Completely overwhelmed by the revelations of this Manuscript, which
he had taken from the breast of the Leaden Image, Paul remained like a
statue upon the oaken bench, for some moments after he had finished
those incredible pages, without the power to speak or stir. His eyes
were fixed, their brightness dimmed by a misty film. He looked upon
the trees, the grass, the flowers, but did not behold any thing save the
Phantoms of the Manuscript.

The sun was low in the heaven, and the thick shadows began to gather
round the Block-House.

But Paul did not mark the declining sun, nor call to mind his promise

[figure description] Page 337.[end figure description]

to meet Reginald at sunset under the Blasted Pine. His soul was absorbed—
bewildered by the Revelations of the Manuscript. The forms
of the Secret Brotherhood flitted between his eyes and the light; he saw
that Prophet-Peasant in his gray garb stand beside the veiled figure, while
words full of divine inspiration fell from his lips.

His thoughts in truth were crowded and tumultuous; a thousand
images whirled through his brain.

And yet, amid the very chaos of his musings, there came certain well-defined
ideas shooting through the gloom, like stars through the darkness
of night.

“The Golden Medal is in existence! I may possess it, and with it
grasp the power of the Brotherhood. A strange Prophecy, and yet it has
in part been fulfilled. The Apostle of the New World came long years
ago in the person of William Penn. The time of the Deliverer is at
hand. I saw him consecrated, and it is my destiny to guard him from
the hands of his foes.”

He turned the last page of the Manuscript, and started from the bench
as he recognised the handwriting of his father.

“You have read, my Son, and it is now your duty to obey.

“A great work, a sublime destiny is yours!

“It is your destiny to claim the Golden Medal; to unseal the Book of
the Rosy Cross, in which are revealed the signs, symbols, and all the
mysteries of the great Brotherhood—yours, to read the name of the
Deliverer, and confront him with the Sword and the Dagger.

“You will read this when I am dead, after the Revelation of the Sealed
Chamber, with its unrelenting Curse, has passed from your soul, and left
your heart serene, your arm nerved and free for the accomplishment of
your great destiny.

“When you are worthy, you will discover the Golden Medal, which
bears the Symbol of the Globe, the Cross, and the Rising Sun.

“When your soul is calm, you will learn the truth—then, at the feet of
the Imprisoned, you will discover the D—.

“I have often told you, my Son, that the cause of my departure from
Germany, was a vision which rushed upon my eyes, while bending over
the body of your mother, in the vault of the castle, which rises above the
Rhine. I heard the voice of God; it bade me go forth into the solitudes
of the New World, and await the coming of the Deliverer.

“This was the truth, Paul, but not all the truth.

“After you have read the Revelation of the Sealed Chamber, you will
be able to determine how far the Curse,—the Doom—or shall I say, the
Malady—of our house and race, shaped my purposes, and urged me to
become either a Wanderer upon the face of the earth, or a nameless Dweller
in the solitudes of a trackless wilderness.

[figure description] Page 338.[end figure description]

“And yet, aided by the Revelation of the Sealed Chamber, you
will not be able to arrive at the whole truth, until you have read the
Manuscript of Brother Anselm.

“Even then, another word is needed. Listen, my Son.

“While absorbed in the mysteries of the Divine Prophecies, about the
year 1755, I first acquired the friendship of Brother Anselm. He was
then a very aged man. He had been present at the convocation of the
Brotherhood recorded in the Manuscript, and he was one of the seven.

“He was, indeed, the only one living in 1755. He was the last of the
Seven appointed by the Peasant, who was elected Supreme Chief at least
a century before he assumed the name of his dead Master, calling himself
Louis Bonaparte.

“The Supreme Chief had been dead many years, when I first met
Brother Anselm. That aged man, who had lived far beyond the common
term of human life, was the only remaining guardian of the Sacred
Symbol.—You will find his name written in the manuscript, as the
German Serf.—

“By him I was initiated into the Brotherhood; and at his feet I
learned the symbols, the ceremonies, and the universal language of the
Rosy Cross.

