“Paul, the Stranger wrote his name upon a piece of parchment, which
I have enclosed and sealed within this paper, in the form of a letter. I
have not looked upon that name, nor must you know it until the time for
action arrives. It cannot be long ere blood must be shed. Perhaps, a
few months will elapse, or another year may pass before the first blood
will flow. There will be a battle—many battles—armies will be swept
away—this new land grow rich in graves. But when the time arrives,
you will break the seal of this letter, read the name of the Deliverer, and
obey the words which you will find written beneath that name. Promise,
my son, solemnly promise, that you will not break the seal, until a year
has gone—”

The light which the old man held in his thin hand—marked by prominent
veins—cast its rays along the gloom of the corridor, which traversed
the Block-house or Monastery from east to west. At one end
was the narrow staircase leading into the upper rooms or cells of the edifice;
at the other the door, opening upon the gate. Near the door stood
the old clock, whose monotonous ticking was heard distinctly through
the stillness. On either side appeared the doors of the rooms on the
lower floor of the mansion.

They stood before a door of dark walnut, whose panels were obscured
by spider-webs. It had not been opened for many years.

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Paul surveyed the high forehead and clear blue eyes of his Father, with
a glance which mingled reverence with something of awe.

“I promise, Father,” he said—“Until a year has passed, I will not
break the seal.”

“Come hither, Paul:” the old man had taken a rusted key from the
folds of his robe, and inserted it in the lock of the walnut door—“Enter
this chamber, and listen while I speak.”

The candle which the Father carried in an iron candlestick, revealed a
small apartment, square in form, and without windows or furniture of any
kind. It was panelled with dark walnut. In the centre of the floor arose
an altar or table covered with black cloth, moth-eaten and obscured by
spider-webs, and on this altar an urn of white alabaster was visible.

With a sensation of involuntary fear, Paul crossed the threshold, and
beheld the gloomy features of this coffin-like chamber. His father's pale
face was agitated by an emotion, which resembled the rapture or madness
of an inspired Prophet. His eyes shone with deeper light; a joy that
might well have been called holy, radiated over his high narrow forehead
and trembled on his lips.

“Paul—you behold this sealed packet. I place it within the urn.
Kneel, my son, beside the altar, and promise that you will not break the
seal until a year has passed.”

At his father's feet the young man knelt, while his bronzed face, lighted
by dark eyes, and shadowed by masses of rich brown hair, was strongly
contrasted with the pale face, blue eyes, and snow-white locks of the
old man.

“I promise, Father!”

The Father, after gazing for a moment upon the urn, which stood out
vividly from the dark background, led the way from the chamber. He
locked the door, and again addressed his son—

“Kneel once more. Take this key, and swear that you will not unlock
the door of this room, until a year has passed.”

“I swear, Father!” said Paul, as he knelt in the dust of the corridor,
the light shining warmly over his thoughtful face. He clutched the
rusted key with an involuntary earnestness.

“Come hither, Paul;” and the old man led his son for a few paces
along the corridor. They stood before a door of black walnut, on whose
cobweb hung panels a cross was rudely traced. At the sight of that
door, all that was calm or rapturous passed from the old man's face, and
his down-drawn brow and tightened lips indicated emotions of a far different
nature.

“Father, you are not well—the night air chills you—” said Paul, with
evident anxiety.

The old man's thin lips moved, but it seemed as if he had not the physical
power to frame an audible sound.

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Paul gazed upon his father with speechless anxiety and wonder.

“Let me see your hand, my son—”

Paul extended his hand—

“It is a fair hand,—as white and delicate as a woman's hand—and
yet—”

The Father dropped the hand with a shudder.

“Father, you are cold—let me assist you to your chamber—the night
is far spent—and it is very cold in this corridor—”

In a moment, the peculiar emotion which stamped the old man's face
with so much of horror and fear, passed away. He was calm again; his
blue eyes shining with steady light, while his long white hair trembled
gently aside from his colorless forehead.

“Kneel once more—”

Paul knelt at his father's feet.

The old man extended his thin white hand, and placed its slender fingers
upon the brown locks of his son. Both father and son were
attired in robes of dark velvet, somewhat faded and worn; on the
shrunken chest of the old man, and the firm, manly bosom of his son,
shone a silver Cross.

Around them was the silence of night, only broken by the distant
echoes of the winter wind.

“Repeat after me, my son, a solemn vow—”

Paul clasped his hands upon his breast, and cast his eyes to the floor,
trembling, he knew not why, at the touch of his father's hand, at the sound
of his voice.

