“Beautiful Satan!” muttered Paul, as he felt the clasp of that warm
hand, which led him gently into the shadows of the wood, and then by
an uncertain ray of moonlight, he saw the white robe, gleaming through
the twilight, while the waving hair, swept his fevered brow.

His brain was whirling, as in the mazes of an intoxicating dream. He
heard a low and gentle voice whisper, “Come!” but the face was turned
away. He followed the Unknown in silence, while the blood bounded in
every vein.

Through the woods, and down into the shadows of a glen, up the slope
of a hill, overgrown with laurel, the hand led him, and at last emerging
into the moonlight—it was wan, pale and spectral—he beheld a scene
which broke upon him like a vision from fairy land.

Only a moment he paused, to drink in the beauty of the sight, and
then the hand of the unknown urged him around.

Let us behold that picture of a moment.

He stood on the verge of a smooth and grassy lawn, bordered by noble
pines, and with a mansion, lighted in every window, shining like a funeral
pyre through the half-twilight. Bells of radiance gushed from the
windows of that mansion of dark stone walls, and high roof, crowned
with a tower; and the lawn, the gloomy pines, were touched with rays of
living light.

It was the mansion of Isaac Van Behme, the thought rushed over the
mind of Paul, but no! This mansion so gay with lights in every casement,
this lawn crowded with marble images, which looked like ghosts
in the mingled radiance, did not in the least resemble the isolated home
of Isaac Van Behme, as he saw it on the fatal night.

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Then the ground was wrapped in snow, and the dark evergreens, waved
their gloomy branches, about the desolate mansion, like mourners attired
in funeral robes and sorrowing for the dead.

But now, the lawn, overarched by the pure blue sky, and bordered by
the tall pines, was crowded by throngs of men and women,—or ladies and
gentlemen—whose gay costumes shone in the light, and gave a festival
appearance to the scene. The quaint attire of the olden time—full bottomed
wigs for the men, and head dresses like the tower of Babel for the
women, coats with wide skirts, and gowns resembling a peacock's train—
in all its varied and ingenious details Music too, came in bursts of melody,
softened by distance and filling the deep sad sky, with a low murmur,
like the lull of a distant fountain.

While Paul at a glance beheld this scene, the Unknown was half-concealed
from sight among the shadows of the path. The hand still pressed
his own, and sent its magnetic thrill to his heart, but the form clad in the
white robe, was shrouded by the foliage, and the face was lost in the folds
of a veil, whose snowy lace fluttered around the raven tresses, like a cloud
of pale and impalpable mist.

They stood, Paul and the Unknown at the entrance of a secluded walk,
which extended in a magnificent perspective, until it was lost in the shadows.
A line of towering pines, separated the walk from the lawn, and
between their huge trunks, the light rushed in upon the gloom, in fitful
rays, while their branches, bending to the evening air, formed a canopy
overhead.

It was the walk of all walks in the world,—thus on the very verge of
light and life, and yet separated from the gay scene, set apart, as a haunt
sacred to solitude—for a scene of love, when the heart talks with the silent
pressure of the hand, and the low whispers of the lovers, melt into
noiseless kisses.

Along this walk, now in light, now in shadow, Paul was led by the
Unknown; he did not seem to walk on the solid earth, but to tread in air,
trees, mansion and lights, were whirling round him in a mad dance, while
a vision of a beautiful form, and dark eyes, flashing through a snowy veil,
floated before him on waves of golden mist.

“Who art thou!” whispered Paul—“Am I awake! Am I dreaming?
Or is this a delusion invented by Satan, to cheat me into my ruin? Speak!
Who art thou? There's madness in thy touch—thine eyes tear the Soul
from my brain—I am afraid of this wild loveliness!”

The tresses floated on the light, the head was turned, and a low voice
breathed his name through the stillness, and whispered “Come!”

The walk at last came to an end, and the Unknown plunged into
the thick shrubbery, which grew in fragrant and leafy luxuriance along
the western wall of the mansion. All was dark and noiseless here; while
the front was blazing from every window as with a festival illumination,

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this wall, silent and gloomy, was overrun by a leafy vine, which clung
along the eaves of the roof, and flung its festoons quivering in the air.

