"Hand it hither: thou weariest me; for, by St. Grisel! all thy messes seem to be compounded by devils and philosophers."
"Thou still appliest my Unguentum Armarium?"
"Regularly," replied the advocate, resuming impatiently the writing at which he had been interrupted.
"And thy wound?"
"Is almost closed, thank God!"
"Good—good," muttered the physician to himself; "I knew well that my ointment, compounded of the ashes of that written charm, brayed with those of the dried Zusalzef of the Arabians, would cure the deadliest wound; 'tis a potent fruit, for it ripens in the sun, and the sun acts upon the heart, the source of life."
"I would fain see some of this wonderful fruit."
"I have one in my pouch—behold!"
"'S life! 'tis but a common prune!"
"The prune of the unlettered is the Zusalzef of Geber and Paracelsus; but farewell, Sir Adam, I go; and omit not to continue the potion and the Unguentum Armarium."