And then, in accents bold and deep, he repeated the words which came
from the lips of his Father:

“I, Paul, devoted to God from my birth, do vow by his holy name,
never to enter the door of this sealed chamber, before which I kneel, and
whose surface bears the sign of the cross, until—”

The old man paused, and veiled his eyes, while Paul looked up in
wonder.

He awaited the conclusion of the oath, but his Father did not utter the
closing words, until a pause of some moments.

“Until—” repeated Paul, looking earnestly into his father's face.

“Until my father is dead—” said the old man, his voice tremulous and
his eyes shaded by his hand.

Paul hesitated for a moment, and then, his eyes swimming in moisture,
slowly repeated the words—“Until my father is dead.”

“And if you fail in this, Paul, the Curse of God will descend upon you,
and blight you into a hopeless grave!”

For the first time in his life, Paul beheld an expression of fierceness—
anger—rest upon the face of his Father.

“Dost thou hear, my son?” continued the old man, clasping his wrist.

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“I hear father, and will obey,” said Paul, looking with reverence into
the venerable face, whose blue eyes gazed fixedly into his own. “Have
I ever disobeyed you? Can the time ever come, when I will cease to
obey?”

The old man pressed his hand kindly upon the forehead of his son.

“God's peace be upon you, Paul,” he said, and, light in hand, hurried
along the corridor toward his chamber. It was his nightly farewell to
his child which he had spoken. Paul arose, and, gazing upon the receding
form of his father, entered the door opposite that of the sealed
chamber.

Ere an instant had passed, he had crossed the threshold, and by the
light of a fading lamp, beheld the familiar features of his own room.

The lamp stood on a desk, and, struggling with the gloom, revealed the
details of a small chamber, with a rude couch in one corner, a window at
its head, whose shutters were fast closed and bolted, and a range of shelves
near the desk, burdened with dusky volumes.

Paul seated himself in the oaken chair, near the desk, and, resting his
cheek upon his hand, fixed his eyes sadly upon the light, and surrendered
himself to his thoughts.

Those thoughts were at once varied and tumultuous. His breath came
in gasps, as he sat enveloped by the gloom and silence of the chamber;
his eye grew large and vacant in its glance.

What power of language may picture the nature of that hour of solitary
meditation?

Now his eye wandered to the shelves, burdened with massive volumes,
with clasps of steel and silver. There were the works of the Astrologers
and Alchemists of the past ages, mingled with the writings of the spiritual
dreamers and religious mystics of Germany, in the sixteenth century.
From boyhood, nay, from very childhood, Paul had dwelt upon their pages,
and as his mind—gifted by the Almighty with a power as strange as it was
peculiar—grew into form, it had been moulded and colored by these written
Thoughts of Astrology, Alchemy, and Mysticism.

And amid the large volumes were two small books, which more than
once attracted the gaze of Paul, as he sat absorbed in that silent self-communion.
The only books, indeed, which were not devoted to the dreams
of Astrology or Alchemy, or the bewildering frenzies of Religious Mystiticism.
Plainly bound, their covers indicating much service, they bore
two rudely emblazoned names; one was “Shakspeare—” the other,
“Milton.”

How the heart of Paul bounded within him, as he thought of the day
when, from an obscure corner of a neglected chest, he had drawn forth
these priceless volumes!

Near his elbow was another volume; it was open, and its broad pages
bore the bold, firm characters of the Hebrew tongue. It was the Bible—

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the Old Testament and the New in one language—which Paul had read
for years; the only copy of the Book which he possessed. Dearer he
prized it, than all his works of Alchemy or Astrology, dearer even than
the reveries of Religious Enthusiasm; it was, to his soul, a thousandfold
more precious than the pages of those seers of the heart, Shakspeare and
Milton.

For from that boldly printed Hebrew volume, the Lord God of Heaven
and Earth talked to him, the unknown Boy of Wissahikon, and talked in
the language of the Other World. The Hebrew did not seem to him the
language of men, but the awful and mysterious tongue of Angels. Its
syllables of music rolled, full and deep, into his soul, as though a spirit
stood by him, while he read, pronouncing the words, whose meaning penetrated
his brain.

Does it not seem to you a thought of some interest and beauty?

Here, enshrouded in the gloom and silence of this cell of the Wissahikon
Monastery, sits the Boy of Nineteen, shut out from all the world—
its experience—its love and hate—a vague blank to him.

And yet, as he glances over the Hebrew page, his soul, escaping from
the narrow room, goes out into a distant land, where the palm trees stand
in the noonday sun, by the shore of the mysterious Jordan, or where the
waves, creeping up the beach of Galilee, break in ripples at the feet of the
God enshrined in flesh.

