"But the confusion of wine may just turn the scale against our getting
through. No wine! We started on that basis. That's the basis we're going
through on. No wine, I say--no wine!"
Murmurs answered him, but no man dared rebel. Discipline still gripped
the Legionaries. The Master drove them to labor. "Come, quick now!
Prepare a sack, apiece! I'll show you how!"
He set lips to the emptied skin, and with many lungfuls of strong
breath inflated it. The leather thong tightly wrapped the neck. He
doubled that neck over, and took more turns with the thong, then tied
it in a tight square knot.
"Get to work, men!" he ordered. "To work!"
They obeyed. Even the major, brain-shaken as he was, fell in with
the orders. The floor, all round the black pit, ran red with precious
wine, a single cupful of which would have delighted the heart of the
world's most Lucullian gourmet.
Up from that floor and from the jetty, steaming walls of the pit
drifted ambrosial perfume that evoked visions of ancient vineyards
where, under the Eastern sun, bloomy clusters of grape--mayhap even
the very grape sung by the Tent-maker--hung ripening.
Still, none stooped to the mouths of the wine-skins, to taste.
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