[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]

“I have no right to break the seal. For these mysteries are all wrapt
in impenetrable gloom. The Lead has not become Gold, nor has the
Sneer been changed into a Smile. I have not forced the Heart to reveal
by boldly grasping the Hand. At the feet of the Imprisoned I have not
discovered the Doom, or—is it Danger?”

Paul dwelt with a painful intensity upon these cabalistic sentences.

“Ah, fatal, fatal night, when I dared to violate my oath, and rush uncalled
into the presence of my fate!”

Strange it was that no word of reproach passed his lips in regard to the
beautiful woman who had urged him to his ruin, on that fatal night! Not
a word of reproach, nor yet of memory. Since he crossed the threshold
of the Block-House, an hour ago, he had not spoken her name.

Placing his hand within the Urn, he drew forth the sealed letter which
concealed the name of the Deliverer.

“One movement of my finger, and it is broken; but no—no! I am not
worthy—”

He gazed upon it with an earnest eye and dropped it back into the Urn

“Hah! a light breaks on me—” he murmured, and hastened from the
room without closing the door behind him.

He did not stay his footsteps until he stood in front of the door which
opened into his father's room. Not an instant did he hesitate. The door
opened at his touch, and by the torch-light he beheld that chamber, where,
on the last night of 1774, he had seen the leaden Image scowling over the
sleeping face of his father.

Paul advanced; he beheld the couch—it was vacant; he raised his eyes,
and with a shudder, saw that leaden face, smiling in the red rays, as with
a preternatural scorn.

Still, in the recess, at the head of the couch, stood the Image of the
“Imprisoned Soul,” with its form attired in the rude garments of a toiling
man, its hand extended, and that sublimity of sadness stamped upon its
sombre face.

“He is not here,” cried Paul, with an accent of unfeigned joy—“Ah!
The coverlet yet bears the impress of his form. 'Tis as he left it on the
fatal night.”

He did not pause to think. To pause at a moment like this, was to
become a raving maniac. He seized the extended hand of the Image, and

[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]

pressed it firmly, at the same time looking steadily into its sad and
motionless eyes.

Had his hand touched some secret spring? A square space in the breast
of the Image opened like a door—a packet fell at the feet of Paul—and the
breast of the Image closed again.

Paul seized the packet; it was a scroll of manuscript, written in the
German tongue, with a few words in English on an outside leaf:

—“To be read by my Son, after he has entered the Sealed Chamber and
the Chamber of the Urn.”

These words were written in a bold round hand, and beneath appeared
other words, in a hand that was tremulous with age or disease.

“Paul, you have often heard me relate the Legend of the Leaden Image.
It is more intimately connected with your Destiny than you may imagine.
After you have entered the Sealed Chamber, and the Chamber of the Urn,
and before you have broken the seal which hides the name of the Deliverer,
read the history of the Leaden Image, written in the German tongue by
Brother Anselm. Do not wonder if this history is widely different from
that which you have often heard from me. You are now prepared for all
the truth; read. And even amid the sarcasm which sometimes mars the
narrative of Brother Anselm, learn the history of the Image, which now
gazes sadly upon your face. You have seen `that the HEART reveals only
when the HAND is boldly grasped.' It is now your destiny to learn, how
the Lead will become Gold, and the Sneer be changed into a Smile. At
the feet of the Imprisoned you will discover the D—.”

“Again that word is blotted and dim! Is it Doom or is it Danger?”

Paul seized the manuscript of Brother Anselm, and still holding the
torch in his hand, hurried from the room. He was afraid to read it there,
for his father's face seemed to start from the shadows, as he looked upon
the bed, yet bearing the impress of a venerable form, the memory of the
sacrilegious blow came terribly to his soul.

“In the free air, by the light of the summer sun, I will read these
pages—” he cried; and soon stood on the threshold of the Block-House,
with the sunshine upon his face.

He seated himself upon an old bench, half-concealed by the grass, which
started up thickly in the space before the Block-House door.

The hour was invested with a peculiar solemnity. The summer wind
rustling softly among the forest leaves, gave a lulling music to the scene.
Belts of golden sunshine, belts of tremulous shadow, flitted by turns over
the grass, the flowers, over the form of Paul and the Block-House clad
in vines.

“It is yet two hours until sunset,” exclaimed Paul, as he gazed upon
the manuscript and absently glanced over its pages. “I will have time to
read,—to know at last the reality of my fate—ere the moment of my meeting
Reginald arrives. Hah!” he cried, arrested by a word which seemed

[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]

to separate itself from a page of the manuscript, and force its meaning on
his soul—“Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross!”

Let us look upon those mysterious pages, which seemed to open to his
eyes the secrets of the other world. Let us translate the bold German
into English as rude and bold.

This was the Manuscript which Paul Ardenheim read, on that summer
day in June, as he sat upon the bench, half-concealed by the grass, which
started up thickly around the Block-House door.