circumstances, and disposed himself to savour the
second bottle of that nectar distilled from the very sunshine of
the Douro -- the phrase is his own. The steward produced a box
of very choice cigars, and although the lieutenant was not an
habitual smoker, he permitted himself on this exceptional occasion
to be further tempted. Stretched in a deep chair beside the
roaring fire of pine logs, he sipped and smoked and drowsed away
the greater par of that wintry afternoon. Soon the third bottle had
gone the way of the second, and Mr. Bearsley's steward being a man
of extremely temperate habit, it follow: that most of the wine had
found its way down the lieutenant's thirsty gullet.

It was perhaps a more potent vintage than he had at first suspected,
and as the torpor produced by the dinner and the earlier, fuller
wine was wearing off, it was succeeded by an exhilaration that
played havoc with the few wits that Mr. Butler could call his own.

The steward was deeply learned in wines and wine growing and in very
little besides; consequently the talk was almost confined to that
subject in its many branches, and he could be interesting enough,
like all enthusiasts. To a fresh burst of praise from Butler of the
ruby vintage to which he had been introduced, the steward presently
responded with a sigh:

"Indeed, as you say, Captain, a great wine. But we had a greater."

"Impossible, by God," swore Butler, with a hiccup.

"You may say so; but it is the truth. We had a greater; a wonderful,
clear vintage it was, of the year 1798 - a famous year on the Douro,