“Twice have I turned your hour glass since first we entered the cavern—it wanes toward the third hour after midnight.”
“Thou hast not asked me any question concerning these dark hangings of embroidered leather. Thou hast not asked me why yon dark and lurid smoke winds upward from the confines of this sable tent. Nor hast thou spoken a word in relation to the secrets of this Tabernacle of Life—so the Book calls the sable tent.”
“Ibrahim has waited the pleasure of Aldarin.”
“Then listen, dark Arabian, when I tell thee—the dead, the mighty dead shall live again!”
“These words are mysteries to me!”
“Read yon mystic scroll, Ibrahim, and all shall be as the light of day to thee—read those words of fearful knowledge.”
And with a faint and trembling voice, the Arabian gave to the air of the Cavern, the dim and mysterious words of the scroll:
“Lo! The Waters of Life are free from stain or pollution of earth. Wouldst thou prove them pure? Within the hollow of the coffin-like vessel of iron, place the remains of the Sacrificed and pile the fire of beechen wood around. When the iron pales from red to white, then warm the Heart of the Sacrificed with the white waters of the Alembic—when the heart throbs, then let it mingle with the Corse of the Coffin, and Lo! As the sands of the third hour sink in the glass—the dead shall arise!”
“There—there—within the Tabernacle of Life,” shouted Aldarin, with an upraised arm and kindling eye—“There rests the Corse of the Sacrificed, there ascends the fire of beechen wood heating the coffin of iron to a white heat—within the confines of yon funeral urn, rests the Heart, and the phial of silver by its side, contains the priceless Waters of Life. Behold the sands of the third hour are falling in the glass—a little while and——how the thought stirs my very soul—the dead will live again!”
“The dead?” echoed Ibrahim with a gaze of wonder—“How meanest thou, Aldarin?”