“I’m sorry, mates,” he said, “but I can’t see my way to make that quart of beer into two gallons. But I give largess to my vassals—that, I believe, is real, toff, Court dialect. Drink this.”
He took a crumpled one-pound bank-note from his pocket, and handed it to the self-appointed captain of his guard, who immediately withdrew his fire-eaters, and the goldsmith was left to complete his work in peace.
“Here’s health to the bride that’s to wear it,” said Benjamin, as he raised his glass to his thirsty lips.
“I’m not much at sentiment,” said the Prospector, “but may she always ring as true as the metal it’s made of, for she’s got a Man for a husband.”
“May Luck go with them.”
To the Prospector the ring now seemed perfect, but the goldsmith placed a jeweller’s magnifier in his eye, and scrutinised the shining marriage-token lest it might contain the slightest flaw. But his work stood the test and, placing the ring in a dainty velvet case, he rose and put on his hat.
“That finishes my career as a goldsmith,” he said. “I don’t suppose I shall sit at a bench again. To you, Bill, I owe my fortune, to you I owe my liberty. No words of my misshapen tongue can express what I feel; but you, mate, can guess it.”
The two men looked silently at each other, and solemnly shook hands.
The Prospector might have said a great deal: he might have expatiated in lurid language on his admiration of Tresco’s self-sacrifice, but he said nothing. He silently held the goldsmith’s hand, till a tell-tale moisture dimmed the craftsman’s eyes, so that they could not see through their spectacles.
Pulling himself together with a sudden effort, Benjamin said firmly, if a little loudly, “Is my swag packed, Jake?”