Or, he is amid the silence and shadow of that Eden whose joy was
without a pang, whose flowers concealed no poison, whose naked Eve
came, sinlessly and without shame, to the lake, and saw the serene sky
arch above her, the clear waters smile at her feet. Then with the builders
of the Babel Tower—with the earnest Moses, leading forth from Serfdom
a nation of slaves, and leading them to Civilization and Religion — with
the warrior-poet David, whose love to Jonathan is beautiful even now,
after the lapse of the many thousand centuries—with Isaiah the Beautiful
and Job the sublime—or, last of all, and most beautiful of all, with that
toil-worn face, which one day looked forth from the hut of a carpenter,
and said to all the world—“God, enshrined in flesh and toil, has come to
walk like a Brother among ye the sons of men.”

The thoughts of Paul, at this still hour, dwell not altogether upon the
pages of the Hebrew Bible, nor do they wander in the fairy world of
Shakspeare, or with the terrible Phantoms of Milton.

“It is strange—but it is true! The words, the very tone of my father,
seem to call me suddenly into a new life. I stand upon the Present and
survey the Past, with fear—with trembling. A singular life has been
mine. Bred afar from the world—within the walls of this forest home—
the only faces familiar to me, are the faces of my Father and Catherine.
Beyond those faces, beyond the forest home lies the great world, a dim
chaos, whose darkness is not enlightened by a single star. Our life has

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been very rude in this forest home. Our fare simple, our attire such as
was worn by our ancestors. We have neither decked ourselves in gay
apparel, nor slain a living thing in order to pamper appetite. Water from
the spring—bread from the corn that grows in the fields, beyond the
woods—the fruits of summer and the bloodless produce of the garden—
such has been the fare, for years, of the old man of Wissahikon and his
children.

“Had I eaten of flesh, or drunken of wine, there might mingle with my
blood an impetuous desire to see the great world, and join in its relentless
war for fame and gold. But here, within these walls, my life shall
glide gently on, until it flows, without a murmur, into that great Ocean
which Men call Death.

“But this Oath—the Sealed Chamber—the strange agitation of my
Father?

“What are his plans in regard to my Future? The Deliverer for
whose coming we watched so long, came but an hour ago—Wherefore
does my father say to me, `Wait one year!' or `Until I am dead,
Paul!'

“I have never heard myself addressed by any other name than Paul
Ardenheim—my father's name is also unknown to me. Hold! Black
David, the deformed, who sometimes comes to the Monastery, and bears
messages for my father to the city, may know our name. Shall I
ask him?

“No! It is not for me to lift the curtain which enshrouds my father's
secrets, and conceals his purposes from my view. It is for me to sit at
his feet, to wait in patience. But—the future of Catherine?—Shall she
dwell for ever in this home? She is so fair, so beautiful,—and yet so
heaven-like in her beauty,—so like one of those women of whom the
Prophet Shakspeare speaks, that I could weep to think of her dying
within these walls, neglected and unknown!”

You will remember, that Paul applied the word “Prophet” alike to
Shakspeare and Milton. They had received their intellect from God, and
all that was good in them was God-like; therefore—so the crude Enthusiast
reasoned—they were his Prophets, whenever they enunciated a divine
thought or embodied a holy truth.

“I cannot banish the thought. It seems to encircle me, and force me
to answer its mysterious questions. It is the thought of the mystery
which overshadows our life,—all dark as I look to the past, darker yet as
I gaze into the future. Father! Father! Would that the time were here,
when, placing me on one hand, and Catherine on the other, your lips
could tell to us the history of your life, and the history of ours!”

Paul felt his brow grow feverish as it rested upon his hand, while his
dilating eyes were fixed upon the half-shadowed walls of his room. It
was an impressive scene. That narrow chamber, dimly lighted, with the

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form of that darkly attired Enthusiast seated in the centre of its light and
gloom, his bronzed face and earnest eyes manifesting thought at once
intense and bewildering.

Paul arose and paced the floor.

It came upon him suddenly, like a burst of voluptuous music, like a
gush of intoxicating perfume, like a dream of fragrance and moonbeams—
the memory of the beautiful woman whom he had seen to-night, for the
first time.

His cell was full of gloom, but even in the gloom he could see her
flashing eyes,—it was very still in the old Block-house, but through the
stillness he could hear her voice, whispering words of wild, boundless
passion.

Wherever he turned, he saw a vision of a beautiful form, whose bosom,
half-revealed, panted slowly into light, and throbbed into warm loveliness,
beneath his gaze.

It seemed as though the vision had rushed upon him like the frenzy of
a fever—his heart beat in tumultuous throbs—he gasped for breath, and
wildly stretching forth his hands, tottered to the chair.