“At the time of the great calamity which befel our house—you have
read of it in the Revelations of the Sealed Chamber—Brother Anselm
pointed to the New World, as the place appointed for the next Convocation
of the Chiefs of the Rosy Cross. There the Deliverer would
appear, who was to re-create the New World, and thus prepare it for its
imposing share in the regeneration of the human race. This Deliverer
was foretold not only by the Prophecy of the Rosy Cross, but also by the
Revelations of St. John.

“Sick of the Old World,—horror-stricken by the calamity which befel
our house—wishing to save you from the Destiny, or the Malady of our
race—I listened to the persuasions of Brother Anselm. I came to the
Wilderness with you and Catharine; accompanied by the Venerable
Anselm, and two other brethren of the Rosy Cross, Joseph and
Immanuel.

“I vowed to Brother Anselm a solemn vow, as I have told you before,
that you should be educated in solitude, afar from the world, so that you
might take the Oath of Celibacy, and thus be prepared not only to become
a Brother of the Holy Cross, but its Supreme Chief. Not only the
Guardian of the Deliverer, but the Regenerator of our Order, and the embodied
Destiny of the human race.

“The solemn Convocation of the Chiefs will be held in June, 1777—on
the last night of the second week.

“It may be, that the hand of death, the canker of disorganization, have
been terribly at work to crush our Brotherhood. It may be, that those

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innumerable Circles, which, at the time of the last convocation, were scattered
over every land in the Globe, and yet connected with each other by
a mysterious bond of union, have suffered their ritual to decay, their ceremonies
to degenerate—the great bond of Union itself, which was once a
belt of iron, to fall to pieces like a rope of sand.

“It is even possible, that on the last night of the second week in June,
1777, while you await the coming of the Chiefs, in the appointed place,
not a single one will appear. Yes, the tradition which commanded them
to meet, may have been lost in the mists of time, and the clamors of battle,
and the changes of circumstances.

“Even in that case your Destiny is still glorious. For then the Golden
Medal will be yours, and by virtue of the last testament of Brother Anselm,
(contained in the Book of the Rosy Cross,) you will become the Supreme
Chief of the Brotherhood.

“This Medal, combined with the symbolic knowledge which you will
derive from the Book of the Holy Cross, will give you entrance into all
other secret organizations on the face of the globe, and with the right of
entrance will come the power to command.

“For the Brotherhood of the Holy Cross is not only superior in symbolic
knowledge to all other secret organizations, but, in truth, all these organizations,
however styled, are but illegitimate branches of our great order.
For example—that which is taught dimly among the Masonic Fraternities
is fully revealed in the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross.

“Behold your destiny, my son—weigh it well—ponder long on every
minute detail of your great work.

“In order that you may become the Supreme Chief and the Regenerator
of the Brotherhood, you must first sacrifice at its holy altar, every thing
like the ambition of the world, or the love of woman.

“As the Supreme Chief, your name will not be known in history. You
will be lost to the sight of the world. You will, in truth, stamp your
almost supernatural impress upon history, and sway like a Destiny the
fate of nations—of mankind. But as an individual, as a man, you will not be
known. Cut off from all ties of friendship or of love, sacred and set apart
from the ambitions or the fears of common men, you will fulfil your awful
task, glide away, and leave your work, but not your name or your
memory, to tell that you ever had an existence.

“This is one side of the picture, Paul. Look upon the reverse of
the medal.

“Reject the mission which is offered you. Go forth into the great
world, determined to war, to conquer, to love and to hate, to gather gold
and scatter it again, like common men.

“What will be the result of a course like this? I do not prophesy,
Paul, nor pronounce a Judgment; I simply address your reason. The
result then, is not very difficult to determine. Rejecting the great mission

[figure description] Page 340.[end figure description]

for the ambitions of common men, you will undoubtedly acquire fame,
rank and gold. You will be loved by many beautiful women, and feared
by many powerful men. Your wildest ambition may be gratified; you
may place your foot upon the highest step of that golden staircase, which,
the old fable tells us, leads ever upwards, before the eyes of the ambitious.

“And what will be the end of all?

