“I have heard thy conversation,” she said, “and I am ready to give my life for my father’s welfare. Tell me what I must do and I will slay me with mine own hand.”
With covetous glance the pilgrim advanced and strove to take her hand, but she shrank back in loathing.
“Touch me not,” she said, shuddering.
A look of malice overspread the pilgrim’s averted face.
“Come hither at midnight, and at sunrise thy father will be rich and honoured,” he said.
“Wilt thou swear it on the cross?”
“I swear it,” he returned, drawing a little crucifix from his bosom, and speaking in solemn tones.
“Very well, I promise.” And with that she withdrew.
When she had gone the alchemist pressed a spring in the crucifix, when a dagger fell out.
“Thou hast served me well,” he said, chuckling. Then, replacing the crucifix in his breast, he entered the adjoining room, prised up a stone from the floor, and drew forth a leathern bag full of gold. This, then, was the crucible into which the Archbishop’s pieces had gone. “I have found the secret of making gold,” pursued the pilgrim. “To-morrow my wealth and I will be far away in safety. The fools, to seek gold in a crucible!”