glance at him, and by sheer instinct forced the vessel, still half-filled with the liquid, into his hands.
"Drink!" he said, fiercely; "drink, and be a beast at once."
The monk, with whom there was but one sense left, that of desire for the alcohol that destroyed him, seized it thirstily, and drank—drank—drank—till the fiery stream flowed down bis throat like water. Erceldoune watched him with eager, aching eyes; every moment seemed an eternity, every thought maddened him till he felt like a desert brute; he could not stir till this priest lay senseless before him.
He paced the narrow limits of his cell like a caged lion, his face dark as night, his heart panting till its throbs sounded through the stillness, his breast heaving till the loose light folds of the fishing-shirt felt like a case of iron, his gaze never leaving the obese wavering figure of the stupefied Italian, who followed his movement with a dizzy, blinded sight that grew dimmer and dimmer with every moment that the brandy rose over his brain like waves that washed all lingering sense away.
At last the pitcher dropped with a crash from
