The last sentence, written not in Arabic but in Hebrew, and written by another hand then his own, filled Aldarin with inexplicable emotion.

“If these words spoken by the Nazarene are true, then is my whole life a lie,” he said, and retired into the shadows of the Red-Chamber.

When he came toward the declining light once more, his brow was strangely troubled.

“How strange has been the course of my life! Let me gaze backward over the dark path I have trodden. This night thrice seven long years ago—amid the gloom of the Syrian battle plain, a dark-eyed Arabian gave me in ransom for his life, the book of his race, which he dared not read. And there, in that lone hour, as midnight gathered over the corses of the dead, did he sware by the Eternal Flame of the Fire-worshipper, that in body or in soul, he would be with my heart, and by my side this very night. THE BOOK spoke in words of fire of the secret, and—and—by my soul I have heard no message from the Arab Prince for three long years. He can not, will not fail me now!”

The door of the Red-Chamber was flung suddenly open, and the Lord Guiseppo hastily advanced, with an expression of deep gloom stamped on his brow. He held a scroll of parchment in his extended hand.

“Ha! My Lord Guiseppo, son of mine. I greet thee! Hast thou any message for me?”

“A strange man clad in Paynim costume, attended by a train of twelve, attired strangely as himself, wait at the castle gate. He sends his greeting and this simple scroll.”

“A strange man clad in Paynim costume”—murmured Aldarin in a whispering tone—“A scroll! Give it me, Guiseppo—Ha! What words are these—Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim salutes his brother, Aldarin the Scholar!”

A warm flush like a sudden glow of sunshine passed over the face of Aldarin, his eye gleamed and brightened until it seemed burning its socket, and the Scholar stood for a moment agitated and motionless.

“Guiseppo!” he shouted in a voice of thunder as he turned towards the youthful Lord—“Away, away, to the castle gate and answer the giver of this scroll with the words—Aldarin greets his brother Ibrahim!”

“And then my Lord Aldarin”—

“Lead the stranger to my presence!”

And while Guiseppo turned to obey the behest of the Scholar, the Count Aldarin, strode with a hurried step along the floor of the Red Chamber, with his arms folded and his head drooped low upon his breast.

There was a long pause of absorbing thought.

“He comes—he comes, with the last scroll of the Book! He comes with the Charm, which in the hands of Aldarin shall wake the dead! When the last scroll is read, when the last charm is spoken, then, then, Aldarin lives forever! And Ibrahim—ha, ha, ’twere but fair that the blood of the Priest, who first awoke this Idea within my bosom, should mingle with the blood of the victims, slain at the shrine of the awful Thought.”

A dark and meaning smile passed over the lip of Aldarin, and again he communed with his own thoughts.

A footstep sounded through the ante-chamber; in a moment the stranger, tall and majestic, stood before the Scholar.

“Ibrahim gives peace and joy to Aldarin!”

“Peace and joy to Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim!”

As thus they saluted each other, in the Arabian tongue the native language of the one, and the familiar study of the other, Aldarin advanced and gazed upon the stranger.

His face was most impressive.

Regular in feature, dark and tawny in hue, the countenance of the stranger was marked by a high forehead, thick and bushy eye-brows white as snow, giving a strange effect to the glance of the full dark eyes, that looked forth from beneath their shadow: a compressed lip, half hidden by the venerable beard, that well-nigh covered his rounded chin and dark brown cheeks, and descended to his breast in waving locks, frosted by age and toil. A cap of sable fur surmounting his forehead, imparted a striking relief to the visage of the Arabian.

His attire was simple and majestic. A mantle or robe of black cloth, gathered around the throat, by a chain of gold, with a collar of snow-white fur, fell in long folds to his knees, bordered by lace of gold. As the robe waved suddenly aside from his commanding frame, it might be seen that the tunic which gathered around his form, was fashioned of the finest velvet glistening white in color, with a border of strange and mystic characters, his legs were encased in dark hose, and slouching boots of doe-skin, glittering with the knightly spur of gold.

“Thou art changed, Ibrahim!”

“And thou Aldarin!”

There was a long pause, while the Scholar and the Arab Prince perused each others features. When they again spoke it was in the rich Arabian tongue, each word a word of fire, each sentence a thought of wild enthusiasm.

“Twenty-one years, this very night, on the battle-plain amid the Syrian wilds, an Arab prince owed his life to the intercession of Aldarin the Scholar. He offered the Scholar gold for his ransom—the scholar refused the proffered dust. Speak I the truth, Aldarin?”

“Thou dost!”

“Struck by the noble nature of the thoughtful Italian, the Arab prince gave him a gift priceless in value, not to be bought with gold, or purchased with gems of price! A Book—a mighty book had descended to him, through a long line of gallant ancestors. The founder of the race of Ibrahim was a man of dark thoughts, and mysterious studies. Swept from the path of life in the midst of his mystic researches, he left THE BOOK to his children, with the last and most terrible Mystery, the final Charm, which gave importance to the whole volume, confided to their trust, in unwritten words—”

“These words thou wouldst speak to mine own ear and heart?”

“Even so, brother Aldarin! When I gave thee the Book, fraught with strange mysteries, a fearful oath, sworn by every son of the race of Ben-Malakim, bound me to keep the last words, which make the book complete, secret from thine ear, until I was assured thou hadst won the merit of the confidence.”

“Thou didst swear by the Eternal Flame, that thou wouldst meet me this very night, in the soul or in the body, living or dead.”

“I am here! The far-east rings with the fame of Aldarin the Scholar—the last secret is thine!”

“This night, at the hour of midnight, over the Altar of Marble, where the Heart of the Dead mingles its crimson-drops with the White Waters of the Alembic,—there,—will I crave the last Secret at thy hands!”

“There is one condition first.”

“Name it!”

“Lo! it is written in the Scroll which contains the Priceless Secret. The Prince of Ben-Malakim must be a spectator in the lone chamber where the SECRET is carried into action; he must command in the Halls of the Scholar, who may receive the mystery, while the solemn ceremonies named by the Book, are in progress.”

“The condition is strange—yet”—

“So read the words of THE BOOK!”

“Its behests shall be obeyed.”

“Then Scholar, and friend, let the twelve warriors who follow in my train, take the place of the sentinels at the castle-gate; let them command in the castle-hall, and be obeyed as thyself until the morrow morn!”