Veiling his eyes, he endeavored to banish that voluptuous image. But
she was there, before him—he felt her hand trembling softly over his
forehead—her breath upon his cheek. Again, her darkly flowing hair
swept over his face; again his blood was ice and flame by turns, as her
voice whispered gently—“I have waited for you, Paul. Have loved you—
and am yours for ever!”

It was in the midst of this voluptuous frenzy, that Paul cast his glance
toward the light, and for the first time beheld a letter, inscribed with
these words—`To my son.'

“It is from my father. He must have written it last night, before the
Deliverer came. I will banish the maddening memory—and yet—she is
very—very beautiful!”

He broke the seal, and read the letter, traced in the tremulous hand of
his father.

Sunset, December 31, 1774.
My Son—

In case the hope, in which I have lived for seventeen years, proves
false, and the Deliverer for whom we have waited in Prayer, for so many
years, does not come—even then, Paul, it is my purpose to fulfil, with
regard to you, the command of the Lord. From your infancy you have
been devoted to God. You have been sacred from the world, set apart
from the faces of men. The relentless lust of traffic, the feverish desires
of ambition, the hollow sophistries and cold selfishness of the great world,
have not polluted your virgin intellect. You have bloomed into life in
the wilderness—a life, pure and serene as the stars. Therefore, to-morrow,

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at the hour of sunset, I will fulfil the purpose of my heart, and solemnly
dedicate you to God.

Behold the manner of this dedication.

The upper rooms of our mansion you have never seen. They are
sealed to all human eyes, and have been for years. But when you traverse
the corridor which extends between those rooms, you will read on
those closed doors, the names of Anselm—Joseph—Immanuel.

These were my brothers, not in the flesh, but in the spirit. With me
they left Germany,—left house and home,—and we came into the wilderness
together. Together, in these woods, we reared the altar of our
Brotherhood. Our creed was simple—Love to Man is Love to God.

While you were but a child, and Catherine scarcely a babe of two
years, they died, these brothers of my heart, and left me alone in the old
mansion. In their death-hour, I vowed a solemn vow that you and Catherine
should be devoted to the great work of our Religion. I vowed it,
clasping their chilled hands, with their glassy eyes fixed upon me—vowed
it to each one as he sunk back in the wave of death. A month or more
intervened between their deaths—in the space of half a year they all
were gathered to the grave.

—To-morrow I will solemnly dedicate you to the work which those
brothers loved all their lives, and clung to with unfaltering faith in the
hour of death.

You will be called upon, first of all, to take this vow—“In the presence
of God, and surrounded by the skeletons of the Brothers of the good
cause, I do vow to devote all my efforts, to bend my life, my intellect,
my wealth, to the progress of that cause.

“And in order that my strength may not be weakened, my heart clogged,
or my brain clouded by any tie of earth, or taint of earthly passion, I do
further solemnly vow, in the presence of the dead, never to contract marriage,
nor to look upon a woman with the eye of sensual love. My only
bride shall be the good cause—my only hope and aim in life, its final
success.”

Are you ready for this vow, my son? Let your time be passed in
Prayer, so that the hour of sunset to-morrow does not find you unprepared.

While the young man perused this paper, his face indicated powerful
emotion. There was no color in his rounded cheeks, when he came to
the last words. The paper fell from his hands, and, with a sudden failure
of all physical or mental strength, he sank unconscious in his chair.

The lamp, glimmering with a faint lustre over his marked features and
motionless form, seemed not to disclose a living but a dead man. The
stern mental contest which had shook his reason to its centre, and

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deprived his strong mind of its native vigor, left him stiffened and cold in
every nerve.

It was after a long pause that he awoke from his stupor, but with his
first glance of consciousness he beheld his father's letter. At once he
started from his seat, and pulling forth a drawer, which was concealed in
the side of the desk, he was about to place the letter with the manuscripts
which the drawer contained, when his attention was suddenly enchained
by a new object of wonder. A slip of paper, not more than two inches
in breadth, lay on the manuscripts, its bold characters standing blackly
out from the white surface. On this paper, Paul beheld a few words,
written in a quaint and vigorous old English character. The ink was
scarcely dried; the paper was different in quality from any he used;
indeed, as Paul, ere perusing its words, held it between his eyes and the
light, he beheld the date of its fabrication, woven in its texture, surmounted
by a British Crown and coat of arms. That date was

1590.

“The ink is scarcely dried—I have no paper like this in my desk, nor
have I ever seen any thing of this kind in possession of my father. The
character is strange—but let me read it first, before wasting the time in
vague conjectures—”

Midnight, December 31, 1774.
To Paul, Baron of Ardenheim:

Thou seekest to know. Enter the door with the Cross upon its
panels. Search the Urn. The Past and future will be opened to thee.

