'Nothing. It's the first of September.... By-the-bye, there was Mr. Councillor Pumpernickel here a while agone, and he bade me get out some samples for you--samples of my Lady Rose and of the Twelve Apostle casks'; and he began to take down some pretty little bottles with long strips of paper on their necks. 'You don't mean to tell me I am not to be allowed to drink out of the casks themselves.' 'Your honour couldn't possibly be allowed that privilege except in the presence of a town-councillor. Let me fill your honour's glass from this bottle.' 'Not a drop here then,' said I; 'if I mayn't drink from the cask head I will drink at the cask side at least. Come, old fellow, pick up your samples, and give me the light.' He still kept fidgeting about, and shoving the bottles into and out of his pockets, which irritated me much, as I was longing to be off to the Apostle cellar; and at length I spoke quite sharply, 'Come now, march.' This gave him courage apparently, and he answered with some firmness, 'It won't do, sir, really it won't--not to-night.' Thinking he was merely angling to raise his price, I pressed a substantial douceur into his hand, and took him by the arm to lead him along. 'No, no, it wasn't that I meant,' said he, trying to reject the proffered coin; 'but no one shall take me into the Apostle cellar on the night of the first of September, not for love or money!' [Illustration: THE CELLAR OF BACCHUS] 'Stuff and nonsense! What do you mean?' 'I mean that it's an uncanny thing to go in there on Frau Rosa's own birthday.' I laughed till the vault rang. 'I've heard of a good many ghosts before now, but never heard of a wine-ghost: fancy an old man like you believing such tales: but I tell you, friend, I am serious. I have permission from their High Mightinesses to drink in the cellar tonight, time and place at my own discretion; and in their name I order you to lead me to the cellar of Bacchus.' This finished him. Unwillingly, but without answering, he took the taper and beckoned me to follow. We went first back through the great vault, then through a number of smaller ones, till our path came to an end in a narrow passage. Our steps echoed weirdly in the hollow way, and our very breath as it struck on the walls sounded like distant whisperings. At last we stood before a door, the keys rattled, with a groan the hinge opened, and the light of the candles streamed into the vault. Opposite me sat friend Bacchus on a mighty cask of wine: not slender and delicate like a Grecian youth had the cunning old wood carvers of Bremen made him; no, nor a drunken old sot with goggle eyes and hanging tongue, as vulgar mythology now and then blasphemously represents him (scandalous anthropomorphism I call it!). Because some of his priests, grown grey in his service, have gone about like that; because their bodies may have swelled full of good humour, and their noses been coloured by the