“It shall be done. And now, my brother, draw near to the casement; let the warm glow of the setting sun fall over thy features I would look upon thy face, as was my wont in the ancient time. By my soul, thou art sadly changed—fearful wrinkles traverse thy countenance, thy hair and beard are gray; thine eyebrows white. A sad and fearful change!”

“The touch of time falls heaviest on the man of thought, good Aldarin. Thou too, art sadly, fearfully changed.”

“And yet this night shall crown the toil of twenty-one years, with a boon almost beyond mortal hope. Yes—yes,” he continued in a deep whisper, as the full glow of the setting sun fell over his face—“The sun sinks down in glory; his beams fall over the form of the mortal Scholar—Lo! his beams gild the sky on the morrow morn and—how my nerves fire, my heart is full to bursting—Aldarin lives forever.”

CHAPTER THE TENTH.

THE SCHOLAR ALDARIN AND THE LORD GUISEPPO

THE LAST INTERVIEW BEFORE THE GRAND SCENE, FOR WHICH ALDARIN HAS TOILED, STRUGGLED AND ENDURED, FOR THRICE SEVEN YEARS.

“Come hither Guiseppo, son of mine, let me look upon thy face. Ah! I remember well—her countenance lives again in thine. Boy, walk by my side, along this solitary chamber; I would converse with thee. Hast thou not oftentimes thought me a dark and stern old man?”

“My Lord, I have. The story of the soldier,—Rough Robin——”

“Name not the slave! Name him not. Have I not scattered his fable of lies, to the winds? Art not satisfied with the guilt of this—Adrian? Speak Guiseppo—have I not told thee a fair and truthful story?”

“I fear me—oh! Saints of Heaven—I fear me—that thy story is true!”

“Thou fearest that my story is true! Is this well Guiseppo? Wouldst rather thy father had been guilty!”

“My Lord—”

“‘My father’ would sound as well.”

“My father, then; an’ I may speak the name; I thank God from my very heart that I know thee guiltless. Yet I had much rather—the Saints witness my truth—I had much rather, this spot of blood were washed from the garments of all who bear the name of Albarone.”

“And do I not join in the wish! oh Guiseppo—Guiseppo Di Albarone, for I will call thee by thine own true name—look upon me, mark my face, gaze in mine eye! Thou hast known me for years, a man prematurely old, bent with age ere the sands of my manhood’s prime had fallen in the glass. Thus hast thou known me Guiseppo.”

“I have my Lord,—my father, and wondered at the cause.”

“Yet hast thou ever noted the change, the fearful change, that has passed over this face within a few brief days? Dost mark the pallor of this cheek, the blaze of this eye? Dost see this forehead seamed by a single wrinkle between the brows; dost note these wan and wasted features?”

“Yes, yes my father, I do. What hath wrought this fearful change?”

“Canst thou ask? A mighty grief has been swelling the channels of my soul—grief for the crime of Adrian, grief that his hands, the hands of the son, should be red—dripping with his own father’s blood.”

He paused—covered his face—there was a moment of voiceless agony “and yet, even in this hour of agony, the resemblance, the sad resemblance, which has haunted me for years, comes back to my soul—”

“The resemblance, my father?”

“Boy, I tell thee, thy face is like the face of—Even now I see it!”

“Father?—”

“The face of thy mother!”

“I tremble my father; mine eyes are wet with burning tears. Tell me—oh, tell me of her—my mother.”

“Twenty years ago, a nameless Scholar, who disdaining the din and battle of war, gave his soul to higher and purer thoughts, won the love of a proud and peerless Ladye. They might not wed, for she was the scion of a Royal line. It was evening, boy, calm and gorgeous evening—well do I remember the scene—when the proud Ladye gazed from the portico of a kingly palace, over the temples and the towers of Jerusalem. The glow of sunset was streaming over her face, and her full dark eyes, kindled with the grandeur of the scene, when, when—listen Guiseppo,—her boy, her bright eyed boy, lay prattling on her knee. The Scholar stood by her side—he was silent, for his heart was full—oh, God! methinks I see myself as I was then, even through the long lapse of years—”

“Thyself! The boy, who was’t—the boy?”

“Listen; hear the sequel of this dark story. There, there, concealed by a column of that lofty portico, listening to the words of love that broke murmuringly from the lips of the Ladye, gazing upon the face of her bright-eyed boy, all smiles and laughter, there, unknown and unsuspected, stood the Fiend and the Destroyer. Guiseppo—pass thy hand over my brow—see, see, even after the lapse of twenty years, the cold, beaded drops, like death-sweat, stand out from my forehead at the memory.”

“I am breathless, my father—the Destroyer who stood listening—he was—”

“Guiseppo, Guiseppo, let me whisper a world of horror to thine ear in a single word. The light of the setting sun, fell over thy—thy mother’s face, proud, peerless and beautiful—her child prattling on her knee, her lover by her side—the first beams of the morrow’s sun beheld her form, her form of grace and loveliness, flung prostrate over the marble floor of her chamber—outraged, bleeding, dead.”

“Oh, God! my brain whirls! And the Destroyer?”

“Was a knight, a leader among the Princes of the Christian Host who won Jerusalem from the Paynim legions. He had been scorned, rejected, despised by the Ladye—thy mother—and behold,—oh fiend of hell—behold his vengeance!”

“His name? Who—who—swept this devil from the earth?”

“He lives!”

“Lives? and thou couldst wield a dagger!”

“Boy, wouldst thou wreak full and terrible vengeance on the ravisher of thy mother?”

“Sate he upon the throne, slept he within the bridal chamber, knelt he at the altar, I would sacrifice the wretch, to the Ghost of the betrayed—”

“To thy knees, to thy knees, and take the oath of vengeance.”

“I kneel, father, I kneel. The oath, the oath!”

“What manner of oath dost thou hold most sacred? Wilt swear by the Cross, by the Holy Trinity, by the Death of the Incarnate, or by the awful existence of God?”

“By my mother’s name.”

“Place the cross to thy lips, raise thy hands to heaven. Swear—by the Holy Cross, by the Awful Trinity, by the Incarnate God—by thy Mother’s Name—that when thy eye first beholds the wronger and the ravisher, thy dagger shall seek his heart.”

