"He say we have plenty, and now"-- he spread fat hands in a gesture of despair--"and now we have none.

Some sons of dogs of French who came with Marshal Soult happen this way on a forage they discover the wine and they guzzle it like pigs." He swore, and his benignity was eclipsed by wrathful memory.

He heaved himself up in a passion.
"Think of that so priceless vintage drink like hogwash, as Mr.Bearsley say, by those god-dammed French swine, not a drop--not a spoonful remain.

But the monks at Tavora still have much of what they buy, I am told.

They treasure it for they know good wine.