Part 2 — THE ALCHYMIST.

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BY MRS. LAMBERT.

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“The machine of human life, though constituted of a thousand parts, is in all its parts systematically connected; nor is it easy to insert an additional member, the spuriousness of which an accurate observation will not readily detect.”—Godwin.

It was midnight. Darkness, deep as the sable of a funeral pall, hung over the streets of Madrid. The wind blew in strong gusts, and the rain fell in torrents. The lightning, which, at brief intervals, rent the clouds, and flashed across the gloom, revealed no living, moving thing. For an instant only, the livid sheets lit up the streets and squares, and glared over the Plaza Mayon, so often the scene of savage bull-fights, of cruel executions, and, in former years, of the horrible Auto de fé. And again, as it seemed, a tenfold blackness enveloped every object; convents, colleges and hospitals, closed at every aperture, were shrouded in the general gloom. Man, though the noblest work of his Creator—glorying in his wisdom and in his might—towering in the battle-field—great in council—overweening, arrogant, boastful; in such a night learns to feel his own insignificance. He, who adorned with all the pageantry of wealth, elevates himself far above the lowly individual that seeks his daily bread by daily labor—who looks down as from an immeasurable height upon the poor peasant of the soil—even he, so rich, so powerful, sheltered within his stately walls, listens to the war of the elements that rage without—and inwardly congratulating himself on his rich and comfortable asylum, yet shrinks involuntarily as the blast shrieks by—and silently acknowledges his own impotence.

I have said no living thing moved in the street, and every building was closed against the storm; but in the outskirts of the city, in a narrow and solitary lane, built up at intervals with a few houses of mean and wretched appearance—a faint light shone through the gloom. It proceeded from the casement of a house of antique structure, and dilapidated appearance. Years must have gone by since that dwelling was the abode of comfort, for poverty and wretchedness seemed to have long marked it for their own. The exterior gave faithful promise of what was revealed within.

In a large and gothic room, the broken and discolored walls of which betokened decay, an aged man was bending over a fire of charcoal, and busily engaged in some metallic preparation. His form was bent by age. The hair of his head, and the beard, which descended to his breast, were bleached by time to a silvery whiteness. His forehead was ample, but furrowed by a thousand wrinkles. His eyes, deep set, small, and still retaining much quickness and fire, yet at times their expression was wild, despairing, even fearful.

A cap of peculiar and ancient form was upon his head, and his person was enveloped in a robe of russet, confined about the waist by a twisted girdle. His motions were tremulous and feeble, his countenance wan and death-like, his frame to the last degree emaciated.

A bed stood in one corner of the room; a table, and two roughly made forms, were all the furniture of that miserable apartment; but around the small furnace, at which the old man had been lately employed, were gathered crucibles, minerals, chemical preparations, and tools of mysterious form and curious workmanship, but well understood by the artist. Once more the adept, for such was the inmate of this lonely dwelling, scanned with searching eye the contents of a crucible; while the pale flame which rose suddenly from the sullen fire, cast over his sunken features a hue still more livid and cadaverous.

His labors had resulted in disappointment; he sighed heavily, and dropping his implements, abandoned his self-imposed task.

“It is over,” he murmured, “my hour is almost come—and should I repine? No—no. Life!—wretched and misspent!—world! I have sacrificed thee, to thyself!—wonderful enigma, yet how true!”

Turning his steps to the table, he took from thence a lamp, and walked feebly to a remote end of the room. Here, on a humble couch, lay a sleeping child; it was a boy, slender, pale, and bearing in his young face the indications of sorrow and of want—yet was he exquisitely beautiful. He slept still, and heavily. The adept gazed at him long and deeply.

“He sleeps. Victim as he is, of his father’s errors, and his crimes—shunned by his fellows—hunted by the unfeeling—pinched with cold—and perishing with hunger—yet—he sleeps. Father of Heaven! such is the meed of innocence! I, shall never more know rest,—till the long sleep of death that knows no awakening!—No awakening—and is it so?” A blast of wind swept by, rocking the old pile to its foundation, the thunder rolled heavily above, and the keen blue lightning shone through every crevice.

The old man looked fearfully around: a deeper paleness overspread his face, and cold drops stood on his brow and sallow temples.

“The angel of death is surely abroad this night—he seeks his victim.”

Tottering to the bed he sunk down upon it, and closing his eyes, an almost deadly sickness seized him. He called faintly for Adolf. The lad had already risen, for the storm had awakened him. He went to the bedside. The old man could not speak. The child was affrighted and gazed earnestly upon the face of his parent. The senses of the latter had not forsaken him, and he motioned with his hand toward the table, on which stood a small cup. Adolf brought it to his father, and moistened his lips with the liquid. The old man revived. After a few moments he spoke, but his voice was tremulous and low.

