"What dost wish, honest youth?" said a tall, heavy-eyed, beetle-browed, swarthy personage, who poked his face round from behind, close to that of the unfortunate artist, with great freedom and familiarity.
"I wish thou hadst better manners, or wast i' the stocks, where every prying, impertinent should be," replied Conrad, being in no very placable humour with his morning's work. The stranger laughed, not at all abashed by this ill-mannered, testy rebuke, replying good-humouredly,
"Ah, ah! master canvass-spoiler. Wherefore so hasty this morning? My legs befit not the gyves any more than thine own. But many a man thrusts his favours where they be more rare than welcome. I would do thee a service."
"'Tis the hangman's, then; for that seems the only favour that befits my condition."
"Thou art cynical, bitter at thy disappointment. Let us discourse together hard by. A flask of good Rhenish will soften and assuage thy humours. A drop of Kirchenwasser, too, might not be taken amiss this chill morning."
Nothing loth, Conrad followed the stranger, and they were soon imbibing some excellent vin du pays in a neighbouring tavern.
"Conrad Bergmann," began the stranger. "Ay, thou art surprised; but I know more than thy name. Wilt that I do thee a good office?"
"Not the least objection, friend, if the price be within reach. Nothing pay, nothing have, I reckon."
"The price? Nothing! At least nothing thou need care for. Thou art thirsting for fame, riches, for the honours of this world, for—for—the hand—the heart of thy beloved."
Amongst the rest of Conrad's calamities, he had the misfortune to be in love.