Part 16

“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?”