Paul was alone in the gloom with the Unknown; he could not see the
sky, nor did a single ray shine through the thickly-woven foliage. He
could not see the beautiful shape, whose bosom heaved above the loosened
robe, nor the snowy veil which covered her face and midnight hair. But
the soft,—gentle—yet maddening pressure of the hand, assured him of
her presence, and her breath mingled with his own, as her lips pressed
his mouth, murmuring—

“Paul, I love thee!”

Very simple words, you say, yet many a time, have words as trite and
plain, been warmed into overwhelming eloquence, by a kiss from young
lips, lips rife with youth and passion, lips throbbing madness into the lips
they press!

Among the shrubbery appeared a narrow door, sunken in the gloomy
wall, and overhung by the tendrils of the creeping vine. A white hand
was extended—the door opened inward, or receded into the wall—the
entrance of a stairway was visible.

“Ah! I remember! Here on the last night—” exclaimed Paul, as his
confused ideas began to condense themselves into shape.

“Come!” cried the Unknown, and Paul sprang over the threshold—
the door was closed,—and in the darkness, he was led upward by that
gentle hand.

Suddenly a door was opened, at the head of the narrow stairway, and
Paul's face was bathed in light.

“I remember!” he muttered—“It is the door of the mirror, through
which I passed on the—”

He stepped over the threshold, the mirror glided back into its place,
and Paul looked around, with the bewildered gaze of a man but half
awakened from some luxurious dream.

It was many moments before he recovered his entire consciousness, and
gazed about him with a steadfast eye.

A soft, voluptuous light prevailed throughout that spacious chamber.
Curtains of lace, resembling wreaths of floating mist, trembled along the
solitary window, and gave entrance to the breeze and star-beam of the
glorious night. The lofty walls were animated and impassioned with
many a beautiful form, that seemed to live, to breathe on canvass, and
from the shadows of a niche, sunken in each corner of the room, a pale
marble image stole gently on the sight. The floor returned no echo to
the tread; it was covered with a velvet carpet, whose warm dyes, subdued
by the dim light, harmonized with the luxurious atmosphere of the
chamber.

There was a mirror too, reaching from the ceiling to the floor—it was

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the secret door of the secret staircase—and Paul as he looked upon it,
felt the blood mount to his cheek.

“It is the chamber!” the thought flashed over him;—the chamber in
which the Wizard's daughter first dawned upon his eyes.

But where was the gloomy atmosphere which had once invested the
place, where the dark hangings, and dusky floor and sombre couch?

Paul turned, and in the recess, where the bed with the dark hangings,
once had stood, appeared a snow-white couch, with a canopy of satin,
white as snow, arching above its spotless coverlet.

It was in a word, the luxurious chamber of a Woman, at once refined,
beautiful and voluptuous.

“Do you not know me, Paul?”

That voice breathed of the days of old!

She stood before him, like the Spirit of the scene, gathering her flowing
robe over her breast, while her hair rested in midnight waves upon
her half-uncovered shoulders. Not a Spirit cold or pale, or spectral, by
any means, nor a form of marble enshrining the idea of Beauty, as passionless
as ice.

It was a proud spirit whose fast heaving bosom, spoke of the impetuous
blood; whose large eyes, veiled in the shadow of the long lashes, gleamed
with the moist light of passion in its fullness, and love in its most bewitching
langour. There was a rose blooming on each brown cheek; an ivory
line, gleamed through the parted lips, and on the brow so pale and eloquent,
a Thought was struggling into life. It was not the Thought born
of a love, calm and tranquil as the stars, but a Thought fiery and impetuous,
as the blood which was bloom on her lips and cheek.

Was it the form of a Maiden, just ripening into the consciousness of
her being?

It was the form of a Woman, in the first flush of her matured loveliness;
a woman whose shape was only beautiful, because its outlines
mingling grace, with warm voluptuous loveliness, presented the incarnation
of a Soul, lofty in its ambition, boundless in its passion, and—it may
be—remorseless in its revenge.

