'Why, yes,' said she. 'Cannot you see for yourself that it is open?'
That was true enough, and it explained a great deal. But it did not
explain how - seeing that if you leave a bottle of wine uncorked for
ten minutes you spoil it - you can keep gallons of it in a great wide
can, for all the world like so much milk, milked from the Panthers of
the God. I determined to test the prodigy yet further, and choosing
the middle price, at fourpence a quart, I said -
'Pray give me a hap'orth in a mug.'
This the woman at once did, and when I came to drink it, it was
delicious. Sweet, cool, strong, lifting the heart, satisfying, and
full of all those things wine-merchants talk of, bouquet, and body,
and flavour. It was what I have heard called a very pretty wine.
I did not wait, however, to discuss the marvel, but accepted it as one
of those mysteries of which this pilgrimage was already giving me
examples, and of which more were to come - (wait till you hear about
the brigand of Radicofani). I said to myself -
'When I get out of the Terre Majeure, and away from the strong and
excellent government of the Republic, when I am lost in the Jura Hills
to-morrow there will be no such wine as this.'
So I bought a quart of it, corked it up very tight, put it in my sack,
and held it in store against the wineless places on the flanks of the
hill called Terrible, where there are no soldiers, and where Swiss is
the current language.