“There is no signature,” exclaimed Paul, as he sunk back in the chair,
utterly bewildered—“The mystery of my life grows darker! Who
placed this paper in my drawer? Whose hand traced these singular
words? Can it be that my father wishes to test my faithfulness to the
vow which I took upon myself not a few moments ago? But no—it is
not my father's hand. These words were written by a firm hand, whose
nerves knew not a single tremor of weariness or age. Oh, for a ray of
light to shine upon this mystery!”

Again he examined the paper; the ink was very black, the writing distinct
and bold. The “water-mark,” or date of the fabrication of the
paper, was seen clearly, as he held it before the light—1590.

“`Enter the door with the Cross upon its panels!' It would be perjury.
`Search the urn—' there is an urn within the Sealed Chamber—
but, I must not think of it. It would be treason to my father—yes, the
shame of falsehood would blister on my forehead. It cannot for a
moment influence my thoughts, this idle message sent to me by unknown
hands—”

While these thoughts, half-uttered, flashed through the brain of Paul,

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the words: “Enter the door with the Cross upon its panels,” rang unceasingly
in his ears.

The paper fell from his hands, and rested on the desk beside his
father's letter.

“The Past and the Future will be opened to thee!”

Paul heard these words, as though a spirit had spoken them gently in
his ears.

“I swore a solemn oath, that I would not—” he uttered the words,
and starting from his seat, paced up and down the floor of his narrow
room.

All was breathlessly still—he could hear the ticking of the old clock,
which stood at the remote end of the corridor, or hall—it seemed to him
that he could also hear the frenzied throbbings of his heart.

He was lost in a wilderness of conflicting thought. He was at once
possessed by a yearning desire to know the mystery of his life, and with
a terrible consciousness of the guilt which would darken his soul, in case
he violated his oath.

“Paul, Baron of Ardenheim,” he muttered—“Baron of Ardenheim!
I have heard those words before! To-night—it was when I stood on the
rock of Wissahikon. Baron Ardenheim! Is it my father's title, the
name by which he was known in the great world?”

Paul took the lamp, and went from that cell—the dearest home of his
hours of thought—and closing the door, stood in the gloom of the corridor.
An unbroken stillness prevailed. The lamp revealed the door on
which the figure of a Cross was traced — shone distinctly upon its panels,
while all around was gloom. Paul's features became violently agitated as
he glanced upon the door; he stood like a man bewildered by a supernatural
spell, gazing upon the dim Cross with expanded eyes.

“The Past and the Future shall be opened to thee!” he murmured,
and advanced a single step.

Then came another pause, in which Paul stood without motion in the
centre of the corridor, his face colorless, his eyes expanded and unnaturally
brilliant.

“No! No! In the name of God, I dare not think of it!—Yet the
Past is to me a dim chaos—the Future a starless midnight, peopled only
by phantoms * * * * No! I will to my father's couch, and press my
kiss upon his lips as he slumbers, and then come back to my room again
to bury these fearful thoughts in Prayer!”

Passing along the corridor—the old clock throbbing all the while
through the breathless stillness—he saw that the door of the room next
to his own was slightly opened.

It was his sister's chamber.

Inclining his head toward the dark panels, he listened—

All was still, save the low, soft breathing of the sinless sleeper

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“God's blessing upon thee! There are no frightful phantoms to mar
thy rest—no infernal temptation scares thy soul from its dreams. And
yet—it is a strange thought—thy fate is like unto mine. Thou must take
the vow, and swear with me, never to look with love upon the form of a
living thing—”

His brow clouded by a sombre expression, Paul passed on, his face
agitated in every feature. Next came the door of the old man's chamber.
Paul bent his head toward its panels—all was silent—his father slept.

Softly unclosing the door, Paul passed the threshold, the light glimmering
dimly over the details of a cell-like place, with a rude couch in
one corner. With a noiseless footstep Paul advanced to the couch, and
saw the form of his father, prostrate in slumber, the profile of his aged
face turned toward the light. He had flung himself upon the plain bed
without removing the dark robe from his spare limbs, and as he slept, the
silver cross shone like a point of flame upon his breast.

His eyes were closed, his face very calm, and the light imparted a
faint glow to his snow-white hair.

Beside his bed, his lips firmly set, and his eyes glaring from the fixed
brows, stood his son, whose broad chest heaved with violent agitation, as
he silently surveyed the calm image of venerable age which slumbered
before him.

Moved by the violent throbbings of his heart, the Cross which he wore
now disappeared, and as suddenly flashed into the light again.