“I swear—I swear!”

“Though he sate on the throne, though he slept within the bridal chamber, though he knelt beside the altar!”

“I swear—I swear!”

And the hollow echoes of the Red-Chamber gave back the echo—“Swear—swear!”

It was in sooth, a strange and impressive scene.

The dim light afforded by the lamp of silver, pendent from the ceiling, glimmering over the hangings of the fatal bed, along the folds of the tapestry and around the massive furniture of the room—the figures of the scene, the aged man and the kneeling boy; Aldarin with his face agitated by contending passions, with his eye gathering a brightness that seemed supernatural, while Guiseppo half prostrate at his feet, raised his hands to Heaven and with every feature of his countenance darkened by revenge, looked above with flashing eyes as he uttered the response—“I swear—I swear!”

It was a strange and impressive scene—and the flitting shadows that fell over the hangings of the bed and along the floor, seemed to start into life at the deep earnest tones of the Avenger.

“The name of the Destroyer—my father—his name—his name!—”

The Count Aldarin stooped low, applied his lips to the ear of Guiseppo and whispered in a quick and hissing tone, the name of the Destroyer.

The kneeling Lord turned pale as death, as with a trembling voice he repeated the well known name.

He bowed his head on his breast, and clasped his hands in very agony.

“My fate,” he shrieked, “is dark—oh Father of Heaven, most dark!—--”

“Rise Guiseppo, my son,” said the Count Aldarin in a commanding tone. “Rise Guiseppo, Lord of Albarone!”

“My father—your look is serious, and yet you utter but a merry jest. Methinks it ill becomes the hour.”

“Guiseppo, Aldarin never deals in the jester’s wares. No—no my son, I do not jest. Listen Guiseppo, and hear the solemn determination of my soul. The events of these few brief days; the fearful death of my brother, the knowledge that THE SON was the MURDERER; the flight of my—my daughter; all have conspired to confirm that determination. I have resolved to retire and retire forever from the world. Not within the gloom of the monastery, not within the shadow of the cloister, does Aldarin seek refuge from the sorrows of the world. No—no.

“Within the shadows of the most secret chamber of the Castle, (dead to the world, unseen by living man, save thee Guiseppo, and yet companioned by those Holy Men who this very night, arrived at Albarone, from the far eastern lands,) in penitence and in prayer will Aldarin seek to win favor from heaven for this—this—wretch, this father-murderer. Guiseppo—I charge thee—let men believe me dead, and when thy right to the Lordship of Albarone is questioned, speak boldly of the favor of his Grace of Florence. He will defend the castle from wrong and shelter thee from outrage.”

“My Lord—my father, this is a strange determination! I beseech thee do not burden me with the rule of the Castle.”

“It must be so Guiseppo! From this night henceforth, Aldarin is dead to the world. Whene’er thou wouldst say aught with me, a sealed parchment, placed within a secret drawer arranged in the side of the beaufet, will reach my hands.—And mark ye—let not a single day pass over thy head, without looking into the secret drawer of the beaufet.”

“This is most wonderful! I ever thought thee a bold, ambitious man, and now I behold Aldarin whom all men name with fear, retire from the world, without a sigh.”

“One word more, Guiseppo. When thou hast stricken the blow—when the Destroyer of thy mother’s honor, lies low in death, then, then, hasten to the Round Room—thou hast heard of the chamber?—and within the solitudes of its silent walls, read this pacquet—it contains the fearful story of thy mother’s wrongs.”

“Forgive me, forgive me, my father—” shrieked Guiseppo, as if struck by some sudden thought—“Swayed by some alternate affection for thee as—my father—and regard for Adrian as—my friend, I have locked within the silence of my bosom an important secret—Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword has returned from Palestine.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the very feet of Aldarin, he could not have started more suddenly backward, or thrown his arms aloft with a wilder gesture.

“Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, returned from Palestine!” he shouted—“where is he now? How far from the Castle? How many soldiers ride in his train? Was the murderer Adrian with him?”

“Father—it was his band I left, when disguised as a Palmer, I hastened toward the Castle. He lurks within the recesses of the mountains, some score of miles away—three hundred men ride in his train—Adrian, whom I believed guiltless, is with him.”

“Did he speak aught of attacking the Castle Di Albarone?”

“After a lapse of seven days, it was resolved to attempt the surprisal of the Castle. From the vague hints I gathered, it seems that their plans were not well matured. Three days of the seven are now passed, and—”

“The attack will be made four days from this! By my Soul! it pleases me! Ha—ha—ha—Guiseppo, remember thy oath, the steel and the pacquet.”

And as he spoke, the Count Aldarin strode toward the door, his face flushed by a wild glow of exultation, as he communed with himself in a low, murmured tone.

“Four days—ha—ha—ha! Four days glide by—and Aldarin is immortal.”

Guiseppo was alone.

He gazed vacantly through the gloom of the Red Chamber and passed his hands over his eyes, as if in the effort to awake from some fearful dream.

All was solemn and silent around him, and he resigned his soul to dark memories, while the weary moments of that fearful night glided slowly on.

At last he sank down on the cold floor and slept.

A vision of his mother, his own beautiful and dark-eyed mother, rose smiling above the waves of sleep, and then the boy thought she stood beside him, holding a dagger in her fair white hand, while she beckoned him on to the work of vengeance.

He awoke.

His form was pinioned in the embrace of a woman’s arms, and a woman’s face hung over him, its large and lustrous eyes, mingling their light, with his own.

“Rosalind!” he shrieked as he sprang to his feet with surprise—“Rosalind here, in this lone chamber!”

“I am here—” she exclaimed as she fell weeping on his bosom—“’Tis a strange story Guiseppo, but—my heart feels chilled when I think of the fearful scene, which made this Red Chamber a place of death. An hour ago, I slept within the bower of the Ladye Annabel, which the Count allotted for my prison, when a strange figure, clad in robes of sable, strode into the chamber, and bade me enjoy my freedom, as he pointed to the open door! I hastened along the corridor, I descended the stairway, and sought refuge in this chamber, from two dark figures who seemed pursuing me, when I found thee, Guiseppo, flung prostrate along the cold floor, and—”

“Thou didst watch over me, when sleeping, love of mine? Thy prison hath not stolen the bloom from thy cheek or the fire from thine eye.”

