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“Very beautiful!” said the Wizard—“Even in the last moment, when
the soul hangs fluttering on the motionless lips!”

His voice, deepened by enthusiasm, awoke the echoes of the subter
ranean vault.

The pale spiritual light, shining from the aperture in the top of the altar,
bathed his face in its rays, while all around was shadowy, and the farther
corners of the cell were wrapt in thick darkness.

In that light, his features were marked and impressive. His form bending
with age and care, made his face appear as though it rested in the centre
of his shrunken chest. Covered with wrinkles, the lines deeply traced,
and the high forehead surmounted by a black skull-cap, from which the
hair escaped in straight flakes of silvery whiteness, the face of Isaac Van
Behme bore the stamp of a fanaticism, that was to terminate only with
his existence. The eyes—in color now blue, now deepening into gray—
were expanded beneath the white brow, with a wild, unearthly stare.
Around his thin lips trembled a smile of inexpressible joy.

Clad in a loosely flowing gown, with his pale hands, with long attenuated
fingers, clasped upon his breast, the old man stood near the altar; and as
the light imparted a rosy flush, his face appeared ten years younger; but
when it cast a glare of faint azure, he looked like a phantom, a Demon
summoned to his task of evil,—like any thing but a living man.

His eyes, dilating with rapture, were downcast—

“It was a brave thought, right brave, by my soul!” he murmured, with
a burst of shrill laughter—“To use the horse of friend Dorfner, and place
her form upon it, and thus convey her to my home! The horse I turned
down the path by the stream—Dorfner will wonder much when he seeks
his horse to-morrow!—Wherefore did the Huntsman strike that blow and
pierce her naked breast? Jealousy, I ween—'Twas a good star that led
me to her side, just as the hunter struck the blow and fled, with the bloody
knife in his hand—a most propitious star! But I must not delay—look!
How the soul flutters as it is about to take its flight!”

Near the altar a rough pine board was placed, supported by two rudely
constructed tressels.

On this board was laid the form of a naked woman, whose outlines
were distinctly defined, amid the shadows of the vault. The light shone
mildly over the image of sinless purity, revealing the hands stretched by
the side, the limbs disposed in the serene attitude of the grave, the face

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wearing a calm smile, the eyelds closed, and the colorless cheeks relieved
by soft brown hair, which descended over the neck and shoulders. A
single lock strayed over the edge of the board and dangled on the floor.

It was like a form of pure white marble, warming into heavenly life,
under the chisel of some inspired sculptor—so fair, so pale, so beautiful!

The face was pale, but a single spot of intense red burned in the centre
of each cheek, like a rose-bud peeping from the snow.

Beneath the bosom was a hideous stain of crimson—it was blood flowing
from a fatal wound, and spreading imperceptibly over the rough board
on which the unconscious form was laid.

Poor Madeline!

There may have been no mercy in the eye of your Seducer, when he
gloated upon your half-revealed breast, but the cold eye that now gazes
upon your uncovered form—is there any thing of pity in that fixed and
icy glare?

Her nether-lip moves gently, almost imperceptibly, and a slight pulsation
stirs the bleeding breast.

“She lives! The great Secret is within my grasp—`one drop of blood,
warm from the heart of a tempted but sinless maiden,' will reward me for
these gray hairs—for the toil of twenty-one years,—and ripen the liquid,
now simmering within the altar, into the Elixir of Immortal Life. It is a
glorious thought! Blessed be the Star that shines upon me at this still
hour!”

Isaac examined the wound, which covered the lower part of Madeline's
breast with blood; his face became rigid in every outline as he pursued
his painful scrutiny.

“The wound is not fatal!” he said, with an accent of profound regret—
“The knife glanced aside. The hand that struck the blow was tremulous—
with a little care, the maiden might recover, and go forth in youth and
loveliness again.”