As the eye of Paul became more accustomed to the gloom of his
father's narrow room, he beheld a singular statue which rose at the
head of his couch, starting from a recess in the panelled walls. Paul
beheld this statue with an involuntary tremor, for the words which his
father had many times spoken to him, came vividly to his memory, at
this lone hour of night and thought.

“When Man is free from all manner of bondage, when the mission of
the Redeemer has done its perfect work, then shall the Lead become Gold,
and the Gloom be turned into unutterable Joy.”

These words had often fallen from his father's lips—as Paul looked
upon the singular statue, half-revealed by his light, he remembered them
with painful distinctness.

It was a figure of the Saviour, moulded or carved in lead, the form
clad in the humble garments of toil, and the face stamped with a look of
unutterable sadness. The large motionless eyes, the lips agitated by a
smile that had more of sorrow than joy for its meaning, the great forehead,
stamped with a sublime despair — all moulded of lead—impressed
the heart of the gazer with sensations of peculiar awe.

“That Image, Paul—” the old man was wont to say—“Is the Image,
not of the Saviour triumphant over death and evil, but of Jesus imprisoned
among the creeds and sophistries of the Church. There is a singular

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tradition connected with the statue, my son. It was moulded by the hand
of a Hussite heretic, who, imprisoned by the followers of Papal power,
was offered life and liberty on one condition. `You are an artist,' they
said—`Your hand is cunning in the arts of painting and sculpture. Carve
for us an Image for our Altar, and you shall be free!' The heretic, encumbered
by his chains, heard them, and lifting his sunken features from
the shadows of his cell, faltered a response to their request. `Of what
metal will you have it?' `Of gold!' `Whose image shall I carve?' `The
Blessed Saviour triumphant over death—' `Give me some lead, and let
me have a furnace, so that I may prepare a model of the statue which
you desire! They consented. For weary days and nights, the Hussite
was secluded in his cell, toiling steadily at his labor. They became impatient,
but he replied, pointing to the statue, imprisoned in its mould,
`Soon it will be done.' One morning he unclosed the door of his cell.
While his form, wasted by persecution and toil, trembled like a leaf, and
his cheek, hollow and care-worn, looked like the cheek of a corse, he led
the throng of priestly Lords across the threshold. `You asked of me an
Image of the Saviour triumphant over death. I could not mould a Lie
into gold, for I felt that my hour was near. So I moulded Him of lead,
and moulded him, not as he appears in the Bible, but as he is in your
Church, chained by your hollow forms and blasphemous ritual. Behold—
behold—the Image of the Imprisoned Jesus!' He said this, Paul, and
while the Priests encircled him in fiery anger, he fell back cold and dead.
That Image was hurled into some forgotten corner, for the Priests felt that
its divine despair was an eternal rebuke upon their heathenish worship.
But the followers of Huss lifted it from the dark corner, they bore it to
their secret place of worship,—and now it is here, in the home of Wissahikon,
a stern Image of the Church, which imprisons the Soul of the
Blessed Saviour in a leaden and lifeless ritual. The day comes, my
son, when the Lead will become Gold, and the unchanged gloom be turned
into changeless joy; when the Lord, no longer imprisoned by creeds, shall
walk freely once more, into the homes and hearts of Men!”

Such was the singular tradition of the Imprisoned Jesus.

—It may have been that the dull hue of the lead deepened the singular
impression which the Image produced; but as Paul held the light near
and nearer to it, it seemed to him that he did not merely behold a face
and form of lifeless metal.

“I cannot banish the thought that a Soul is imprisoned in that leaden
mass. A Soul enclosed in the fixed eyes and despair-stricken forehead
of the Image—a Soul that listens to me now—watches me as I stand beside
my father's couch—reads my heart—and reads the Future of my
life, which is dark and terrible to me!”

Paul shrunk back from the cold leaden eyes of the Image. “I will
press my lips to my father's forehead, and then retire to my bed!'

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There was something altogether impressive in the sight—that young face
marked by the traces of powerful emotion, pressed against the withered
countenance of the old man.

As Paul bent down, the light which he held glowed more warmly over
the leaden Image, and by the uncertain ray, the smile which dwelt upon
the sad face of the Imprisoned Redeemer, seemed to change into a sneer.

“Good night—God's peace upon your gray hairs!” murmured Paul,
but his Father did not hear him. He slept the calm slumber of a serene
Conscience.

Paul raised his head, and for the first time, as the rays of his lamp
wandered from the face to the form of the Image, he beheld the extended
hand, and felt all his serenity of soul vanish before a sudden tempest of
temptation and thought.

For on the forefinger of that leaden hand an iron key was suspended,
bearing a label on which these words were written, and written in his
father's hand—

“THE KEY OF THE SEALED CHAMBER.”

