"Hist, move thee not," whispered Sir Ronald, "he is, about to test his
engine again; it blows off sparks of fire as if it were the smithy's
forge, but without the noise. I have seen him perform with it often.
Hark."

Edmund had brought out his engine from a deep recess in the wall, and
a rough, unsightly piece of mechanism it was. It was intended to be
square, but constant testings and trials had caused it to assume more
the appearance of an octagon, and as the sides had thus bulged out,
the bands which had held the instrument together became loosened and
untrustworthy.

Edmund surveyed it affectionately. It was the offspring of his genius,
and he blindly disregarded all its little imperfections amid the great
love he bore towards it.

"Aha," he murmured, "thou art done, thou art ready now. Thou art an
angel of death, and thou"--turning to his elixir--"thou art an angel
of life."

"Mix them up, Nathan, mix them up," gaily exclaimed Manners as he
stepped into the room. "We will give the Vernons a dose."

Edmund was startled, and he hastily retreated to his engine to protect
it.

"Avaunt!" he cried, "touch it not."

"Nay, I want not to injure it," returned the other, whose smile
contrasted with the alchemyst's scowl. "Shake hands, man; I will do