the quite most famous year that we have ever known. Mr. Bearsley
sell some pipes to the monks at Tavora, who have bottle it and keep
it. I beg him at the time not to sell, knowing the value it must
come to have one day. But he sell all the same. Ah, meu Deus!"
The steward clasped his hands and raised rather prominent eyes to
the ceiling, protesting to his Maker against his master's folly.
"He say we have plenty, and now" - he spread fat hands in a gesture
of despair - "and now we have none. Some sons of dogs of French
who came with Marshal Soult happen this way on a forage they discover
the wine and they guzzle it like pigs." He swore, and his benignity
was eclipsed by wrathful memory. He heaved himself up in a passion.

"Think of that so priceless vintage drink like hogwash, as Mr.
Bearsley say, by those god-dammed French swine. "not a drop - not
a spoonful remain. But the monks at Tavora still have much of what
they buy, I am told. They treasure it for they know good wine. All
priests know good wine. Ah yes! Goddam!" He fell into deep
reflection.

Lieutenant Butler stirred, and became sympathetic.

"'San infern'l shame," said he indignantly. "I'll no forgerrit when
I . . . meet the French." Then he too fell into reflection.

He was a good Catholic, and, moreover, a Catholic who did not take
things for granted. The sloth and self-indulgence of the clergy in
Portugal, being his first glimpse of conventuals in Latin countries,
had deeply shocked him. The vows of a monastic poverty that was
kept carefully beyond the walls of the monastery offended his sense
of propriety. That men who had vowed themselves to pauperism, who