At one gulp he took in the fiery yet smooth and captivating draught.

Nor did he notice that Father Beret, instead of joining him in the potation, merely lifted his cup and set it down again, smacking his lips gusto.
There followed a silence, during which the aromatic breath of the bottle increased its dangerous fascination.

Then Father Beret again filled Farnsworth's cup and said: "Ah, the blessed monks, little thought they that their matchless brew would ever be sipped in a poor missionary's hut on the Wabash! But, after all, my son, why not here as well as in sunny France?
Our object justifies any impropriety of time and place." "You are right, Father.

I drink to our object.

Yes, I say, to our object." In fact, the drinking preceded his speech, and his tongue already had a loop in it The liquor stole through him, a mist of bewildering and enchanting influence.