It was not the moment for calm thought, for every vein swelled with
new life, and the heart within him throbbed with such violence, that even
in the cold corridor, he panted for breath, for air.

“I will dare the worst, for you—” his voice was indistinct, hoarse
with emotion.

With a trembling hand he placed the key in the lock. The Wizard's
daughter regarded his ghost-like face with a look of glowing triumph.

“Enter,” she softly whispered—“Enter and learn the Past and the
Future!”

Paul turned the key—the door began to recede—the heavy air which
passed through the crevice, almost extinguished the light. That air
seemed tainted with the odor of the dead; it resembled a blast from the
unclosed jaws of a charnel.

The Wizard's daughter regarded him with an expanded eye, and love
and curiosity mingled in the expression of her beautiful face.

“Do you falter now?” she said.

There was a soft footstep, and a gentle hand raised the hand of the
woman from the neck of Paul. Between them glided a young girl, who
gathered a dark mantle around her white dress, and with her loosened
hair resting in a golden shower upon her shoulders, and her clear blue
eyes distended by a look of vague alarm, she gazed now in the face of the
voluptuous woman, now in the ashen visage of Paul.

“Catherine!” and he turned away from the innocence and angel-like
purity of his sister's face.

“Paul,” exclaimed the pure girl, in tones whose calm serenity by no
means resembled the impetuous accents of the dark-haired woman—“You
stand on the threshold of the Sealed Chamber—”

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There was a sad reproof in her gentle eyes.

“The Sealed Chamber—what know you of its mystery?”

“Do you frown upon me, Paul? Are you angry with your sister? An
hour ago, aroused from my sleep by the sound of father's voice, I saw
you kneeling at his feet, I heard your vow.—O, Paul, you do not dream
of breaking that vow—”

More darkly swelled the serpentine vein upon the forehead of the
Wizard's daughter, as she beheld the pure face of Catherine, fired with a
holy emotion, as she clung to her Brother's neck.

“He is not your father,” she cried—“He has in reserve for you a
Future darker even than the Past—”

The mild face of Catherine was turned toward the beautiful woman;
her blue eyes shone with wonder and alarm. She shrunk trembling from
the light of her flashing eyes.

“This scene fills me with terror, Paul—” whispered the sister, clasping
her brother's wrist—“Can it be? You stand on the threshold of the
Sealed Chamber, about to violate your oath!”

“Catherine—Catherine—” groaned Paul, as the hand which grasped
the key fell nerveless by his side. “I am terribly tempted—my will is
not my own—”

He turned wildly from that face, whose blue eyes, fair skin, and golden
hair, symbolized a pure and child-like soul, to the dark cheek, flashing
eyes, and jet-black hair, which embodied the idea of a proud and voluptuous
spirit.

It was the eventful moment of his Fate; the calm love which came like
Peace from God, as he looked upon his sister's face, contended with the
frenzy of passion which fired every vein, as his glance encountered the
gaze of the dark-haired woman.

“Come, Paul—to your own room—it is an Evil Angel that stands so
beautiful by your side.”

Paul surrendered his hand to the grasp of his sister, and turned his face
away from the door.

The eyes of the Wizard's daughter glared with a brightness that was
almost preternatural. With one proud step she advanced, her flashing
eyes and wildly floating hair, making her look like the spirit of some
feverish dream; she grasped his wrist, and pointed to the door, while the
dark vein swelled more distinctly from her fair forehead.

“You are afraid!” she sneered, pressing her nether-lip beneath her
white teeth, until the blood started—“The door is open, the threshold free,
and you are afraid to stand face to face with your Destiny! O, shame
upon me, that I ever sank so low, even in my thoughts, as to bestow my
love upon a coward heart like thine!”

“Your hand from my neck, sister,” shrieked Paul, maddened by the
look of the proud maiden—“There is no time for thought. I must go on—”

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Grasping the light, which showed his convulsed countenance in every
lineament, he dashed over the threshold of the Sealed Chamber.

The door closed behind him, and all was darkness in the corridor.

“Father!” shrieked Catherine, but there was a firm hand upon her
mouth, a frenzied arm around her neck.