As he spoke the door of the Red Chamber was flung suddenly open, and the aged Steward of the Castle rushed to the side of Guiseppo, with hasty steps and a disordered manner, shouting as his gray hairs waved in the night wind—

“A message, Lord Guiseppo—a message of life and death! The Count Aldarin sends thee this—read, and read without delay—for I tell thee ’tis a scroll of life and death.”

Guiseppo perused the scroll, and——

The spirit of the Chronicle beckons us on to the most dark and fearful scene of the Historie.[5]

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.

THE WHITE WATERS OF THE ALEMBIC.

ALDARIN AND IBRAHIM, GATHERED WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THE ROUND ROOM, HOLD THEIR SOLEMN WATCH, WHILE THE LAST SECONDS OF THE MYSTIC AGE ARE PASSING TO ETERNITY.

“Tread lightly and with a softened footstep, Ibrahim, for the place in which you stand has been the home of the deathless Thought for twenty-one long years! Look—how the azure flame ascends in tongues of flame around the sides of the hanging alembic—it is the last night of its existence! On and on, through calm and cloud, through sunshine and shadow, for twenty-one long years has it silently burned—a little while, and the sands in yon glass will be spent—the Thought springs into birth, and the azure flame will be quenched forever.”

With his slender form elevated to its full height, his arm extended, and his robe thrown back from his shoulder, Aldarin the Scholar glanced around the room, while his gray eye flashed and brightened as though his very soul looked forth in its glance.

His brow was calm, clear and unclouded; his compressed lip wore an expression of fixed determination; and a slight flush pervaded his pale countenance.

The light of the pendant lamp fell over the form of the venerable stranger, his dark-hued face, with the thick eyebrows, the waving hair, and the flowing beard, all snow white in hue, standing out boldly in the ruddy beams, while his dress of sable, relieved by the border of glittering gold, gave solemnity and dignity to his appearance.

He stood calm and erect, gazing with his eyes of midnight darkness, upon the strange altar, with its ever-burning flame of azure, or fixing his glance upon the wild and speaking features of Aldarin the Scholar.

“Advance, Ibrahim—advance to the altar of marble”—exclaimed the Scholar, with all the proud consciousness of the possession of a POWER beyond the reach of the mass of mankind—“Gaze within the alembic—what see’st thou?”

“I see a liquid clear as crystal, calm, motionless, and unruffled. The most gorgeous mirror might fail to rival its shadowless brightness. The alembic is heated to a white heat, yet the liquid bubbles not, nor seethes, nor wears any appearance of the effect of heat. It is beautiful—most beautiful.”

“Every drop is worth a life. Within the recesses of this altar another flame, fanned by a subterranean current, burns beneath the Crucible, which at last will give forth the Secret of Gold.—Gaze upon yon hour glass, Ibrahim—the glass standing upon the corner of the altar—”

“The sands have fallen to within an half-hour of midnight—”

“When the last grain of sand falls in the glass, then will be complete the mystic age of toil. The waters of life will then be pure, the secret of gold will then be perfect. Twenty-one years will then have past since first, I set me down to watch yon never-ceasing flame. Twenty-one years—earth never beheld such years—each day an age, each year an eternity!”

“Thy toil hath been most difficult!” exclaimed Ibrahim, in his deep-toned voice—“the end draws nigh!”

“It was in that home of magnificent thoughts and mighty memories—the city of Jerusalem, that the Glorious Thought dawned upon my soul!—

“‘To live forever,’ I cried as I gazed upon the wide city, with its palaces and towers basking in the sunlight—‘to pass beyond the years of mortal men, to exist while whole nations sink down to the slumber of the grave, while kings succeed kings and millions of the mass of men glide away on their inevitable march to the grave! To live forever—to feel life throbbing in my veins, health flooding my very heart, and youth, eternal youth crowning my brow, when Old Earth shall have been stamped with the footsteps of ten thousand years—oh glorious boon, oh guerdon worthy an age of toil!’

“I sought the boon when first I trod the Syrian soil, but my search was wild and vague—yon massive volume was placed in my hands—”

“And then, the search became clear and distinct?”

“Yes—yes! Truth after truth dawned upon me, ingredient after ingredient was added to the contents of the alembic,[6] and mad man that I was——but stay a moment, Ibrahim. Gaze again upon the liquid of the alembic, and tell me what thou see’st?”

“The same clear and undimmed liquid, resting calm and motionless within the depths of the vessel.”

“Behold yon circular glass, resting beside the parchment scroll, on the corner of the altar. It will magnify an insect until it swells to the dimensions of the huge animal that haunts the forests of the far deserts of India—the elephant, methinks ’tis called. Apply the glass to thine eye, and gaze within the depths of the vessel.”

“A strange and magnificent spectacle! The clear liquid spreads out into a magnificent lake, calm, unshadowed and rippleless. Yet stay—’tis shadowed by a small island floating in the centre, an island composed of some unknown substance, black as jet, yet scarcely perceptible even through the wondrous medium of this glass!”

“When that speck of jet shall have vanished, then will the charm be perfect!—I have said that I was rash and indiscreet—let my story witness. I disregarded the words of the Book, I thought twenty-one years too long and weary a time for me to sit in solemn silence while I watched the progress of the Secret. A few words in the volume hinted darkly and vaguely at a consummation of the Thought, attainable by one bold grasp—that grasp I made—yes, yes, though my very soul was shaken to the centre, and my brain reeled in the effort—I—I—killed her!”

“Killed her? Great God, what dark confession is this!”

“Yes—yes—I killed her, killed her as she slept in my arms and smiled in my face. I drove the steel to her heart—I dabbled her long dark locks in the warm blood that gushed from her bosom! Nay, start not man, nor turn aside with such sudden horror—hast not perused yon volume—know’st thou not the mystic words—“The pure blood, warm from the heart of her thou lovest, more than aught in earth or heaven, poured into the liquid floating within the mystic vessel, will do the work of years in a single hour—”

“And she—she was thy”—

“My wife, my wife! My own, my dark-eyed Ilmeriner. Her blood, the pure current of her very heart, purpled the White Waters of the Alembic—and—and, fool that I was, I would not even wait the hour of trial, I drank the liquid, greedily, and with loud exclamations of joy I drank, and paid the price of my rashness. I neglected to use the microscopic glass; the black speck had not vanished from the surface of the liquid. I lay for days insensible; when I awoke to reason I found this frame grown prematurely old. Had I but waited the little hour, the draught would have infused immortal life into my veins. I was rash—hasty—wild with the madness of my joy, and the draught proved poison.”