“Can it be,” gasped Paul, “that my father means to tempt me? Father—”
he extended his hand as if to rouse the aged man, but as suddenly
withdrew it—“No! he has left the key suspended to the hand of
the Image, so that I might become accustomed to it, and forget all temptation
in the force of mechanical habit.—It is a massive key, and the
label which it bears has been written not many hours ago—”

He touched the key, and felt his hand drop to his side, as though detected
in an act of guilt. The face of the Image seemed to smile upon
him, in deep compassion.

Paul extended the light, and regarded the key with a fixed glance, while
the Image looked upon him with that sad smile, and the aged man slumbered
unconsciously beneath his gaze.

His face manifested an intensity of mental agony; there was no hue
of life upon his cheek; while his lips were firmly compressed, his large
dark eyes glared fixedly upon the leaden hand and the iron key.

It was a moment of fearful thought.

Paul started at a sudden sound—but in an instant became calm again—
it was only the old clock striking the hour of four.

“Father, the trial is terrible—” faltered Paul. “This ordeal fills my
brain with madness. Ah, there is a hope—I may for ever place a barrier
between my soul and this horrible Temptation—”

With a sudden grasp he seized the key, and casting one glance toward the
slumbering face of his father, he strode madly to the door. On the threshold
he paused, held the light toward the bed, and looked over his shoulder.
That light gleamed faintly over his father's face, but as its ray shone for
a moment over the image, Paul with a shudder saw the leaden features
move, and the fixed eyeballs glow with red lustre.

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He dared not look again, but holding the light in his left hand, and
clutching the key in his right, he closed the door of his father's room.
He hastened with unsteady steps along the corridor in the direction of his
own chamber.

“The key shall tempt me no longer—” he said as he hurried along—
“In a moment, through the window of my room I will hurl it forth into
the darkness and snow!”

He stood before his chamber, but the same ray that disclosed the panels
of his door, also shone upon the Cross of the opposite door—the door
which led into the Sealed Chamber.

Paul rushed madly toward it, as though all power of self-control had
suddenly passed from his brain. While his face was marked with the
traces of that frenzy which boiled like molten fire in every vein, he extended
his hand, and attempted to insert the key in the lock. His hand
trembled, and the attempt was vain.

Paul sank on his knees. For a moment all was a blank; his senses
were deadened by a sudden stupor.

When reason and consciousness returned, he found himself still on his
knees, the key clutched in his cramped fingers, while the cold damps
moistened his forehead.

“Ah, the fearful trial is passed. I am saved.”

Slowly he rose to his feet, and was turning his face away from the
Cross on the door, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

It was not the firm clasp of a vigorous hand, but its pressure was soft
and gentle. And yet that scarcely perceptible pressure held Paul as motionless
as stone. He could not turn and look upon the person whose
hand touched his shoulder, but, conscious of the terrible danger which he
had just escaped, he feared to gaze into the face of a human being. The
blush of shame glowed on his cheek.

“It is my father!” the thought crossed the mind of the Enthusiast—
“He has watched me, and seen me place the key in the lock—”

He was afraid of the old man's wrinkled face and deep blue eyes.

The hand was still upon his shoulder, its soft pressure imparting a singular
warmth to his frame.

“Father—” Paul began.

“Paul!” answered a voice, that broke in deep emphasis upon the stillness
of the corridor.

And the hand which had pressed his shoulder, touched his neck with
its fingers. Paul felt the blood burn in every vein, as he turned, and, holding
the light in his quivering hand, gazed upon the intruder.

Did the pale face and high forehead of the old man meet his gaze? Or
the soft eyes and golden hair of Catherine?

“Paul, are you afraid of Fortune! Afraid to cross that threshold and
stand face to face with your future fate!”

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It was the beautiful face of a woman, the large dark eyes of passionate
love, that met the gaze of Paul, as he heard the voice, whose every accent
fired his blood.

“Ah—madness again—” and Paul retreated from the vision of impetuous
loveliness which glowed upon him from the gloom of the corridor.
“The Wizard's child!'

She was there, her form enveloped in a robe of rich velvet, bordered
by glossy fur. Around her face, gathered the dark hood, whose folds
gave new beauty to her face and relieved the intense blackness of her
hair. Her eyes, lighted up with a clear unchanging radiance, flashed upon
him from the shadow of their long fringes — her velvet robe was agitated
by the motion of her proud bosom.

This vision completed the bewilderment of the Enthusiast.

“Has earth and heaven combined against me? Is it not enough to be
tempted by my own heart? Not enough to feel the key of the Sealed
Chamber in my grasp, and see the door gloom before me, its Cross burning
my very eyes with an incredible fascination? Must the air give forth
its Spirits, and the image which haunts my brain take bodily shape, and
come in incarnate loveliness to my side! Away—away—I will not peril
my soul, I dare not break my Oath—I cannot, cannot fling a lie into my
father's face!”