“Be still, Catherine—” said the fierce though tremulous voice of the
strange woman. “It is the dread moment of your brother's fate; be silent
therefore, or—”

Catherine struggled but feebly, as that arm wound closer about her neck,
while the firm hand rested upon her lips.

“Or, if you must speak, let every word take the form of a prayer.
Kneel and beseech the Angels to guide your Brother in his lone communion
with his fate!”

All was thick night in the corridor. Catherine could not see the burning
eyes of the strange woman, but she felt her writhing heart, as the arm
gathered her in a stifling embrace, and trembled as the fevered breath
fanned her cheek.

“I will be silent,” faltered the Sister—“I will kneel here in the darkness
and pray for my lost Brother!”

The strange woman's arm no longer entwined her neck.

Catherine sank on her knees, and folding her arms, looked up to
heaven. Even through the gloom and darkness, her pure soul reached
out its arms to God.

What pen is there to picture the horror of that moment to the Wizard's
daughter.

While her bosom bounded beneath her clasped hands, she muttered in
a half-coherent tone, her doubts and hopes mingling in strange confusion:

“He will come forth, with joy on his noble forehead * * * * Have I
advised him to his ruin and shame * * * * Together we will mount the
steep pathway of ambition; he will be noble, and I shall be his bride,
his * * * * A terrible doubt—should the voice deceive * * * * All is still—
I hear no sound * * * a cry—silence—a groan * * * Paul! Paul!
* * * No answer! Ah, this will kill me—I can endure it no longer.
Better die a thousand deaths than be tortured by suspense so horrible!”

And while the voluptuous girl murmured her hopes and fears, in accents
tremulous and broken, the pure Sister kneeling at her feet, prayed to
Heaven in a calm voice.

The voice of the old clock rolled through the Block-house, and “Five!”
pealed from the bell.

There was no sound within the Sealed Chamber; Catherine ceased
to pray, and bent her head against its panels, but could not hear the
slightest echo.

The proud girl too, sweeping her hair aside from her face, listened in

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voiceless agony, listened for the accent of her lover's voice, for the echo
of his step. All was still.

“Paul!” cried the gentle voice of Catherine.

“Paul!” spoke the trembling accent of the Wizard's daughter.

No answer! Within the Sealed Chamber silence and mystery—in the
corridor darkness and suspense—it was an hour of unutterable anguish.

At last there was a sound—Catherine uttered a prayer, and the darkhaired
woman an exclamation of joy.

It was a groan of agony, and yet they were glad to hear it. Glad to
know that he lived!

“A footstep—he comes—” cried the Wizard's daughter.

It was a footstep, but unsteady and irregular as that of a man who,
bewildered by wine, reels from the hot air of the revel, into the cool, fresh
atmosphere of dawn.

The door unclosed, and Paul Ardenheim appeared on the threshold. In
one hand the light, in the other the key.

Catherine sank on the floor with a cry of horror. Even the woman
with dark hair and proudly voluptuous bosom, staggered backward, and
leaned for support against the opposite wall of the corridor. She buried
her face in her hands, while the insensible form of Catherine lay at her
feet.

The face of Paul Ardenheim thrilled the Wizard's daughter with a feeling
of horror, beyond all power of language to define or analyze.

She heard the key turn in the lock, but could not raise her face from
her hands. He was passing near her—his wild unsteady step awoke the
echoes—yet, winding the hair about her face, she shrunk closer to the wall,
afraid of his touch.

He was gone—she heard the echo of his footstep far down the corridor—
shuddering she turned her face over her shoulder. She saw him as he
hurried along; his back was toward her; the light shone over his long
dark hair, but did not reveal his face.

He was near the end of the corridor—she saw the light shining upon
the face of the old clock, when the sound of an opening door was heard,
and a white-haired man came forth and stood in the path of Paul Ardenheim.

“Back, old man!” The Wizard's daughter heard the voice, saw the extended
arm, and all was darkness. The light had been hurled to the floor.

By its last gleam, she beheld the old man's white hairs waving round
his forehead, as he tottered backward, while his face glowed redly for a
moment, and then with a dull sound he fell.

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