“All thy efforts then were foiled.”

“I was foiled, but I did not despair. Again I built the fire on the altar, again I added ingredient to ingredient; the corses of the dead I searched for the last and most powerful Charm; years passed, and the consummation of the Idea of my life approached, when—Fiend of Hell—I discovered that the price of my rashness was not yet paid! As I pored over the leaves of the mystic volume, a fearful thought, expressed in dim and shadowy words, sunk in my very soul”—

“Methinks I see some new horror, lowering over the cloud of guilt and blood that darkens the sky of thy life.”

“Blood, there was, yes, yes, but no guilt. By the Awful Influence that has ruled my life, there was none! The Martyr of the Christian, strides to the stake, that is to cut short the brief thread of his puny life, with a few moments of pain, suffers, dies and is glorified. Is there no glory for Aldarin! Have I not also been a martyr? There there, ever before me, was the One Great Idea, leading me on, and on, filling me with high hopes and grand thoughts, that all pointed to the final good of mankind—”

“Thou didst at first dream the Secret would benefit the mass of men? Ha—ha—thou wouldst have made the Mob, immortal!”

“It is past, the dream is past. Yes, yes, Ibrahim I join in thy laugh. I would have made the Mob immortal! Ha—ha! The multitude, what are they? Now the autumn leaf, blown to and fro by the wind; now the hurricane that a breath may raise; to-day all sunshine, to-morrow all storm and cloud! The Mob! To-day, they strew palm-branches in the path of the Nazarene, and send their hozannas echoing to the sky,—‘Hail, hail king of the Jews!’ To-morrow, the Nazarene stands bound and pinioned in the halls of Pilate and their cry,—the cry of the Mob—comes shrieking through the casement ‘crucify, crucify him!’”

“This in truth is the many-headed mob.”

“Have I not been a Martyr! Others have offered up their blood at the shrine of their Faith. I, I, have given the very blood of my soul! I have made a sacrifice of love; love such as man of thought alone can feel; I have rushed beyond the boundaries of thought, that confine the opinions of common men; I have dared the vengeance of the Faith beside whose altars I was reared; the arm of the God, whose existence was imprinted on my brain from infancy; I, I have dared the most terrible doom of all—the remorse of my own soul!”

“The words of the Scroll—what were they?”

“Hast thou ne’er perused yon volume of Fate?”

“A fear of the terrible mysteries inscribed on its pages, ever deterred the Princes of Ben-Malakim, from the perusal of the Mystic volume.”

“A dark passage on the Scroll, vaguely hinted that in case the Seeker failed, in the first bold experiment, in case the life drops of her dearest to his heart, were spilt in vain, then, another sacrifice was to be offered, ere the Crystal Waters would be undimmed by the speck of jet—and, and—Ibrahim, behold yon funeral urn.”

“It stands upon the shelf, amid a heap of massive volumes, and time-eaten parchments. What means this funeral urn?”

“I cannot, cannot tell thee now. But Ibrahim listen—after long care and thought, care and thought such as never wrinkled the brow of mortal man before, I have arrived at certain, fixed principles of belief. These principles relate to the consummation of the Secret—the last Charm which will make it complete—the manner in which the Water of Life is to be tested, ere it is imbibed by mortal man. The Last Roll of the Mystic Volume, which thou hast borne from the far east, may confirm these principles or declare them false, but can teach Aldarin nothing. Look, Ibrahim, the sands have fallen to within the fourth part of an hour of midnight! Give me the last Scroll, I would read.”

Ibrahim drew the scroll from his breast.

It was a massive roll of parchment, sealed at either end with an intricate seal of dark wax, stamped with strange characters.

Aldarin eagerly extended his hand, he seized the scroll, he tore the seals from either end, and unrolled the time-worn parchment.

And there, while with trembling hands and a flashing eye, the Scholar glanced over the strange Arabic characters, there noting his every glance, his every gesture, stood the solemn stranger, his eye dark as midnight, gazing with one fixed look upon the face of Aldarin, as though he would peruse the contents of the scroll, from the changing expression of the reader’s countenance.

It was strange to note the contrasted gestures of the Scholar and the stranger, as the few last minutes of the mystic age wore slowly on.

While the Scholar eagerly perused the ancient manuscript, his eye gradually acquired a radiance and intensity of expression that seemed supernatural; his lip trembled; his quivering hands rattled the timeworn parchment; until the Round Room echoed with the sound. The Prince Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim started aside, and raised his hands to his brow with a sudden gesture as tho’ he wished to stifle some bitter memory, or nerve his soul for the accomplishment of some fell purpose.

“Awful Soul of the Universe!” shrieked Aldarin as he shook the parchment aloft, in the wildness of his joy—“I thank thee! I thank thee! All—all is written here—the principles of my belief are—true! Yes—yes! The last charm—the method of the trial of the Secret—the raising of the mighty dead—all, all are here! Ibrahim—Ibrahim, give me joy! Lo! I unveil to thy gaze the secret of the funeral urn!”

And with wild steps, and hasty manner, Aldarin strode across the oaken floor, he uncovered the funeral urn, he placed his trembling hands within its depths.

“Behold”—he shrieked—“Ibrahim behold the sacrifice!”

Ibrahim looked, he beheld the upraised hand of Aldarin, but he dared not look again.

Thrilled with horror at the sight, he, veiled his face in his hands, while Aldarin strode hurriedly toward the altar.

All was still as death in the Round Room.

“Listen, Ibrahim, listen!” exclaimed Aldarin—“Hark! how the red drops fall pattering into the white waters!”

Ibrahim listened in horror, but dared not look. In a moment, the funeral urn, again enclosed the object of horror, and the voice of Aldarin broke whispering on the air.

“Ibrahim, brother of mine, haste thee to the altar—seize the microscopic glass and gaze upon the white waters of the alembic! I dare not—I dare not gaze upon the working of the charm!”