“The men whom you trust will betray you. The woman whom you
love may prove false. Worse than all, and most to be dreaded of all judgments,
she may bear a child which will inherit the horrible Destiny,
the incurable Malady of our race! The gold which you win, may only
serve to poison your blood with the fever of luxury. The highest step
of the golden stairway—even if you attain it—may only reveal to you a
yawning chasm at the other side. A chasm that seems fathomless, and
yet not deep enough to bury your despair, when you reflect on what you
are, as a Man of the hour—on what you might have been, as the Regenerator
of the Brotherhood, the Destiny of a World.

“You will read this when I am dead.

“From the grave I speak to you. Choose, my son, and choose with
freedom, for my death removes from your head the Curse of our race.

Paul sank on his knees and clasped his hands. The manuscript fell
beside him, among the grass and flowers.

“Father!” he cried, raising to heaven a face which was softened in
every feature by a holy serenity—“My choice is made! Now, that thy
bones are dust, the fatal secret of the Sealed Chamber can no longer cloud
my soul, and urge my arm to that most terrible deed. I am indeed free!
Free! My choice, then, is made at once! I will sever from my heart
all ties of human ambition—I will sacrifice the love of woman, at the altar
of this holy work. No child shall ever be born, to struggle as I have
struggled, with the Curse—the Curse of our race.

“Father! By thy spirit I swear to accept the destiny which thou didst
design for me. I will become the Regenerator of the Brotherhood—I will
hover round the Deliverer, his safeguard if he is true, his executioner if he
is false. Thanks, Father! Thy words have removed the Curse from
my soul.”

It was an impressive sight to see him kneeling there, his eyes flashing
with the joy which flooded every avenue of his soul, his forehead radiant
with a holy energy, his voice breaking full and deep upon the breathless
stillness of the forest.

At last, after the agony of years, the cloud was lifted from his soul.

Neither the secret of the Sealed Chamber, nor the love of that beautiful
girl, who tempted him to break his oath, could now sway him aside from
his great work.

[figure description] Page 341.[end figure description]

After the first outburst of joy, Paul fell into a profound reverie.

Where was the Golden Medal? Where the Book of the Rosy Cross?
What was that word which terminated the enigmatical sentence—“At the
feet of the Imprisoned you will discover the D—.” How should he
acquire the meaning of that word, the hidden truth of the whole sentence?

These queries agitated his mind; but amid all his uncertainties a profound
gladness nestled in the depths of his heart, when he reflected that—
his father dead—the Secret of the Sealed Chamber could threaten him no
longer, with its foreboding of thrice-infamous crime.

And yet these queries must be answered ere he had a right to read the
Deliverer's name.

While Paul was absorbed in this profound reverie, the shadows gathered
darker around the old Block-House, and the stillness of the forest grew
deeper.

It was a beautiful thing to see those masses of deep shadow and vivid
sunlight rest together upon the roof of the Block-House, like strange birds,
whose immense wings, of midnight blackness, were streaked with feathers
of shining gold.

And while the shadows deepened and the forest grew more breathlessly
still, Paul remained on his knees, his hands resting on the oaken bench,
while the manuscript lay near his side.

“To night is the seventh night of the second week of June, 1777—”
he murmured aloud.

Was it sleep that came over his senses—bewildered as they were by
the sudden joy—or did only his profound reverie deepen into a waking
dream?

For some time, he remained unconscious of all external sights or sounds—
his soul was wrapt within itself—the images of the secret Brotherhood,
the words of his father, possessed his brain.

After some time had elapsed, he started from this reverie, like a man
waking from a dream.

There was a lily in his right hand—a beautiful flower, with its snowy
cup still sparkling with the diamond dew. Paul gazed upon it with indescribable
wonder—inhaled its delicious fragrance, and pressed it to his lips.

Then glancing to the right and left, he sought to behold the giver of this
fragrant blessing. There was no one in sight—all was silent and shadowy
about the Block-House.

“It seems to have fallen from Heaven!” he cried, pressing it once more
to his lips.

Paul started to his feet; the sun was hidden behind the trees; his beams
flashed among the huge trunks like arrows of tremulous gold.

It was the hour of sunset.

At once Paul remembered his promise to Reginald, and his vow to sever
from his heart all ties of friendship or love.

[figure description] Page 342.[end figure description]

“I will see him for the last time,—tell him the story of my life,—and
then, still brothers in heart, we part for ever!”

He hastened toward the gate,—but suddenly paused ere he advanced
five paces.