Isaac was silent. His brow became corrugated, his mouth distorted
by an almost grotesque grimace. He was occupied with dark and dangerous
thoughts. “Shall I falter now? When my footstep is on the
threshold of Eden, and the fruit of Immortal Life within my grasp? And
yet * * * a Murder * * * the world would cover my gray hairs with
scorn, the law consign me to the gibbet * * * not a child but would
curse my name. Yet, with the sacrifice of this one life, I may give life,
knowledge to thousands, and raise mankind to godlike power. Only a
life,—a single life—now fluttering on these lips—only this, between me
and Eternal Youth!”

More dark and singular grew the expression of Isaac's face. His down-drawn
brows almost concealed the cold, icy glare of his eyes; his mouth
worked convulsively.

He glanced over the unconscious form, and saw the bosom swelling

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with the first warm throb of returning life, while the rose-bud on the cheek
began to spread into perfect bloom.

“I will get my scalpel,” said Isaac—“It is in the Tower. There is
no time to be lost!”

Not once did he pause to contemplate the actual dangers of his position.
Might not the body of Madeline be traced to his home, and the guilt of
Murder be laid upon his gray hairs? This might occur before an another
hour, but the old man did not for a moment pause to think of it.

“There is no time to be lost!” he said, and while the bosom throbbed
slowly, and the rose-bud bloomed into a ripe flower, he hurried along the
floor and from the cell.

Five minutes elapsed ere the sound of his returning step aroused the
echoes of the vault.

“The day is breaking, the day whose setting sun shall shine upon the
brow of an immortal being!” Thus muttering, the old man came from the
gloom toward the altar, whose light—suddenly changed from soft red to
faint azure—invested his agitated face with an unearthly glare.

“Too much time has been lost already — it is but the sacrifice of a
life, and—”

Brandishing a scalpel or dissecting-knife in his upraised hand, he stood
in the pale blue light again, beside the altar in which the fire burned; the
sacred fire, that, in the long watch of a lifetime, had never once gone
out, or even been dimmed by the loss of one pure ray.

The cry of anguish which came from Isaac lips would have pierced a
heart of stone.

There was the rough board, stained with a small pool of blood, but the
body of Madeline was gone.

The Wizard's uplifted arm fell by his side; his face betrayed the death-like
stupor which palsied his reason, and crushed his stern fanaticism
into a dull apathy.

He pressed his hands upon the board, and stained his fingers in the
blood—

“It is a delusion. The body is here, but mine eyesight is dim. No
footstep but mine and that of David the Idiot has ever crossed the threshold
of this vault—it cannot, cannot have been taken away by human
hands!”

With mad shrieks, gestures as frantic, the old man ran to and fro,
now lost to sight in the dark corners of the place, now tearing his thin
locks, while the light disclosed his horror-stricken features. In vain were
all his frantic cries, in vain his earnest search—the body of the wounded
girl was nowhere to be seen.

How had she disappeared? Whose hands had borne her form from the
vault?

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Isaac hurried from the place, while the dark passages echoed his frantic
cries. It was the work of a moment to ascent the stairway and attain
the ground-floor of the mansion. The lantern shone dimly from the corridor
at the head of the main stairway. Without an instant's delay, Isaac
hastened up the stairway, and reached the door of his daughter's room.
He listened for a moment, pushed it open, and crossed the threshold.

The hanging lamp shed a faint light over the room, glimmering on the
surface of the mirror, and imparting a grotesque outline to the curtains
of the bed.

For a moment Isaac bent his head and listened. A death-like stillness
reigned. Rushing to the bed, he dashed aside the hangings and extended
his hand through the shadows. That withered hand rested upon a warm
cheek, and the regular breathing of an untroubled sleeper came gently to
the old man's ear.

“It is well! My daughter slumbers—she cannot by any chance
have—”

With the sentence unfinished, the old man turned away, and hurried
from the room, closing the door with a sudden crash.

Scarcely had the echo of his footsteps died away, when a face appeared
amid the cumbrous hangings, and, by the faint light, the large lustrous
eyes and fair forehead, darkened by a swollen vein, were seen.

“He does not suspect my absence—Ah! My heart throbs as though
it would burst. How I shuddered, as, standing in the darkness of the
hall, only a moment since, I saw him go down into the secret cells of the
mansion!”