And as Ibrahim raised the glass to his eye, Aldarin stood with his back to the altar and his face to the wall, his wild eye glaring on vacancy while he counted the last seconds of the mystic age by the motion of his trembling fingers.

“The sands of the glass have fallen to within ten minutes of midnight,” exclaimed Ibrahim. “I gaze upon the white waters of the alembic! They spread before mine eyes in a calm and silver lake. The surface is crimsoned by waves of blood—the island of jet enlarges and widens!”

“Waves of blood—the island of jet widens!” shrieked Aldarin. “Two minutes of the ten are past! Oh, fiend of doom! can the charm prove false at last?”

“The waves of blood are dying away; the black substance diminishes in size!”

“Art sure, good Ibrahim? Gaze again upon the waters: do not, do not deceive me!”

“The waters are colored with a purple dye.”

“It hastens—it hastens! Ha—ha! So read the words of the book! Why dost pause, Ibrahim? Four minutes of the ten are past!”

“The object of black still diminishes; and now the purple hue of the waters is fading away!”

“My heart—my heart is bursting; I cannot, cannot breathe! Ibrahim, Ibrahim, tell, oh! tell me, what hue do the waters assume? Thou art silent! I dare not turn and gaze with mine own eyes; do not mock me thus, Ibrahim!”

“A calm lake, cloudless, waveless, and beautiful opens to my gaze. The waters are clear as crystal. No shadow dims their unfathomable brilliancy, no object of blackness floats upon the surface. The sands have fallen in the glass—”

“Speak, speak, Ibrahim, or I will fall to the floor! Is there no shadow resting upon the surface of the white waters?”

“None, by my soul, none!”

“Then—then—Aldarin—is—immortal.”

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.

THE TRIAL OF THE WATERS OF LIFE.

“AS THE SANDS OF THE THIRD HOUR SINK IN THE GLASS—THE DEAD SHALL ARISE.”

Arising in tongues of flame from the floor of stone, a fire of crackling wood, cast its ruddy glare around the Cavern of the Dead; flinging glimpses of blood-red light along the earth-hidden roof, and imparting a strange appearance of warmth and life, to the hideous figures, scattered along the pavement of the vault.

Turned to burning red by the full glare of the flame, the gigantic Figure of Stone, which gloomed above the Mound of Death, seemed starting into life, as with arms thrown wildly aloft, and downcast eyes, it surveyed the strange spectacle extended beneath its stony gaze.

Ascending from the cavern floor, a square tent, for by that name alone it may be designated, formed of curtains of jet-black leather, gave three of its sides to the glare of the flame, while the fourth was wrapt in shadow.

The hangings of black leather were inscribed with strange and contrasted characters, fashioned in shapes of glittering gold, while from the aperture at the top, where the roof of the tent should have been placed, there arose, lurid folds, columns of smoke, winding upward to the far off ceiling of the cavern.

Near the tent of embroidered leather, arose a small, square and compact structure of ebony, in shape resembling a table, designed to serve the purposes of an altar.

On the top of the altar of ebony was laid an hour glass; a funeral urn, and a phial of glittering silver; a massive volume of time-eaten parchments; with an unbound scroll, falling to the very floor of the cavern.

Within the compass of a fathom’s length from the tent of leather, was erected the fire of oaken wood which threw its ruddy glare around the spot, and flung vivid though flickering glimpses of light into the distant recesses of the cavern.

And there in the lone cavern, beneath the frown of the Demon-Form, with the blaze of the oaken fire, disclosing their faces and figures in bold and strong relief, there, while the hours of that fearful night, dragged heavily on, watched and waited Aldarin and Ibrahim the Son of the Kings[7].

Ibrahim, calm, solemn and erect, stood beside the Altar of Ebony, his sable attire, his dark hued face, with the gray hair, the white eye-brows and the flowing beard disclosed in the light, while he gazed in wonder and awe upon the immensity of that cavern, where the last and most terrible scene in the Mortal Life of Aldarin, was to add another legend of horror to the teeming Archives of Albarone.

With slow and measured steps, Aldarin paced the pavement of the cavern, in front of the sable tent. The light of the flame revealed his face, pale and colorless, stamped with an expression, calm and immovable it is true, yet fraught with strange and mysterious meaning.

“It is a dark and gloomy place—dost not think so Ibrahim?” exclaimed the Scholar advancing to the side of the Arab-Prince. “Look around! Behold the flashes of flame-light falling along the floor of the dread cavern, giving a lurid glare to the ceiling as it arises above our heads, like an earth-hidden sky, or casting their ruddy glare over the face and form of yon dark figure of giant rock. Is’t not a dark and gloomy place, Ibrahim?”

“Here, along this gloomy cavern, might the warrior of a thousand battles walk and tremble as he walked, without the blush of shame for his coward fear. As I gaze around upon the dark mysteries of this funereal vault, methinks I behold the demons of the unreal world, clustering around me, laughing in my face, or mocking my very soul with their gestures of scorn!”

“Here will the last scene in the Mortal Life of Aldarin, startle the very gaze of yon dark dread face of stone. Tell me Ibrahim, how long hast thou waited in this solemn vault.”

“Twice have I turned your hour glass since first we entered the cavern—it wanes toward the third hour after midnight.”

“Thou hast not asked me any question concerning these dark hangings of embroidered leather. Thou hast not asked me why yon dark and lurid smoke winds upward from the confines of this sable tent. Nor hast thou spoken a word in relation to the secrets of this Tabernacle of Life—so the Book calls the sable tent.”

“Ibrahim has waited the pleasure of Aldarin.”

“Then listen, dark Arabian, when I tell thee—the dead, the mighty dead shall live again!”

“These words are mysteries to me!”

“Read yon mystic scroll, Ibrahim, and all shall be as the light of day to thee—read those words of fearful knowledge.”

And with a faint and trembling voice, the Arabian gave to the air of the Cavern, the dim and mysterious words of the scroll:

“Lo! The Waters of Life are free from stain or pollution of earth. Wouldst thou prove them pure? Within the hollow of the coffin-like vessel of iron, place the remains of the Sacrificed and pile the fire of beechen wood around. When the iron pales from red to white, then warm the Heart of the Sacrificed with the white waters of the Alembic—when the heart throbs, then let it mingle with the Corse of the Coffin, and Lo! As the sands of the third hour sink in the glass—the dead shall arise!”