“It is my duty to remain. The Golden Medal—the Book of the Brotherhood—
the name of the Deliverer—these all demand my earnest thought.
And to-night is the seventh night of the second week in June! But Reginald—
he has been a brother to me—ah! I will see him, and return within
the hour!”

He turned his face from the door of the Block-House, and once more
hastened toward the gate. His step was buoyant, his manner joyous, his
face full of bloom, his eye lighted up with new fire.

Again the lily which he grasped met his eye.

“A good omen!” he cried, and hurried through the gate.

Near the sycamore tree, he paused for an instant, still holding the lily
in his hand.

“It is very near sunset, and I cannot reach the appointed place in time,
if I follow the windings of the Wissahikon. There was a path which led
directly to the south-west; I remember it well!”

To follow the windings of the Wissahikon, until he reached the Blasted
Pine, was to traverse a distance of at least two miles. The direct path,
leading through the woods and fields, was scarcely a mile in length; it
encountered the Wissahikon near the Schuylkill. After a moment's hesitation,
Paul determined to take this path.

Turning his face toward the west, he sought earnestly among the leaves
and shruberry for traces of the path, but his search was in vain.

“It is very near sunset, and I will be too late!” he cried, in despair, and
at once, with his face turned toward the south-west, plunged into the mazes
of the thickly grown brush-wood. His way was choked by branches of
trees, interwoven with the foliage of the laurel, which covered the ground,
between the trunks of the oaks and pines; plunging deeper into the gloom,
without a ray of light to break the depth of shadow, he still endeavored
to keep his face toward the south-west.

At last he came upon an open space, where there was a carpet of moss,
sprinkled with flowers, and framed in the trunks of huge beechen trees.

A gush of sunlight warmed the place, and Paul, at the same instant,
beheld the lily, which he had not ceased to grasp for a moment, and the
entrance of the path for which he was seeking.

The sunlight shone warmly over the pure white flower, and Paul could
not turn his eyes away from its beautiful cup, tinted as it was by golden
beams.

“Where did I obtain this flower?” he murmured, as he paused in the
centre of the glade, his dark attire and impressive countenance shown distinctly
in the sudden sunlight.

[figure description] Page 343.[end figure description]

Had he gathered it in his slumber? There were no flowers like it in the
vicinity of the Block-House. Perchance it had been left upon the oaken
bench by some wayfarer. And yet its fragrance was still fresh; the dew
sparkled in diamond drops upon its petals.

Paul stood very still, in the rays of the sun, his countenance shadowed
by thought.

This incident of the lily, which he had found in his grasp, when awaking
from his reverie—or his slumber—excited a train of strange emotions.

“It has been placed in my hand by a living being; some unknown friend
has stolen to my side, as I was lost in thought, and dropped it gently upon
the oaken bench. Some unknown friend!”

Paul pressed his hand upon his forehead; a sudden ejaculation was
forced from his lips, by a vivid thought.

“Catharine!” he exclaimed—“she lives! Yes, even as I knelt by the
oaken bench, she has stolen to my side, pressed her kiss upon my forehead,
and left this flower in my hand, as a token of her love. It is indeed
a beautiful symbol of a sister's love.”

The thought filled him with a sudden joy, but the joy was linked with
an inexplicable horror.

“Catharine is living, and—my father—is he still living?”

He felt the cold moisture upon his forehead at the thought.

For with that thought all his madness came back again. His dread of
the Sealed Chamber and its Revelation, his Remorse at the memory of that
fatal night.

But the level rays of the sun, shooting over the sod, reminded him once
more of his promise to Reginald.

He hurried onward, entering the hidden path, as he dashed aside a
beechen branch whose foliage swept his face. But no sooner had he
entered the path, than his steps were arrested by a sight which at once
enchained his eyes.

On the right of the path there was an open space, but a few yards square,
encircled by a rudely constructed fence. That open space was surrounded
by the great trunks of chesnut, oak and poplar, but their branches,
parted above it, and suffered the sunlight to fall upon it, like a smile of
golden rays.

There was a gentle elevation of sod in the centre of the space, encircled
by the fence, surrounded by the great trees, and blessed by the golden rays.
A gentle elevation—a mound of moss, whose dark green surface was only
varied by a solitary wild rose, whose leaves were touched with perfect
bloom. Beside the rose, was the broken stalk of another flower.

