Aldarin eagerly extended his hand, he seized the scroll, he tore the seals from either end, and unrolled the time-worn parchment.
And there, while with trembling hands and a flashing eye, the Scholar glanced over the strange Arabic characters, there noting his every glance, his every gesture, stood the solemn stranger, his eye dark as midnight, gazing with one fixed look upon the face of Aldarin, as though he would peruse the contents of the scroll, from the changing expression of the reader’s countenance.
It was strange to note the contrasted gestures of the Scholar and the stranger, as the few last minutes of the mystic age wore slowly on.
While the Scholar eagerly perused the ancient manuscript, his eye gradually acquired a radiance and intensity of expression that seemed supernatural; his lip trembled; his quivering hands rattled the timeworn parchment; until the Round Room echoed with the sound. The Prince Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim started aside, and raised his hands to his brow with a sudden gesture as tho’ he wished to stifle some bitter memory, or nerve his soul for the accomplishment of some fell purpose.
“Awful Soul of the Universe!” shrieked Aldarin as he shook the parchment aloft, in the wildness of his joy—“I thank thee! I thank thee! All—all is written here—the principles of my belief are—true! Yes—yes! The last charm—the method of the trial of the Secret—the raising of the mighty dead—all, all are here! Ibrahim—Ibrahim, give me joy! Lo! I unveil to thy gaze the secret of the funeral urn!”
And with wild steps, and hasty manner, Aldarin strode across the oaken floor, he uncovered the funeral urn, he placed his trembling hands within its depths.
“Behold”—he shrieked—“Ibrahim behold the sacrifice!”
Ibrahim looked, he beheld the upraised hand of Aldarin, but he dared not look again.
Thrilled with horror at the sight, he, veiled his face in his hands, while Aldarin strode hurriedly toward the altar.
All was still as death in the Round Room.