“There—there—within the Tabernacle of Life,” shouted Aldarin, with an upraised arm and kindling eye—“There rests the Corse of the Sacrificed, there ascends the fire of beechen wood heating the coffin of iron to a white heat—within the confines of yon funeral urn, rests the Heart, and the phial of silver by its side, contains the priceless Waters of Life. Behold the sands of the third hour are falling in the glass—a little while and——how the thought stirs my very soul—the dead will live again!”

“The dead?” echoed Ibrahim with a gaze of wonder—“How meanest thou, Aldarin?”

“Must I then, unclose the darkest place in this seared bosom to thy gaze? Man, I tell thee—his form—the form of my brother shall live again!”

“Thy brother—Awful God!” whispered the Arabian in a tone, whose horror may not be described—“Thy brother then was thy last victim?”

“Pity me, Ibrahim, pity me!” shrieked Aldarin. “Swayed by two mingling and opposing motives—the one, ambition for the welfare of my child—the other, the all-absorbing desire for the Immortal Life on earth; but a few short days ago, I beheld approach the last moment of the Mystic Age of Toil. Then—then, I first learned the necessity of the fearful sacrifice, and—I drugged the bowl of death.”

“This is too horrible for belief!” muttered Ibrahim; “Now—now my soul is firm for the work of the night!”

“Was I to falter when the hour of fear and doom drew nigh?” shrieked Aldarin, as his slender form rose proudly erect, and his impassioned face shone in the full light of the flame. “Was I, I, who had strode on to the guerdon of all my toil, unfearing and undismayed, though the dead body of my wife lay in my path, though the hopes of my heart fell withered and dead around me, while the spirit of my love for her, plead and plead in vain for pity; was I, Aldarin, to spare the blow, when that blow would crown my earthly ambition, and complete my immortal toil? Ha—ha! The thought is vain!”

“Hadst thou no mercy?”

“In such a cause, I answer none. I tell thee man, had my brother pleaded for his life, and sprinkled my feet with his tears,—had he pleaded for his life in the calm, soft tones of childhood, the tones that brought back the memory of those days when our arms and hearts were interlocked—had he sprinkled my feet with such tears as wet this seared face, when I rescued him from the waters of the river that rolls without these walls, some thirty years ago—then even then, I could not have spared him! No, no, no! It was to be, and it was!”

“He shall rise from the dead, thou sayst? In what form shall he appear?”

“Fair, and young, and beautiful; youth shrined in his heart and power throned on his brow! His mind will be fresh with new-born vigor, yet Memory of the Past, shall never darken his bosom! The babe is not more unconscious of its pre-existence in another and a far-off world, than will be Julian my brother of the Past, with all its darkness and doom.”

“How dost thou know, that he will arise in this form?”

“Spoke the Nazarine truth, when he said, ‘Faith can remove mountains?’ The Will of the Soul, armed with the consciousness of its immortal powers and infinite sympathies, can do more! The Will, determined and inflexible, can bend the invisible mysteries of the universe to its bidding, call up the fearful influences, ever at work within the bosom of Nature, and chain them, slaves of its power; bind the wild elements of man’s heart in subjection, and awe the souls of the multitude, when aroused by passion, or maddened by revenge. The Will can sway the heart of man, to the windings of a path, dark as the way I have trodden, leading the Soul onward through mystery, and doom, and blood; teaching it to trample on Fear, laugh at the ghastly face of Remorse, and scorn the uplifted arm of God! ‘Faith can remove mountains!’ I cannot, may not, at this fearful hour, trace the operations of the Invisible Might. Suffice it to say—Aldarin wills that the Re-created shall walk forth in a form of youth and power, and it shall be so.”

“Lo! The sands of the hour glass are well nigh spent. One-half of the last hour alone remains!”

“I will gaze within the Tabernacle of Life!”

Aldarin advanced, swept the sable hangings aside, and in a moment was lost to view.

Ibrahim also advanced to the front of the Tabernacle—as the mystic jargon of the Scholar named the tent—and listened with hushed breath and absorbing interest.

He could hear the subdued hissing of the flames within the Tabernacle; he could hear a low, scarce perceptible sound, like the seething of boiling lead; and a penetrating perfume of mingled frankincense and myrrh, saluted his senses, mingled with the odor of decaying mortality.

A single moment passed while Ibrahim listened, and then he advanced to the verge of the vast fire, burning on the cavern floor, and stood for a moment wrapt in stern and solitary thought.

Clasping his hands across his chest, he drooped his head low upon his bosom, while the trembling lip and dilated eye attested the violence of the struggle at work within his inmost soul.

He raised his head and looked round.

Tall and erect—the ruddy glow of the fire, streaming over his majestic face, disclosing every outline of his imposing costume—the Arabian gazed around, and beheld the stern sublimity of the cavern of the dead.

Save the hissing of the flame, all was silent.

Not a word, not a whisper. Silence dwelt supreme, the Spirit and the Divinity of the place.

Far, far, above, the cavern roof, extending like a sky, received on each rugged projection, the ruddy glow of the flame. Long belts of flickering light were thrown along the pavement of stone, for a moment revealing the strange and fantastic forms scattered around the dim walls of the vault, in strong and startling relief; and then again the fire would suddenly subside, leaving everything, save the floor in its immediate vicinity, wrapt in thick darkness.

“A strange fancy,” murmured Ibrahim, “Me-thought I saw yonder statues moving to and fro,—a wild delirium of my fancy.”

“It throbs—it throbs—it palpitates.”—a deep-toned, yet wild and thrilling voice broke the silence of the cavern—“Look, Ibrahim, how the Waters of Life, hasten the completion of the Mighty Labour!”

Ibrahim hurriedly turned and beheld Aldarin, standing beside the Altar of Ebony, grasping the phial of silver in one hand, while with the other he raised on high the Secret of the Funeral Urn, that may not be named by man, or written down on this page, lest incredulity should smile in ignorant scorn, and shallow unbelief, make a mock of the Dark Fanaticism of the Past.

