could I obtain the grace of royalty, the ear of power, the command of
wealth, my path to glory was made smooth and sure; I should become the
grand inventor of my time and land; I should leave my lore a heritage
and blessing wherever labour works to civilize the round globe. And
now my lodging is a palace, royalty my patron; they give me gold at my
desire; my wants no longer mar my leisure. Well, and for what? On
condition that I forego the sole task for which patronage, wealth, and
leisure were desired! There stands the broken iron, and there simmers
the ore I am to turn to gold,--the iron worth more than all the gold,
and the gold never to be won! Poor, I was an inventor, a creator, the
true magician; protected, patronized, enriched, I am but the
alchemist, the bubble, the dupe or duper, the fool's fool. God, brace
up my limbs! Let me escape! give me back my old dream, and die at
least, if accomplishing nothing, hoping all!"

He rose as he spoke; he strode across the chamber with majestic step,
with resolve upon his brow. He stopped short, for a sharp pain shot
across his heart. Premature age and the disease that labour brings
were at their work of decay within: the mind's excitement gave way to
the body's weakness, and he sank again upon his seat, breathing hard,
gasping, pale, the icy damps upon his brow. Bubblingly seethed the
molten metals, redly glowed the poisonous charcoal, the air of death
was hot within the chamber where the victim of royal will pandered to
the desire of gold. Terrible and eternal moral for Wisdom and for
Avarice, for sages and for kings,--ever shall he who would be the
maker of gold breathe the air of death!

"Father," said the low and touching voice of one who had entered
unperceived, and who now threw her arms round Adam's neck, "Father,
thou art ill, and sorely suffering--"