Deep and echoing, his voice swelled through the corridor. The warm
lips of the woman parted in a smile.

“I am no spirit, Paul,” she said, and flung back her hood. Freely and
in copious waves, her raven hair descended upon her shoulders. While
her olive cheek was fired with vermilion, and her large eyes swam in
moisture, and the ripe redness of her parting lips was contrasted with
the whiteness of her teeth, she touched his arm with her soft hand, and
glided nearer to his side.

“Whence come you?” cried Paul.

“Is it so far from your home to mine? Only a mile, by the path that
leads over the Wissahikon, and through the woods.—”

“But the night is cold — the ground is covered with snow — the forest
dark and dreary—”

“I know it, Paul, but the Voice bade me seek your home—”

“The Voice?” echoed the bewildered Paul.

“Do you not remember?”—again she smiled, and dashed aside the luxuriant
hair from her face—“It was the voice that told me long ago of you
and your love. And after you left me, not many hours ago, after you
thrust me from you and—”

She laid her finger upon the slight wound which marred the pale beauty
of her forehead.

“After all this had occurred, and I was desolate and alone, the Voice
spoke again and told me that you loved me still, told me that you would

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return, yes,—it told me that together we should climb the height of fame
and power.”

How her eyes flashed into new brightness, as, placing her hand upon
his neck, she uttered these words!

Paul was spell-bound. It was no spirit voice that spoke, no spirit hand
that trembled over his neck. It was a beautiful woman, whose proud loveliness
glowed into voluptuous life, as her lips murmured—“We should
climb the height of fame and power!”

“After the voice had spoken these words of hope to me, I slept. In my
dreams I saw your face. Again I heard the Voice—`Would'st thou aid
thy lover in the direst moment of his fate? Away to the home of Paul—
away by the path which crosses the Wissahikon, and terminates at the
door of the Monastery. The door is open—thou wilt find thy lover
trembling on the threshold of his Fortune. Bid him enter the Sealed
Chamber and fear not.' I obeyed, Paul—and am here.”

“The Sealed Chamber!” echoed Paul.

“Do you fear?” and the touch of her hand, trembling over his forehead,
filled every vein of the Enthusiast with the frenzy of passion. “Do
you hesitate? I am but a weak woman—” how proudly her bosom
heaved as she said the words! “I may not pierce the cloud of mystery
which encircles us. But to woman, in her very weakness, God hath given
a power akin to Prophecy—it is the instinct of her heart, it is the inspiration
of her love. That power, Paul, tells me that your future—our future,
Paul—lies within the Sealed Chamber. Do you love me? Enter, and do
not fear!”

It seemed to Paul that he could listen for ever to the music of her voice;
and while her eyes flashed in all their brightness, and her form, gliding
closer to his own, heaved and swelled in every vein; the Enthusiast
could not turn his gaze away, even for a single moment, from this picture
of voluptuous beauty.

“You love me!” he gasped—“You, whose glances fill my soul with
new life, whose form seems to me more beautiful than a dream of Heaven—
you—”

“Love you!” exclaimed the Wizard's daughter—“Is it so strange,
when I have seen your form, in my dreams by night and dreams by day,
for more than a year? Do you still hesitate? The key of your Fate is
in your hand—”

“But the Oath which I took, not one hour ago, kneeling on this very
spot, at the feet of my father—”

Upon the brow of the beautiful girl darkened a slender vein, swelling
with a serpentine outline from the transparent skin.

“Father!” she echoed, her face so near the visage of Paul, that he felt
her breath upon his cheek—“I remember—”

And she clasped her forehead with her hands.

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“You remember—”

“The words of the Voice,” said the Wizard's daughter: “as it bade me
seek your home, it also said—`Tell him, tell Paul, that the man who calls
himself his Father, has no right to that sacred name—”'

Paul shrunk back from her side, looking into her glowing face with a
glance of vacant terror.

“Who calls himself my father—”

“`Tell him also, that the mystery of his life is concealed within the
walls of the Sealed Chamber. Once beyond its threshold, he will know
his father's name—”'

Had these words been spoken by the withered lips of age, the glow of
anger would have crimsoned the face of Paul, the fierce denial risen to
his tongue.

But they were uttered by lips that were ripe with youth and passion;
and as they fell on the listener's ears, his eye was enchained by a face
whose eyes flashed with love, through the intervals of long flowing hair.
As he heard the strange revelation, he saw the tumultuous motion of her
velvet robe, he felt the trembling of her form, as she pressed nearer to
his heart