And the Wizard's daughter, attired in her velvet robe, with the hood
drawn over her hair, rose from the bed, and slowly paced the floor.

“Had I been a moment later, all would have been discovered—O, it is
indeed fortunate that I returned in time to fling myself beneath the coverlet,
ere my father came to my bedside! Had I been absent, when his extended
hand sought to press my cheek—”

The proud girl shuddered, for there was something in the icy manner
and lonely life of the old man, which impressed her heart more with awe
than love.

Then, as she paced the floor, she suffered her dark hair to float loosely
over her shoulders, while her thoughts, only half-uttered, still centred
upon her lover—

“Paul! He will come—perchance within the hour—would that I
could unravel the mystery of that fatal room! Did he strike the old man
to the floor? I cannot tell, for his face—'

She shuddered at the memory.

“In the darkness I left the Block-house, and hurried through the silent
woods to my home. And Paul—where does he wander now? Would
that he were here, his hand linked in mine, his lip upon mine own! Then,

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even in the midst of our dream of love, we would plan the glorious Future,
and read the bright landscape of the coming years, with the eye of
Prophecy.”

Do not smile at the passionate extravagance of the proud girl, who,
reared from infancy in the silence of these forests—alone with her enthusiast
father—afar from the great world—has been taught, by a Voice that
speaks from the air, to love the mysterious Paul of Ardenheim, to invest
his face with the mad idolatry of a boundless passion!

Wild in her passion, extravagant in her words, she is yet surpassingly
beautiful, and might walk among the coronetted dames of a royal court,
and not feel abashed amid the noblest or the fairest of them all.

One hand rested upon her bosom—it was firmly clenched. Her small
foot beat the floor with a nervous motion. The serpentine vein started
in black distinctness from her forehead, and, with her hair floating along
her olive cheeks, she stood in the centre of her chamber, near the light,
like a statue of some dread though beautiful Angel.

“What means this singular agitation of my father? He cannot—no!
no! Yet wherefore seek my chamber at the dead of night? It was but
an impulse of fatherly love.—Paul! Will he ever return?”

She crossed the floor with that proud step, which added a wild charm
to the voluptuous beauty of her shape, and, standing in the casement, saw
the first blush of the coming day, glowing softly over the dark woods.
The rays of the lamp and the flush of the dawn mingled, and created a
light at once uncertain and spectral.

“Hast thou beheld him?” a low, musical voice, started the Wizard's
daughter from her reveries.

It is the Voice—” ejaculated the ambitious girl—“I have beheld him.'

“Did he enter the Sealed Chamber? Had he the firmness to look the
Future in the face?”

He entered the Sealed Chamber,” exclaimed the Wizard's child.

“Didst thou see him come forth again?”

“I did—” she covered her face with her hands, and trembled at the
memory of that Face.

“Where is he now?”

“I know not! Speak to me and answer!” and, with her brow darkened
by a frown, the girl advanced to the centre of the room—“It is my turn to
question, yours to reply. Hast thou not spoken falsely? Hast thou not
cheated my soul with an idle delusion? If thou art indeed a voice from
some good Angel who watches over the strange course of my life, then
tell me at once the mystery of that Sealed Chamber! Wherefore that
awful countenance? wherefore the arm extended and the blow? Where
is he now, this Paul of Ardenheim, whose life is linked with mine own?”

It was a singular thing to see the proud girl, gazing upon the vacant

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air, as she thus boldly questioned the Voice whose source was invisible,
whose purpose incomprehensible

There was a pause; no answer came.

The Wizard's daughter placed her hand upon her forehead, and with
her finger pressed the swollen vein.

“All will be made known to thee in time!” was the response of the
Voice, uttered in a tone of profound sadness.

“Ah—it is a delusion. I am dreaming. Yes, reared afar from the
world, I have become the victim of my own fancies. I have oftentimes
read of madness—am I not a wretched maniac, an object of pity and
loathing?”

“Thou art not the victim of idle frenzy, but the child of a glorious
Destiny. Be patient, and all will be well.—Hast thou ever dared to penetrate
the recesses of thy father's most secret cell?”

