“Woe! woe!” cried Basil, in agony; “have I then lost all? Adorable spirit, guide of my life, have mercy!——forsake me not!”
“I do not forsake thee, O poor mortal!” answered the voice, sadly. “I am here, beautiful and tender as before; but thou art no longer able to behold me. Sin has darkened thine eyes, and thou wilt see me no more——forever.”
“No more?” echoed the student in tones of thrilling misery.
“No more,” replied the mournful accents of the Salamandrine; and a faint chorus, like the sighing of the wind, echoed plaintively,——
“No more, O, poor mortal, no more!”
The vapor swept away from the fire, and the student was left to his despair.
VIII.
Two days after the terrible fire, some who loved and pitied the desolate Margareta forcibly entered her brother’s room. They found Basil dead. He lay on the floor, his marble face upturned to their horror-stricken view. There might have been agony in his last moments, for the hands were tightly pressed upon the heart; but all was calmness now. The features had settled into their eternal repose. How or when the spirit parted none knew, save Him who gave it, and who had now reclaimed his gift. The book of Michael Meyer lay beside the student; and firmly clasped in the stiffened fingers was a long tress of woman’s hair. More than this, all was mystery.
Many years after, when the memory of the student of Cologne had long been forgotten, an aged nun died in a convent not far from the city. It was Margareta, the only sister of Basil Wolgemuth the Rosicrucian.
