"'What can I say that I have not already expressed in beautiful language? Is it my fault that you did not understand me? You think I spoke to your senses, yet it was my soul addressed you—nay, the souls of all the human family spoke in mine. I was indeed inspired, but now the power is gone, and I need repose. Had I then transfused to you all that I could have wished, you also would now require rest.'
"It was impossible for Spartacus to ascertain anything more that evening. When we had come to the first cottage, the stranger said:—
"'Friends, follow me no farther; but come to me to-morrow. Knock at the first door and you will be well received everywhere here, if you know the language of the country.'
"It was useless to exhibit the little money we had. The peasants of Bohemia are worthy of ancient days. We were received with calm politeness, and ere long we were treated with affectionate cordiality, being able to speak Slavonic with ease, the peasants distrusting those who speak German.
"We soon ascertained that we were at the Giants' Castle, and at the foot of the Giants' Mountain. From the name, we fancied we were transported by magic to the great northern chain of the Carpathian Mountains. We were told that one of the ancestors of the Podiebrad had thus named his castle to discharge a vow he had made in the Riesenberg; and that Podiebrad's descendants, after the Thirty Years' War, had assumed the patronymic of Rudolstadt. At that time, persecution Germanized everything—names, cities, and individuals. These traditions are yet alive in the hearts of the peasantry of Bohemia. The mysterious Trismegistus, then, whom we looked for, is really the same Albert Podiebrad who was buried alive, rescued from the tomb in a mysterious manner, who disappeared for a long time, and who, after twenty years, was confined as an impostor and freemason and Rose Cross—the famous Count of Rudolstadt, whose lawsuit was so hushed up, and whose identity was never established. Rely then, my friend, on the inspiration of our master. You trembled when you thought we put faith in vague revelations, and searched for one who, like so many of the modern Illuminati, might be either an impudent swindler or a ridiculous adventurer. The master had judged correctly. By a few traits in his deportment, and some of his fugitive writings that we had seen, he was convinced that this strange personage was a man of intelligence and truth—a sincere guardian of the sacred fire and holy traditions of the older Illuminism—an adept of the ancient secret—a doctor of the new interpretation. We have found him, and now we have become enlightened in the history of freemasonry and the famous Invisibles, of whose toils and even existence we were before in doubt; and we can now understand the new mysteries, the meaning of which was lost or wrapped in doubtful hieroglyphics which the persecuted and degraded adepts could not now explain. We have found the man, and now can return with that sacred fire which at one time transformed a statue of clay into a thinking being—a rival for the stern and stupid gods of the ancients. Our master is the Prometheus. Trismegistus had the fire of truth in his bosom, and we have caught a sufficiency from him to enable us to initiate you into a new life.
"The stories of our kind hosts kept us long sitting beside the rustic hearth. They did not care for the legal judgments and attestations that declared Albert of Rudolstadt, in consequence of an attack of catalepsy, deprived of his name and rights. Their love of his character—their hatred of the foreign spoilers, the Austrians, who, having condemned and persecuted the legitimate heir, now bereft him of his lands and castle, which they shamefully squandered—the hammer of the ruthless demolisher, who would destroy his seigniorial abode, and sell at any price its invaluable contents, and who sought to sully and deface what they could not carry away; for these reasons the peasantry of the Boehmer-wald preferred a truly miraculous truth to the odious sophistry of the conquerors. Twenty-five years had passed since the disappearance of Albert Podiebrad, yet no one here will believe in his death, though all the newspapers have published it, in confirmation of an unjust judgment; while all the aristocracy of Vienna laughed contemptuously at the madman who supposed himself resuscitated from death. Albert of Rudolstadt has now been a week on these mountains—the home of his fathers; and every day finds him in prayer and praise at their tombs. All who remember his features beneath his grey hairs prostrate themselves before him as their true master and ancient friend. There is something to admire in their acknowledgment of this persecuted man, and much of the beautiful in the love they bear towards him.
"In a corrupt world like this, nothing can be thought of to give you an idea of the pure morals and noble sentiments we have met with here. Spartacus has a profound respect for the peasantry; and the trifling persecution we first experienced, from their detestation of tyranny, has confirmed our confidence in their fidelity amid misfortune, and in their grateful remembrance of the past.
"At dawn we wished to leave the hut in search of the violin player; but we were surprised to find ourselves surrounded by a number of men, armed with flails and scythes, the chief of whom said—
"'You must forgive us if we retain you here. We have come together for that purpose; but you may be free again this evening.'
"Finding us astonished at this, he said—