This last question, uttered in a tone that seemed affected by sudden
emotion, startled the beautiful girl, with involuntary surprise.

“Never!” she replied.

“Hast thou not this very night crossed the sacred threshold of that
cell? Pause and reflect. Do not speak falsely, for more than life depends
upon your answer.”

“I have never crossed that threshold—” was the firm answer of the
wondering maiden.

The Voice was heard no more.

While the kiss of day grew rosier on the eastern sky, the girl remained
motionless and pale in the centre of her chamber, listening in speechless
intensity for the accents of that Voice, but no sound awoke the echoes. All
was still and breathless. Her face was very pale, the serpentine vein
upon her forehead very dark and distinct, as she turned toward her
couch.—

Meanwhile, the Wizard, after a fruitless search through every nook and
recess of his mansion, returned again to the silence and dim radiance of
his earth-hidden cell. Advancing to the altar, he started as he beheld a
dark form crouching at his feet.

“The Idiot here! Wretch! Hast thou dared to cross this threshold
unbidden?”

He spurned the hunchback with his foot—

“Arise, and answer me! Didst thou remove the body of the dead
girl?”

While his thin features glowed with rage, he gazed upon the shapeless
form of the Deformed, and once more pressed his foot upon his neck.
Black David slowly rose, and with the tangled hair drooping over his
features, confronted the old man.

“Eh! Measter?” he muttered—“Dost touch Black David with thy foot?

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Art angry, Measter? Have a care—Black David's brain is thick—but his
arm is strong. Measter must not strike him in anger.”

The Wizard saw the angry light of the hunchback's eye, and took him
kindly by the hand—

“Pardon, David, pardon—I am sore distressed. The great hope of
my life is crushed—but you cannot comprehend me. Speak to me,
David—it grieves me that I was angry with you—speak, my friend.
Didst thou remove the body of the dead woman? Tell me where thou
hast hidden it, and all shall be forgotten. Ha, ha, you merry knave! You
thought you would frighten your old master—is it so?”

“Dead body?” growled Black David—“I know nothing of your dead
bodies. I was asleep—and thou didst spurn me with 'ee foot—”

Sullenly the Deformed turned away, leaving the old man alone by the
altar.

“He has not taken her away—” muttered Isaac—“It is plainly to be
seen that the poor idot has had no part in this deed—”

And while the Wizard, standing near the altar, murmured these words,
the Deformed leaned against one of the pillars of the vault, and placed his
hands upon his face—

“This hope has failed me. The body of Madeline is gone—I know
not whither. Isaac cannot tell—his anguish is too deep to be feigned.
His daughter, too—Ah! that in planning so much of evil to others,
I only bring evil to myself!”

Isaac heard the voice of the Deformed, and, turning from the altar,
exclaimed—

“Come hither, Black David. Art angry with me?”

He took the hand of the hunchback within his own, and led him
toward the light.

“Why man, dost thou cherish malice? Again I tell thee that it grieves
me that I was angered with thee. Hah! What is this—a tear!—”

A scalding tear fell on his hand as he spoke; and even through the tangled
hair, he saw that the face of the hunchback was bathed in moisture.

“Dost weep? Art angry with me still?” again repeated the old man,
an expression of compassion softening his rigid lineaments.

But the Deformed dashed his hand aside, and glided into the shadows
of the cell.

The silence which ensued was scarcely broken by a sound, while half
an hour elapsed. The pale face of the Wizard looked haggard and spectral
by the light of the altar-flame. He stood clasping his hands and
gazing vacantly toward the light, every lineament impressed with despair.

The Deformed was lost in the shadows; his sorrow, too deep for
tended or for tears, was buried in the profound gloom of the cell.

At last a sound disturbed the stillness. Its unearthly emphasis came
through closed doors and thick walls, and broke upon the silence of the

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cell, like the groan of a dying man, choked by the hand of a foe; a hand
which pressed the white lips and smothered the last cry of life, ere it
was uttered. Low, indistinct muttering, that sound pierced the thick
walls; it seemed to the Wizard as though the old mansion was suddenly
endued with life; as though he heard the throbbings of its heart.