And before this beautiful shape, clad as much in those dark tresses, as
in the loosely flowing robe, stood the bewildered man, whose dark attire,
displaying a bold, a muscular form, by no means harmonized with the
luxurious hues of the dim-lighted chamber.

His pale brow, relieved by his dark brown hair, his boldly defined features
shadowed by an inexpressible melancholy, his eyes—so deep, so
clear, so full of wondering light—presented a picture which was strongly
contrasted with the warm countenance of the beautiful woman.

“It is no vision then,” he said with an absorbing look, and a voice, that
rung bold and deep upon the silence of the chamber—“You are before
me, once more—living—beautiful as when I first beheld you in this room!

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O much more lovely, O wondrously beautiful! And as I gaze into your
eyes, there is no longer a soul left within my bosom, I look and I am lost,
for my being is at once mingled and dissolved in yours.”

He said no more, but looked into her half-veiled eyes, with a long unchanging
gaze.

“Lost, Paul?” she said—“Do you fear me? Am I then hideous in
your eyes?”

Hideous! She came gently to him, and laid her hands upon his
shoulders, and breathed upon his cheek. Hideous! Her eyes hazy with
liquid light were looking into his own—her breast was near to his heart,
thrilling his every nerve with its impetuous throb. Hideous! Her fingers
trembled gently through his clustering hair; her tresses, floated over his
hands; he was wrapt and lost in the atmosphere of her bewitching loveliness.

“And you were lost to me!” she whispered—“Little did I dream,
when I wandered forth into the wood, an hour ago, that the next hour,
would bring to me, a moment like this!”

Have a care brave Paul! Remember the beautiful Tempter, who maddened
you, until the oath was broken, and the Sealed Chamber profaned—
remember the words of the old man, whose forehead felt your sacreligous
blow—remember Monk of Wissahikon, the solemn Destiny which cuts
you off from all ties of friendship or of love, from all sympathy with the
hopes and ambitions of common men.

Remember —

Paul felt his knees bend beneath him, and in a moment, he looked up
and saw that beautiful face, glowing over him, while his upraised arms,
encircled that voluptuous shape, with a quivering embrace.

It was not love, nor passion, but madness.

“Beautiful Satan!” he cried—for his senses were wild and wandering—
his blood was molten flame again, as on the fatal night—“Tempt me to
my ruin, and I will give my soul to thee! for thee I crossed the Sealed
Chamber, for thee I dashed my father's gray hairs into dust, for thee I
became as Cain, a wanderer upon the earth, with a mark upon my brow,
that scared even the outcast and the felon from my path. Look! I am
thine again!”

And he bowed his head upon her throbbing breast, even as he knelt at
her feet, and girdled her in his arms, and wept aloud, for there was Despair
in his Love, a bitterness like the Death of a Soul, in his delirious
transport.

Woe—woe—to Paul the Monk of Wissahikon.

He raised his face—a Hope had broken in upon his soul.

“Beautiful Spirit!” cried Paul—“Be merciful! Do not tempt me
again to my Despair!”

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“Tempt you to your despair!” she whispered, as her form was girdled
in his trembling arms, “You are dreaming Paul!”

O the wild beauty of her face, as she lifted her arms, and swept aside
her raven hair, while her eyes, dilating with an irresistable fascination,
shone steadily upon him, and her voice—softened to a whisper—came to
his ear, like the voice of his own heart, the very accents of his Destiny.

“Do not tempt me again to my despair,” he wildly cried, unable to
turn his gaze from the impassioned beauty of her face—“I hear your voice
again, and all is madness in my veins. It was that voice, which tempted
me, on the fatal night, the night which is graven into my soul, in characters
of deathless Remorse. You remember! While Catharine clung to
my knees, you whispered in my ear, and I crossed the threshold of the
Sealed Chamber, never to know peace or rest again. You remember—”

“The Sealed Chamber!” echoed the beautiful woman, as her robes,
floating so loosely about her voluptuous shape, could not hide the sudden
swell of her impetuous bosom. “I do remember, Paul. Ah, how pale
and terrible you looked, when you came forth from that gloomy chamber.
No word for me, not even a look! And when I saw you last, you were
near the end of the corridor, and your father come trembling from his
room, and—”

“I struck him to the earth—” Paul's voice was faint and broken, his
face clouded with an unutterable Remorse—“With this hand I smote his
gray hairs.”