Paul glanced upon the broken stalk, and then upon the flower which he
held in his hand; an irresistible conviction rushed upon his soul.

“It is the stalk of the lily which I hold in my grasp,” he cried, “and
I am looking upon the grave of Catharine!”

[figure description] Page 344.[end figure description]

Won by the strange beauty of the place, he leaned against a tree, and
gave his soul to the influence of the golden atmosphere which invested
that lonely grave.

It was a very pleasant spot for the sleep of the dead; there, in the
bosom of the wild forest, among the giant trees, with a little sunshine to
bless the place, and a solitary rose blooming over the grave.

Paul could not turn his eyes from that lonely mound, framed in a rude
fence, and with a single flower upon its green bosom.

There was no stone to mark the spot, no elaborate inscription, to tell
whose ashes slumbered there.

In truth, it seemed as if the dead were left alone to the eyes of the
Angels—perchance—alone with the tenderness of God.

“It was no human hand that placed this flower in mine!” the thought
crossed the mind of Paul—“It is a good omen, sent to me from the Other
World!”

And he knelt there, and spoke the name of his Sister to the still air, and
in his dreamy way conversed with the dead.

As his clasped hands rested upon the rude fence, his yearning eyes
were fixed immovably upon the grave, and the sunlight touched his
forehead, his waving hair, as with a blessing, while his form was lost in
shadow.

O, beautiful, upon the cold bosom of a desolate world, blossoms that
holiest flower, living when all beside is dead, blooming on, when every hope
is cold and withered—that flower which angels plant, and the smile of
God nourishes into life—a Sister's Love!

Paul could not restrain his tears. He suffered them to flow freely.
There was no one to witness them but Heaven,—and perchance the Spirit
of his dead sister was hovering in that sunlight, near the solitary rose,
which trembled on the bosom of the grave!

And Paul forget every thing—the Past and the Future, his Remorse
and his Hope—as he gazed upon his sister's tomb. Forgot every thing,
and felt his soul filled with an unutterable yearning to sleep there, beside
her, and be at rest, with some sunshine and a stray wild flower over his
ashes.

At last, the Lily which he grasped—that flower which had been sent to
him by a supernatural hand—called him back to life.

“It is a good Omen,” he said, once more—“It tells me to bury the
Past, and look forward to the Future!”

He arose, and in a moment had passed from the quiet grave into the
shadows. Yet ere he went, he lingered for a moment on the verge of
the glade, turning his eloquent eyes over his shoulder, as he exclaimed:

“Catharine! Catharine! There may be women in the world, with
lovelier faces than thine, but never—never lived a truer spirit; never was

[figure description] Page 345.[end figure description]

the divine tenderness of a Sister's love embodied in a countenance more
angel-like than thine.”

He turned away with a shudder. With the image of his sister, arose
another image of a far different nature. A woman's face, shaded by raven
hair, with the fire of a maddening passion shining in her large dark eyes!

It came with the memory of his sister's pale, golden hair and azure
eyes; it spoke to him of the “last night” when he trembled on the
threshold of the Sealed Chamber.

“She also is with the dead, that strangely beautiful woman, who with
a look urged me on to Ruin. Soon I will stand upon the sod which
guards her ashes. And all her mad hopes, all those desires, for which
the universe itself seemed but a narrow shrine, are now hidden in a little
space of grassy earth. Father—Sister—the beautiful Tempter—all dead!
I am indeed alone! The friendship of Reginald alone binds me to the
world. And that last tie I must sever, and say to all the common hopes
and ambitions of mankind, farewell. When I am indeed alone, I will be
prepared to enter upon my solemn Destiny.”

Paul plunged deeper into the shadows of the forest.

The path which he followed, wound into the wildest recesses of the
Wissahikon. Now its traces were almost lost amid rude forms of rock,
which, scattered among the trees, seemed like the fragments of some hill
of granite, and again it skirted a rill whose waters were concealed by wild
grass, while the willows bending over it, shut out the light of the sun.

