Basil Wolgemuth lay asleep on his couch. He had outwatched midnight, and
was very weary. The follower of Rosencreutz, the philosopher, the man of
genius, had not passed the limits of mortality; his earth-vesture clung
about him still. Fatigue had overtaken him in the midst of his vigils;
he had thrown himself down on the hard pallet, and fallen asleep, as
sound as if the rude couch of the Rosicrucian were the monarch’s bed of
down. The morning stars looked in at his casement, and the dim light of
a single lamp fell on the countenance of the student. He lay calm as a
little child, with folded hands, as if his mother had lulled him to sleep
with songs. O, if that mother could have beheld him now, how would she
have wept over the child of so many prayers!
I have said before that there was little beauty in Basil’s face, at least
that mere beauty of form, which is so dazzling,——and it is good that it
should be so, for a lovely face seems fresh from the impress of God’s
hand; we naturally love it, cling to it, and worship it as such. But
Basil’s sole charm had been the genius so plainly visible in his face,
and a sunny, youthful, happy look, which made it pleasant to behold.
Now, all this was long gone. But while he slept, a little of his olden
self returned; a smile wandered over his lips, and his sunny hair fell
carelessly, as in the days when Isilda’s fingers used to part it, and
kiss his white, beautiful forehead. Suddenly a red glare lighted up the
still shadow of the chamber,——it flashed on the eyes of the sleeper.
“Art thou here, O spirit?” murmured Basil, half roused, and dazzled by
the brilliant light, which seemed a continuation of his dream.
But it was no celestial presence that shone into the student’s room. He
awoke fully, rose up, and looked out into the night. The city lay hushed
beneath the starlight like a palace of the dead; it seemed as though no
mortal turmoil would ever more ruffle its serene repose. But far down the
dark street, in a direction where Basil’s eyes had in former times been
fondly turned waiting for the one solitary lamp which was to him like a
star, lurid flames and white smoke burst forth, and contended with the
gloom around. There was in the city the fearful presence of fire, and the
burning house was Isilda’s.
With a sudden impulse, Basil leaped at once through the low window,
and fled rather than ran to the scene. This time human love had the
pre-eminence; he forgot all but Isilda,——Isilda perishing in the flames!
Wildly raged the fierce element, as if kindled by a hundred demons, who
fanned it with their fiery breath, and leaped, and howled, and shouted,
as it spread on with mad swiftness. Now it writhed in serpent-coils,
now it darted upwards in forked tongues, and now it made itself a veil
of dusky vapors, and beneath that shade went on in its devastating way.
Its glare put out the dim stars overhead, and hung on the skirts of the
clouds that were driven past, until the sky itself seemed in flames.
House after house caught the blaze, and cries of despair, mingled with
shrieks of frantic terror, rose up through the horrible stillness of
night. The beautiful element which Basil had so loved——the cheering,
inspiring fire——was turned into a fearful scourge.
The student reached the spot, and looked wildly up to the window he
had so often watched. A passing gust blew the flames aside, and he
distinguished there a white figure,——it was Isilda. Her hands were
crossed on her bosom, and her head was bowed meekly, as if she knew
there was no hope, and was content to die.
Basil saw, and in a moment he had rushed into the burning dwelling. He
gained the room, and with a wild cry of joy, Isilda sprung into his arms.
Without a word, he bore her, insensible as she was, through the smoke and
flame, to a spot where the fire had not reached. Farther he could not go,
for his strength failed him. He laid his burden down, and leaned against
the wall.
“I might not live for thee, Isilda,” cried the student, “but I can die
for thee. Yet is there no help,——no hope? Where are the spirits that were
once subject unto me? And thou, my guardian,——spirit of fire!——is this
thy work? Where art thou?”
“I am here!” answered a voice; and the Salamandrine appeared. The flames
drew nearer, and Basil saw myriads of aerial shapes flitting among
them in mazy wreaths. They came nigh,——they hovered over his mortal
love,——their robes of seeming flame swept her form.
“Touch her not!” shrieked the student, as he bent over Isilda, his human
fear overpowering him.
“The good and pure like her are ever safe,” replied the Salamandrine. “We
harm her not.” And she breathed over the maiden, who awoke.
“O my Basil!” murmured the girl, “is death then past? Thou didst come to
save me,——thou lovest me,——thou art mine again!” And she stretched out to
him her loving arms; but Basil turned away.
“Hush!” he said, “dost thou not see them,——the spirits?”
Isilda looked round fearfully. “I see nothing,——only thee.”
The student’s eyes flashed with insanity. “See!” he cried, “they fill the
air, they gather round us, they come between thee and me. Now,——now their
forms grow fainter,——they are vanishing,——it is thou, woman! who art
driving them from my sight forever. Stay, glorious beings, stay! I give
up all,——even her.”
“Nothing shall part me from thee!” shrieked the girl, as she clung to her
lover, and wound her arms round him. “No power in heaven or earth shall
tear us asunder,——thou art mine, Basil,——let me live for thee,——die for
thee.”
“Thou shalt have thy desire!” the student cried, as he struggled in her
frantic clasp.
There was the gleam of steel,——one faint, bubbling sigh,——the arms
relaxed their hold, and Basil was alone,——with the dead!
The fire stayed in its dire path, and a wailing sound rose as the spirits
fled away. Heaven and earth had alike forsaken the murderer.
He knelt beside his victim; he wept, he laughed, he screamed; for madness
was in his brain.
“I may clasp thee now, Isilda,” he shouted, “thou art all my own!” And he
strained the cold, still form to his breast, kissing the lips and cheeks
with passionate vehemence.
“I will make thee a pyre,——a noble funereal pyre,” he continued; “I will
purify this mortal clay, and thou shalt become a spirit, Isilda,——a
beautiful, immortal spirit.”
He bore the dead to where the fire raged fiercest; he laid his beloved on
a couch; composed the frigid limbs, folded the hands, and, kissing the
cold lips once more, retired to a distance, while the flames played round
the still beautiful form that was once Isilda. Lovingly they inwreathed
and enshrouded it, until at last they concealed it from the student’s
gaze. He turned and fled. The fire hid in its mysterious bosom the ashes
of that noble and devoted heart. Isilda had found the death she once
thought so blest,——death by the hand of the beloved.