“Adolf,” he said, “thy father is about to leave thee—dear object of my fond affection, thou art all that remains of my beloved Zillia—boy,” he continued exerting the last remains of strength, “thou must go hence. The moment thy father ceases to breathe thou must fly.”

The child looked on his parent with alarm, and sorrow depicted in his young face.

“Yes,” he repeated, “thou must quit this place. My enemies are on the alert. Me they would certainly destroy, and thy youth and innocence—will hardly save thee from their wrath. Long have they watched, and sought, and hunted me, from country to country, and from town to town. I have mingled in the crowd of cities, and hoped to be confounded with the multitude—to pass unmarked—unquestioned—unknown—in vain; the ever wakeful eye of suspicion followed me—danger dogged my footsteps. I sought the shelter of thick woods—of impenetrable forests, where the wolf howled, and the raven croaked—but the foot of my persecutor—Man—seldom came. Even there I was discovered. Imprisonment—famine—torture have been my portion—and yet I live. I live—but thy gentle spirit, Zillia, could not bear up under the pressure of so many woes. Adolf, thou wilt shortly be all that survives of the family of Zampieri.—I repeat, by the morning dawn I shall be no more, and thou must fly.”

“No, no,” returned the boy, “urge me not to depart—father, I will remain and share thy fate.” He threw himself as he spoke upon the bosom of the old man who pressed him in his feeble arms.—“And oh! father, I cannot go hence—I am weak—I am ill—father I die of hunger.”

An expression of keen anguish passed over the face of Zampieri, and he pushed his child from him.

“Boy,” he cried, “ask me not for bread—thou knowest I have it not. Have I not been laboring for thee—for thy wealth—for thy aggrandizement—ingrate—bread sayest thou—thou shalt have gold, boy, gold.”

The intellect of the adept wandered, and he laughed wildly. The large, soft, lustrous eyes of Adolf swam in tears, and his heart trembled within his bosom. With weak steps he retreated to the foot of the bed, and kneeling there, hid his face on his folded arms, and wept.

After a pause Zampieri again spoke.

“Life!” he muttered, “how have I wasted thee. Time! Thou art no longer mine. Would that I could redeem thee—but it is too late. Zillia, my murdered love! Thou art avenged. I left thy fond and simple affections for the depths of mysterious research. I madly thought to realise the dreams of illimitable wealth. Vain and destructive ambition. For thy sake have I riven asunder every tie.”

The voice of the old man ceased, and the sobs of the child too were silenced—perchance in sleep.

The violence of the tempest had subsided, and all was still; save that the blast still shrieked at intervals by, making the old casements rattle as it passed—and the thunder muttered low at a distance.

The hours rolled on. A faint grey light dawned in the east. The clouds broken in heavy masses, rolled rapidly onward obscuring and revealing, as they flew, the few bright stars that appeared far beyond this scene of petty turmoil, shining on, in their own unchanging, never ending harmony.

And now the dawn strengthened, and the stars grew pale. The last blue flickering flame, that wandered ignus-fatuus like, over the surface of the dying charcoal, had spent itself; and the wasting lamp looked ghastly in the beams of rising day.

A noise was heard at the lonely portal. It was that of forcible entrance, and came harshly over the deep silence that reigned within. Footsteps approached, not such as told the drawing near of a friend, the light, soft step of sympathy with sorrow. No. They heralded force and violence—bond and imprisonment—racks and torture.

Three Alguazils of the Inquisition entered the solitary apartment. They came to conduct Nicoli Zampieri to the holy office on a charge of performing or seeking to perform preternatural acts by unholy means—by conjuration and necromancy. Guilty or not guilty, suspicion had fallen upon him, and he had become amenable to the law. Their anticipated victim remained quiet. The Alguazils approached the bed on which he lay. The limbs were stark and stiff—the features immoveable. The Alchymist was dead.

Yet the eyes—widely opened, glassy, fixed and staring, gave the startling idea, that the gloomy and reluctant soul had through them strained its last agonising gaze on some opening view—some unimaginable scene in the dread arena of the shadowy world beyond the grave.

Silently they turned from the bed of death, for the power of the king of Terrors, thus displayed before them, quelled for a moment their iron nerves.

A kneeling figure at the bed’s foot next drew their attention. It was Adolf. They spoke to him, but he answered not: they shook him, but the form immobile, gave no sign of warmth or elasticity. One of the men turned aside the rich curls that clustered above the boy’s fair brow, and gently raised his head. It was cold and pale. The suffering spirit of the young and innocent Adolf, had winged its way to a happier world.