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!”