“It throbs—it throbs—it warms with life!” again shrieked Aldarin, as he rushed within the confines of the hangings of sable—“Lo! The coffin of iron is heated to a white heat; the charm hastens to perfection!”

“Mine eyes are cheated by vain delusions!” muttered Ibrahim, “But a moment agone, and methought the arabesque figures were flitting to and fro, and now—as I live, there ’tis again—I behold dim shadows gliding round yon funeral pile?”

As he spoke the fire waned, and a sudden darkness, only relieved by faint flashes of light came down like midnight upon the cavern.

Ibrahim looked around and beheld Aldarin standing near his side, holding an open missal in his hand, which disclosed a hollow casket—instead of the emblazoned leaves of a book of devotion,—glittering with a gem that shone through the gathering darkness like a star.

And as the Arabian looked he beheld Aldarin apply the mouth of a small silver phial which he held in his hand, to the surface of the gem, while a meaning smile stole over his face.

The fire blazing on the cavern floor, lighted up with sudden vigor, and white columns of smoke, rolling from the silver phial, gathered in waving folds above the head of Aldarin, and swept far away, like the wings of a mighty bird, until they encircled the giant outline of the Demon Form, towering far, far overhead.

“Ibrahim, my brother,” cried the voice of Aldarin, “I would welcome the Arisen-Dead with sweet perfumes and fragrant incense. ’Tis thus the Book commands!”

He looked forth from the cloud of smoke that enveloped his form, and started in surprise as he beheld the erect form of the Arabian.

The chemical spell, from whose influence the Scholar had defended himself, took no effect on the form of the Arabian Prince.

“The all-penetrating essence of the dead pervading the cavern and imbuing the atmosphere, renders the spell powerless!” he murmured with a frown of impatience. “And yet Aldarin and his new-risen brother must have no witness of their mighty mysteries! Though he had a thousand lives, still must he carry my secret where ’twill be safe—to—ha, ha, to the grave!”

“The sands of the glass are falling,” cried Ibrahim advancing, “one-fourth of the last hour alone remains!”

“And while that fragment of time is gathered to eternity, the Water of Life is darting like lightning through the body of the dead—and—and—yet hold a moment, good Ibrahim! Dost thou not envy my immortal career? Dost desire to drink the Water of Life? Lo, the flagon is at thy command—drink, Ibrahim, and become immortal!”

“Drink I will!” exclaimed Ibrahim with a meaning smile, as he took the flagon in his grasp which the Scholar had substituted for the phial containing the Water of Life—“Drink I will, but first I will give thee a proof of my power!”

“Thy power? I am all amazement—”

“Learn, mighty Scholar, that the children of the race of Ben-Malakim, hold the power of calling up from the silence of the grave the spirits of the dead or, summoning from the uttermost parts of the earth the spectres of the living.”

“These are idle words. Ibrahim, thou triflest with me!”

“Aldarin gaze around thee—all is dark and indistinct, the fire has burned to its embers, and the cavern beyond is wrapt in shadow. Aldarin, cast thy memory backward over the scenes of thy life, and tell me—which of thine enemies wouldst thou summon before thee in this scene of gloom?”

“He will drink the flagon at last,” muttered Aldarin; “I’ll even humor his whim. I would behold the forms of two slaves, whom I hate as darkly as my soul can hate. I would behold”—he whispered the names between his clenched teeth—“summon the slaves before me, if thou can’st!”

“Lo! it is done,”—shouted the Arabian—“Spirits of Ben-Malakim, appear—in the name of God, appear!”

“I hear a hushed sound like the tread of armies,” murmured Aldarin—“Yet all is dark around me.”

Scarce had the words passed from his lips when a dim yet lurid light, issuing from an invisible source, streamed around the cavern, and the face of Aldarin, tinted by the ghastly radiance, was stamped with an expression of wonder and awe.

Around, on every side, gathered along the rude pavement, shoulder to shoulder, a shadowy multitude stood dimly revealed in the lurid light, with dusky and immovable faces looking from beneath the shadow of sable helmets, ponderous with waving plumes.

And as Aldarin looked, the cavern was for a single moment wrapt in the darkness of midnight.

The gloom was again succeeded by the lurid light, and before the very eyes of the Scholar, gazing him sternly and fixedly in the face, stood two warrior forms, motionless as statues.

One was a stern old knight, clad in glittering armor, with long waving locks of snow-white hue falling far beneath his helmet, along his venerable countenance and over his iron-robed chest.

The other wore the appearance of a bluff soldier, next in rank to an Esquire, for he was clad in attire of substantial buff, with the rugged outline of his unplumed cap, surmounting a massive forehead, seamed by wrinkles and hardened by battle-toil.

There was something intensely horrible in the wild glow of triumph with which Aldarin regarded the spectres.

“Ha—ha! The vulgar hind, whom this hand consigned to darkness, arises to swell the triumph of the Scholar! But the other form—’tis the form of my mortal foe! He comes in spirit to look upon the glory of Aldarin! A few brief days and over his heart and brain will blacken the vengeance of the Scholar—vengeance such as never shadowed earth or darkened hell. Away with these phantoms, Ibrahim—my brain is ’wildered with too much joy—away!”

Through the gloom, he advanced toward the figures, he reached forth his hand, expecting to grasp the intangible air, when it rattled against the rugged plates of iron defending the breast of the venerable warrior.

The echo of the rattling armor was returned by a clanking sound that rang to the very cavern’s roof, a sound like the clashing of a thousand swords. There was a brief yet fearful pause. Aldarin held his breath and his hands clutched convulsively at his throat.

“Behold,” shouted the voice of Ibrahim, “behold the spectres by the light of a thousand torches!”

And at the magic word, the Cavern of Albarone was all alive with light, the light of a thousand torches, grasped by the mailed hands of warriors, while the stalwart forms of the men-at-arms, gathered in one dense and sombre multitude along the pavement of stone, rose clear and distinctly in the ruddy beams, and their sable plumes waved like a forest in the air.

Aldarin looked from side to side—he passed his hand wildly over his forehead, he strove to arouse his soul from this fearful dream.

It was no dream, Great God of Truth and Vengeance! it was no dream.

On every side the gleam of arms broke on the eye of Aldarin; on every side the frown of warlike visages met his gaze; and his glance was returned by the ominous glare of a thousand eyes.