from the bottle. I dare you to it!"

Morok's only answer was to shrug his shoulders, and raise the neck of the
bottle to his lips. Jacques hastened to imitate him. The thin, yellowish,
transparent glass gave a perfect view of the progressive diminution of
the liquor. The stony countenance of Morok, and the pale thin face of
Jacques, on which already stood large drops of cold sweat, were now, as
well as the features of the other guests, illuminated by the bluish light
of the punch; every eye was fixed upon Morok and Jacques, with that
barbarous curiosity which cruel spectacles seem involuntarily to inspire.

Jacques continued to drink, holding the bottle in his left hand;
suddenly, he closed and tightened the fingers of his right hand with a
convulsive movement; his hair clung to his icy forehead, and his
countenance revealed an agony of pain. Yet he continued to drink; only,
without removing his lips from the neck of the bottle, he lowered it for
an instant, as if to recover breath. Just then, Jacques met the sardonic
look of Morok, who continued to drink with his accustomed impassibility.
Thinking that he saw the expression of insulting triumph in Morok's
glance, Jacques raised his elbow abruptly, and drank with avidity a few
drops more. But his strength was exhausted. A quenchless fire devoured
his vitals. His sufferings were too intense, and he could no longer bear
up against them. His head fell backwards, his jaws closed convulsively,
he crushed the neck of the bottle between his teeth, his neck grew rigid,
his limbs writhed with spasmodic action, and he became almost senseless.

"Jacques, my good fellow! it is nothing," cried Morok, whose ferocious
glance now sparkled with diabolical joy. Then, replacing his bottle on
the table, he rose to go to the aid of Ninny Moulin, who was vainly
endeavoring to hold Sleepinbuff.