which was made after a recipe of that same Messer
Laurens of Paris, cost no less. It is a love-philtre, beneficent to the
young, but if taken by the old so noxious, that had you swallowed it,"
with a grin, "you had not been long Syndic, Messer Blondel!"

Blondel shook his head. "You do not deceive me," he muttered. For though
he was anxious to believe, as yet he could not. He could not; he had
seen the other's face. "It is the _remedium_ she has taken! I feel it."

"And given to her mother?"

Blondel inclined his head.

The scholar laughed contemptuously. "Then is the test easy," he said.
"If it be the _remedium_ you will find her mother, who has not left her
bed for three years, grown strong and well and vigorous, and like to him
who lifted up his bed and walked. But if it be the love-philtre, you
have but to come with me, and you will find her----" He did not finish
the sentence, but a shrug of his shoulders and a mysterious smile filled
the gap.

Imperceptibly Blondel had raised himself in his chair. The gleam of
hope, once lighted in his eyes, was growing bright. "How?" he asked.
"How shall we find her? If it be the philtre only that she has taken--as
you say?"

"If it be the philtre? The mother, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Mad! Mad!" Basterga repeated with decision, "and beside herself. As you
had been," he continued grimly, "had you by any chance taken the _aqua
Medeae_."

"That you kept in the steel box?"

"Ay."

"You are sure it was not the _remedium_?" Blondel leaned forward. If
only he could believe it, if only it were the truth, how great the
difference! No wonder that the muscles of his lean throat swelled, and
his hands closed convulsively on the arms of his great chair, as he
strove to read the other's mind.

He had as soon read a printed page without light. The scholar saw that
it needed but a little to convince him, and took his line with
confidence; nor without some pride in the wits that had saved him. "The
_remedium_?" he repeated with impatient wonder. "Do you know that the
_remedium_ is unique? That it is a man's life? That in the world's
history it scarce appears once in five hundred years? That all the
wealth of kings cannot produce it, nor the Spanish Indies furnish it? Do
you remember these things, Messer Blondel, and do you ask if I keep it
like a common philtre in a box in my lodgings?" He snorted in contempt,
and going disdainfully to the hearth spat in the fire as if he could not