he had discovered the great secret, and that these
vessels contained liquor, one to transmute metals to gold, and other
to silver. The peasants who found the urns, imagining this precious
liquor to be common water, spilt every drop, so that the art of
transmuting metals remains as much a secret as ever.]

While at Padua, he had met with an adept versed in Arabian lore, who
talked of the invaluable manuscripts that must remain in the Spanish
libraries, preserved from the spoils of the Moorish academies and
universities; of the probability of meeting with precious unpublished
writings of Geber, and Alfarabius, and Avicenna, the great physicians
of the Arabian schools, who, it was well known, had treated much of
alchymy; but, above all, he spoke of the Arabian tablets of lead,
which had recently been dug up in the neighbourhood of Granada, and
which, it was confidently believed among adepts, contained the lost
secrets of the art.

The indefatigable alchymist once more bent his steps for Spain, full
of renovated hope. He had made his way to Granada: he had wearied
himself in the study of Arabic, in deciphering inscriptions, in
rummaging libraries, and exploring every possible trace left by the
Arabian sages.

In all his wanderings, he had been accompanied by Inez through the
rough and the smooth, the pleasant and the adverse; never complaining,
but rather seeking to soothe his cares by her innocent and playful
caresses. Her instruction had been the employment and the delight of
his hours of relaxation. She had grown up while they were wandering,
and had scarcely ever known any home but by his side. He was family,
friends, home, everything to her. He had carried her in his arms, when
they first began their wayfaring; had nestled her, as an eagle does
its young, among the rocky heights of the Sierra Morena; she had
sported about him in childhood, in the solitudes of the Bateucas; had
followed him, as a lamb does the shepherd, over the rugged Pyrenees,
and into the fair plains of Languedoc; and now she was grown up to
support his feeble steps among the ruined abodes of her maternal
ancestors.

His property had gradually wasted away, in the course of his travels
and his experiments. Still hope, the constant attendant of the
alchymist, had led him on; ever on the point of reaping the reward of
his labours, and ever disappointed. With the credulity that often
attended his art, he attributed many of his disappointments to th