Emerging from the wood, he beheld an undulating field, stretching far
to the west, and clad in vivid green. It was a field of clover, ripe for the
scythe. Not far from the wood, a bold elevation was marked against the
western sky. Paul pursued his way through the clover, and in a few
moments stood upon a rock, which crowned this elevation.

Looking to the east and south, he beheld the forest extending in the
form of a crescent.

That crescent marked the course of the Wissahikon.

Beyond the tops of the trees which formed this crescent, he beheld a
broad green hill, on whose summit frowned a grove of pines. Amid their
deep shadows, he beheld the walls of a mansion—it was the mansion of
Isaac Van Behme.

Paul trembled at the sight, and at once, the memory of the beautiful
woman bewildered his soul.

“It looks sad and desolate!” he said, gazing upon that distant grove
of pines—“I soon will discover her grave among those shadows.”

Turning his gaze farther to the west, he saw a white form, gleaming
dimly from a clump of magnificent trees, clad in the luxuriant foliage of
June.

“The Blasted Pine!”

[figure description] Page 346.[end figure description]

And then, gazing over the clover field, he beheld, at its western extremity,
a farm-house embosomed among orchard trees.

Over its steep roof, the disc of the setting sun was only half-visible.
A cloudless sky, a field of clover, a farm-house embosomed among orchard
trees, and a forest extending in the form of a crescent,—all illumined by
the sun, whose broad disc was half-concealed by the horizon.

This was the view which Paul beheld, as he stood on the rock, with
his soul still awed by the shadow and the silence of the forest, which he
had only a moment left.

It was a beautiful sight—the Ideal of rural beauty,—ranged side by
side with the dark old forest, whose profound solitudes overwhelmed the
heart with thoughts of wild grandeur.

“I have but to descend into the valley of the Wissahikon, cross the
stream by means of the rocks, and in a few moments I will stand at the
foot of the Blasted Pine. But I must hasten my steps, for the sun is half-concealed
by the horizon.”

Paul stood upon the rock, and surveyed the scenes of his life.

We have, indeed, wasted pages without a purpose, and expended words
in vain, if we have not succeeded in impressing the mind of the reader
with the peculiar strength and genius of an organization like that of Paul
Ardenheim. He was one of those natures which, indeed, do not often
appear in the lower world—natures made up of Good and Evil in large
proportions, and swayed to either side by the hand of Fate, or perchance
the accident of the merest circumstance.

While engaged in the old records, which tell of his life, we have found
it difficult to avoid loving this strange man, and admiring his genius,
despite his wayward Destiny. Under other circumstances he might have
become a Poet, a General, or the Dictator of a Revolutionary age. As it
was, he only hovers over the page of history, a vague shadow, that may
appear an Apparition of Good, or the Ghost of Evil, according to the
vision of the spectator.

Had he been reared amid the scenes of every-day life, accustomed to
those vulgar realities which chafe enthusiasm into dull but practical
energy, he would doubtless have made his mark upon the age, a stern,
rugged, but powerful Man. Had he, from infancy, grown up amid scenes
of cold, unpoetical Want—habituated to all that the direst extreme of
poverty can inflict upon the child of the poor—with here and there a ray
of education gleaming in upon the squalor and nakedness of his existence—
he might, yes, he would have found a rugged joy in battling against his
fate, and in striking a way for his genius, even through the wilderness of
Hunger, Temptation and Wretchedness.

But his education was altogether different. He had been reared in the
profound solitudes of an almost untrodden forest. His mind had been
fashioned amid scenes of the wildest grandeur. The lessons of

[figure description] Page 347.[end figure description]

fanaticism, mysticism—or superstition,—which he had received from his father,
seemed embodied again in the stillness of the awful forest, through whose
depths the stream of Wissahikon, like a spirit, sung its unceasing song—
in the glory of sunrise, when the tops of the trees were touched with
gold, and the last star trembled ere it faded into air—in the majesty of
sunset, when the green meadow and the dark woods lay side by side,
mellowed by the same ray—in the profound shadow which came down
at night upon the scene, wrapping the stream and the leaf, the cavern and
the flower, in its bosom, as the pall shuts in the dead.

He had been reared alone—set apart from mankind—and yet, every
moment of his life, in close and awful companionship with the Other
World.