The Wizard's daughter approached the bed. Parting the curtains, she
suffered the light to penetrate the gloom which hung over her couch.
Very beautiful she looked as she laid aside her robe of velvet and fur,
and suffered the dark hair to stream freely over her bosom. With the
name of Paul upon her lips, she sank upon the pillow, drawing close the
curtains, so that no ray of light might break the gloom of the sacred
retreat.

Soon she resigned herself to slumber; but in her slumber there came
a dream of a shadowy path, leading far down into the nooks of a summer
wood. There were threads of sunshine quivering over the sod; flowers
peeped from the vines that trailed among the branches; the murmur of
trees, and birds, and streams, woven together, fell on her senses like the
blessing of good angels. But suddenly, from the flowers which, trembling
from the vines, overarched her way with bloom and fragrance, projected
the head and fangs of a beautiful serpent. She started away with
horror, but an inexplicable fascination drew her near and nearer to the
snake, whose skin of bright green was varied by drops of gold. A dreamy
music issued from its expanded jaws; there was a strange fascination in
its eyes. Unable to advance or recede, she stood spell-bound, when the
serpent sprang from the leaves, and buried its fangs in her bosom. She
saw the blood, she felt the coil of the snake about her neck, and—

The dream was gone, but in its place, a terrible reality. Buried in the
pillow, with her couch shrouded by the hangings, she felt a hand upon
her breast, and heard the sound of deep-drawn breath. Her blood grew
cold; she could not speak or move; the overwhelming terror held her
dumb.

The hand was there—she heard the deep-drawn breath—and panted
for air, as though the chamber was filled with the atmosphere of pestilence.

She would have given the world for the power to move or speak; there
was something fearful in the darkness which encompassed her, in the cold
hand which pressed her bosom, in the deep-drawn breath which was
heard distinctly through the stillness. Her senses were deadened by a
sudden stupor, which, while it left her without speech or motion, also left
her painfully conscious of the cold hand laid upon her breast. * * * *

By a violent effort, she dashed aside the curtains of her bed—all was
dark in her chamber. The curtains, closed over the window, shut out
the light of the dawning day; the hanging lamp was extinguished. As

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she rose in the couch, the hand which had rested upon her bosom,
pressed her neck—she was nerved by despair and terror—with one
frenzied motion, she sprang from the bed.

Standing thus in the shadows of her chamber, her form, only half-covered,
quivering with cold, she gazed toward the bed, whose outlines
were but faintly distinguishable, and listened for that almost inaudible
sound of deep-drawn breath. She heard it once more—it seemed like
the gasping of a death-stricken man.

Then her terror found utterance in a shriek which pierced every nook
and chamber of the old mansion.

Trembling in the centre of the room, afraid to move toward the bed or
toward the window, the light of the dawn growing stronger every moment,
she looked fixedly toward the bed. Was it a fancy? Did she indeed
behold a white arm extended from the shadows of of the bed?

There came a light, a red light, somewhat obscured by heavy smoke,—
it flashed from the opened door, and disclosed that half-naked form, the
face unnaturally pale and the eyes bright with preternatural fear.

The maiden turned toward the door, and by the sudden light beheld the
pale visage of her father, glowing in every line with singular triumph.
Over his shoulder appeared the face of the Deformed, the eyes shining
with supernatural lustre from the shadows of the matted hair.

And then, turning her gaze from the door, as she beheld the eyes of
her father and the Deformed enchained by some object near her, the
Maiden beheld—not the image of Paul Ardenheim, nor yet some hideous
spectre summoned by blasphemous rites from the shadows of the Other
World.

It was a naked form, with arms folded over the blood-stained breast,
with brown hair waving freely, in glossy curls, over the white shoulders;
eyes uplifted, wet with tears, gazed in the face of the Wizard's child, and
a voice broken by the very intensity of fear, thrilled on the silence—

“Save me! Save me! For I have no friend, no hope but in you—”

It was Madeline, the Orphan Girl of Wissahikon.

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