“Glasses!” echoed Stephen, “in my house!”
“Right, glasses! No—cups, and let them be gold ones!” and the bacchanal, for it was plain he was such, waved his arm with an authority which Stephen attempted not to dispute, but rose and hobbled into the shop, and returned with two cups just as the first cork was drawn. “Come, there’s sunlight in that, eh?” cried the stranger, as he poured the wine into the vessels. “So, thou hast never drunk wine? Well, here’s to the baptism of thy heart!” And the stranger emptied the cup, and his lips smacked like a whip.
And Stephen Curlew tasted the wine, and looked around, below, above; and the oaken wainscot did not split in twain, nor did the floor yawn, nor the ceiling gape. Stephen tasted a second time; thrice did he drink, and he licked his mouth as a cat licks the cream from her whiskers, and, putting his left hand upon his belly, softly sighed.
“Ha! ha! another cup! I know thou wilt,” and Stephen took another, and another; and the two flasks were in brief time emptied. They were, however, speedily followed by two more, placed by the stranger on the table, Stephen opening his eyes and mouth at their mysterious appearance. The contents of these were duly swallowed, and lo! another two stood before the goldsmith, or, as he then thought, four.
“There never was such a Bacchus!” cried Stephen’s customer, eyeing the ring. “Why, a man may see his stomach fairly heave, and his cheek ripen with wine: yet, till this night, thou hadst never tasted the juice! What—what could have taught thee to carve the god so capitally?”
“Instinct—instinct,” called out the goldsmith, his lips turned to clay by too much wine.
“And yet,” said the stranger, “I care not so much for—— How old art thou, Stephen?”
“Sixty-five,” and Stephen hiccupped.
“I care not so much for thy Death, Stephen; instinct should have made thee a better hand at Death.”
“Tis a good Death,” cried the goldsmith, with unusual boldness, “a most sweet Death.”