“Bacchus squeezing grape-juice into the cup of Death,” said the stranger.
“An odd conceit,” cried the goldsmith.
“We all have our whims, or woe to the sellers,” said the customer. “Well, can it be done?”
“Surely, sir, surely. On what shall it be cut?”
“An emerald, nothing less. It is the drinker’s stone. In a week, Master Curlew?”
“This day week, sir, if I live in health.”
The day came. Stephen was a tradesman of his word, and the stranger sat in the back-parlour, looking curiously into the ring.
“Per Bacco! Rarely done. Why, Master Curlew, thou hast caught the very chops of glorious Liber, his swimming eyes, and blessed mouth. Ha! ha! thou hast put thy heart into the work, Master Curlew; and how cunningly hast thou all but hid the dart of death behind the thyrsus of the god! How his life-giving hand clutches the pulpy cluster, and with what a gush comes down the purple rain, plashing into rubies in the cup of Mors!”
“It was my wish to satisfy, most noble sir,” said Stephen, meekly, somewhat confounded by the loud praises of the speaker.
“May you never be choked with a grape-stone, Master Curlew, for this goodly work. Ha!” and the speaker looked archly at the withered goldsmith; “it hath cost thee many a headache ere thou couldst do this.”