University of Virginia Library

11. 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 Mighty-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 Mighty
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 sweeping robe of black
thrown back from his shoulder, Aldar in the Scholar
glanced around the room, while his grey 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 multitude—“Gaze within
the alembic—what see'st thou there?”

“I see a liquid clear as crystal, calm, motionless,
and unruffled. The most gorgeous mirror
might fail to rival its shadowy brightness. The
alembic is heated to a white heat, yet the liquid
bubbles not, nor seethes, nor wears any appear

ance 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 subterranean
currents, 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 a 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
be past since first I sat 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 solemn march to the grave! To live forever—to
feel life throbbing in my veins, health
flooding my very heart, 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 to win!' 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,[1] and rash 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 strange animal that haunts the
forests of the far desert 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 wonderous 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—slew her!”

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

“Yes—yes—I slew her, slew 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
Ilmerine. 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 were then 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 discoved
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 black 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 palmbranches
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, this 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 the 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—the dim and shadowy
words—what were they?”

“Hast thou ne'er perused you volume of Fate?”

“A fear of the dark and 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, 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 beliet. 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 stamp these principles of belief
true, or declare them false, but it can teach Aldarin
nothing. Look, Ibrahim, the sands have
fallen to within the fourth part of an hour of mid-night!
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 nothing 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 tho' 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 brilliancy and intensity
of expression that seemed supernatural, his
lip trembled, his quivering hands rattled the time-worn
parchment, until the Round Room echoed
with the sound, and the Prince Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim
standing slightly aside, 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 breath! 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 ripleless
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!”