"And the girl is alive," he said almost wonderingly. "There has been
so much Time in the world, and yet she is alive now. Down there in
the banquet room."
The odour of the contents of the vase, spicy, penetrating,
delicious, crept out, and he breathed it gratefully. It was like no
odour that he remembered. This was nothing like Rollo's "good, nitzy
Burgundy"--this was something infinitely more wonderful. And the
odour--the odour was like a draught. And wasn't this the wine of
wines, he asked himself, to give them courage, exultation, the most
superb daring when they started up that delectable mountain? St.
George must know; he would think so too.
"Oh, I say," said Amory to himself, "we must put some strength in
Jarvo's bones too--poor little brick!"
With that Amory drew the carven stopper, fitted in the little funnel
that hung about the neck of the vase, poured a half-finger of the
wine in each cup, and lifted one in his hand. But the mere odour was
enough to make a man live ten lives, he thought, smiling at his own
strange exultation.
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