“No matter for that, Stephen; you work for men, and not for Christian names. Come, I have a job for you”; and the visitor, with the easy, assured air of a gallant, lounged into the back-parlour, followed by the tremulous Stephen. “Sir William——” began the goldsmith. “He bade me use his name; the work I’d have you do is for myself. Fear not: here’s money in advance,” and the stranger plucked from his pocket a purse, which in its ample length lay like a bloated snake upon the table. Stephen smiled, and said, “Your business, sir?” “See here,” and the stranger moved the lamp immediately between them, when, for the first time, Stephen clearly saw the countenance of his customer. His face was red as brick, and his eyes looked deep as the sea, and glowed with good humour. His mouth was large and frank, and his voice came as from the well of truth. His hair fell in curls behind his ears, and his moustache, black as coal, made a perfect crescent on his lip, the points upwards. Other men may be merely good fellows, the stranger seemed the best. “See here,” he repeated, and produced a drawing on a small piece of paper, “can you cut me this in a seal ring?” “Humph!” and Stephen put on his spectacles; “the subject is——” “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.” “If I may say it, I have laboured hard at the craft—have been a thrifty, sober man,” said Stephen.