It will be seen at a glance, that this kind of education rendered his
nature at once sensitive and fearless. He united—says the old MSS.—
the tenderness of the woman, with the single-heartedness of the child, and
the iron strength of one of those Demi-Gods of ancient story. His mind
was susceptible of the most delicate shades of impression; the ten thousand
voices of external nature were intelligible to his dreaming soul; he found
connecting links between this world and the other, in the innumerable
forms of creation; as well in the humblest plant or flower, as in the lone
majesty of the silent stars.

It will also be remembered, that the supernatural part of this work, or
that which appears supernatural, and which in some cases we have endeavored
to explain, does not, in the Original Records of Paul Ardenheim's
life, admit of doubt or speculation. The author of those Records believes
in all that partakes of the Supernatural. He sees nothing improbable in
a direct, continual and intelligible communication between this world and
the Spiritual World, between disembodied Spirits and actual men and
women.

He beholds in Paul Ardenheim, not so much a Man, born to eat, drink,
sleep, toil and die like the herd of mankind, as a Spirit from the Other
World, embodied in human form, and sent hither to work out a strangely
terrible Destiny.

Perchance—(this is the language of the Ancient MSS.)—the Spirit of
some great Man, who lived in far distant ages of the world, returned to
earth again in the body of Paul Ardenheim.

Even while we smile at what we esteem the Credulity of this Writer
of the Original Records, and treat all supernatural appearances, and the
long train of thoughts which they involve, as idle delusions—vainer,
indeed, than a Lawyer's honesty, or a Priest's sincerity—we must also
remember, the Punishment of Witchcraft forms a part of that which
Blackstone calls the perfection of human reason, the English Common
Law. That Lord Bacon believed in Witches, and in Wizard Craft;
that Sir Matthew Hale, arrayed in the pomp of his solemn office,

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sentenced “Witches” to death. That New England was deluged with
blood in a war, waged by its Priests against Witches, Wizards, and Devils
embodied in human form. That Cotton Mather, the author of the Magnolia,—
a Son of the School of Calvin, worthy of his Master—held the
belief in Witches, Spirits, and Apparitions, much dearer than he held the
“Love one another” of the Divine Redeemer.

Indeed, it will be hard for us to find a man at all distinguished, who is
not controlled in his greatest actions, by some form of belief, which
teaches the direct communication between this world and the next.

Even Napoleon believed in his Destiny embodied in a Star.

Paul after a pause of dreamy thought, hurried through the clover field
toward the wood, whose shadows embosomed the Wissahikon.

“Ah—I remember it well!” he cried, as some memory crossed his
mind—“That spring which, half-way down the hill, bubbles up from the
rocks at the foot of the chesnut tree. This path leads near it, and
without pausing for a moment, I may look upon it once again, and think
of other days.”

He had reached the verge of the clover field. Springing over the zigzag
fence, he hurried along the firm sod, and presently entered the shadow
of the woods again. The murmur of the Wissahikon was heard once
more, filling the air with a low-toned and indistinct melody.

“The clump of chesnut trees is yonder. Already I behold the foliage,
varied with pale golden blossoms. Beside that spring, at the foot of the
chesnut trees, I spent many a happy hour in those days that can never
come back again. Oh, it seems to me as if the Soul drank peace, while
the lips are moistened by that clear, cold water, fresh and virgin from the
caverns of Old Earth!”

Hurrying onward with renewed haste, Paul presently stood under the
branches of the chesnut trees. Four hardy trees they were, starting from
the sod together, their joined trunks looking like one great column, and
their foliage meeting overhead in one impenetrable canopy.

At the foot of these trees, from a hollow in the rock, bubbled forth a
limpid spring, with a wild flower or two bending over it, like maidens surveying
their faces in a mirror. A level space of green sod spread for
some paces around the spring, encircled by the thickly grown shrubbery
as by a wall. It was all the same as in other days—the rock in whose
hollow lay the clear water,—the flowers around—the level space carpeted
with moss—and the foliage which formed the walls and canopy of this
wild forest bower.

But Paul had no time to gaze upon the flowers, no time to drink from
the spring, for the sun was setting, and Reginald waiting for him beneath
the Blasted Pine.

With a glance, he turned away,—

“At last you have come!” said a voice.

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