He was silent—his head sank on his breast, and as if in mockery of his
woe, a burst of music, from the lighted lawn, pealed merrily through the
window.

She gazed upon the kneeling man, and saw his form, writhe at her feet,
with an agony too deep for a murmur or a tear. His hands withdrawn
from her waist, supported his bended head, but she placed her hands upon
his dark hair, and leaning over him, suffered her tresses to enfold him,
like a veil.

“Paul,” she whispered, “I love thee. Would die for thee—for thee,
tempt ruin and despair!”

Slowly he raised his face, and saw her face so near him, that their lips
almost met. Her eyes were shining into his own; her breath fanned his
cheek; all the beauty of her countenance, glowing into the life of passion,
overwhelmed his gaze.

“Come,” she cried, or no! she said it in a voice so low, that her lips
did not seem to speak, but her soul—“Come! Let us talk of other days.
Nay let us talk of the night when first we met, here in this chamber—Do
you remember it Paul? The history of our love is brief, very brief when
measured by time, but in eternity when measured by our thoughts. Come,
Paul let us talk of the olden time!”

It seemed to him, that he could kneel forever there, bathed in the

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brightness of her gaze—wrapt in her look, her accent—enfolded in her
midnight hair.

He could not answer her; his heart was full; his eyes began to blaze,
not with the serene light of thought, but with the madness of passion—
passion, such as stirs the heart, which has not leadened its pulsations,
with the loves and hates of common life.

As the pallor of his face, vanished before a sudden warmth—as cheek
and lip and brow, glowed in a moment, into a new life—he presented an
image of manly, and impassioned beauty

“And the voice spoke my name before we met,” he whispered, “And
told you that one day, we should mingle our destinies, and become
one soul.”

“The Voice!” she echoed—“Ah! I remember! That Voice which
spoke to me, from the air, and guided my life with its words. But it is
gone, now, Paul. I have never heard it since that night. But the voice
which thrills me now, and melts on my soul, as the voice of my Destiny,
speaks from your lips, Paul from yours!”

She bent near and nearer to him as he knelt at her feet, and his face
and hers were lost in the mazes of her flowing hair

The mirror reflected those forms, palpitating with youth and passion,
and centred among the images of that luxurious chamber.

Was it the echo of a kiss that broke upon the breathless quiet, or the
echo of voices, mingling their accents, as the lips—warm with the life of
youth—clung together?

“Paul!” she cried, raising her radiant face, as his countenance stamped
with the frenzy of passion was revealed—“Now tell me the secret of that
well-remembered night. Tell me the secret of the Sealed Chamber.”

His hands fell from her waist; he was pale and cold again. Where
but a moment before had been a man fired by passion, was now, only a
kneeling form, clad in funeral black, with a face livid as Death.

He rose to his feet and turned his face away.

“There—” he faltered, his face averted, as he extended his hand toward
her, “There—Read it all—and do not let it work such madness in your
soul, as it has in mine.”

It was a Manuscript which he had taken from his breast, where it had
been concealed among the folds of his dress, close to his heart.

Her hand trembled as she took the Manuscript. One gaze toward his
form, as with his face turned away, he stood voiceless and immovable
before her, and she opened those dark pages stained with the blackness
of dead centuries.

She read, her bosom slowly heaving, her eye gradually dilating, with
the light of a wild yet fearful curiosity.

Not once did he turn and look upon her.

She read, and a smile gleamed over her features,—gleamed from the

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lips to the eyes—only to die again, in an expression of vague and apathetic
horror. Her breath came tremulous and broken; she crushed the
Manuscript in her fingers, and gazed around with a look of fright and terror,
and then—while silent and statue-like he stood near her—she fixed
her eyes upon its dark pages once more.

Her beautiful face lost its hues of youth and passion; the hair which
streamed over her shoulders, swept a forehead, white as marble, and damp
with beaded moisture.