“Magic!” exclaimed the Franciscan; “pshaw, fool that thou art, thinkest thou that thou canst impose upon me as thou dost on the common herd of mankind?—on one who hath dived into the arcana of nature as I have done? Thinkest thou that an active mind like mine hath not searched through all the books of these divinals—hath not toiled by the midnight lamp, and worked with their uncouth and horrible charms and incantations? Thinkest thou——”
“Hast thou so, brother?” exclaimed the Ancient, eagerly interrupting him; “hast thou in truth studied so deeply?” Then throwing his body earnestly forward, “Perhaps thou wilt clear up some small difficulties that have arisen in my path towards perfection in the invaluable art.”
The Franciscan paused. He saw at once that he had so far mistaken his man. The Ancient, whilst engaged in deceiving others, had also succeeded in deceiving himself, and was in truth a believer in the art he professed. To undertake the barren [[51]]task of convincing him of his error was foreign to the Franciscan’s present purpose; and seeing that Fenwick, in his eagerness for an accession to his knowledge of magic, had mistaken the contemptuous expressions he had thrown out against it for the approbation and eulogy of an adept, he deemed it best to permit him to continue in his mistake, nay, rather to foster it. He therefore commenced a long and very mystical disquisition on necromancy, answering all his questions, and solving all his doubts, but in such a manner, that although Fenwick, at the moment, firmly believed they were solved, yet, when he afterwards came to look back into his mind, he could find nothing there but a vast chaos of smoke and ashes, from which he in vain tried to extract anything tangible or systematic.
But this is not to our point. The Franciscan gained all he wanted, in acquiring a certain ascendancy over his mind by pretended superiority of knowledge—an ascendancy which he afterwards hoped to bring to bear towards the object of his mission; and to this object he gradually led the Ancient back from the wide waste of enchantment he had been wandering over.
“Thou art indeed much more learned in the sublime art than I did at first suppose thee,” said the Franciscan at length, gravely; “thy study hath been well directed; and now that I have poured the mere drop of knowledge I possessed into the vast ocean flowing in thy capacious head, thou art well fit to be my master. Some of those ingredients I talked of are of high price; thou must buy them with gold.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Fenwick; “but where shall I find gold to buy them withal?”
The Franciscan groped in the canvas pouch that hung at his girdle of ropes, and, drawing forth a leathern bag, with a weight of broad gold pieces in it, he threw it down on the floor between the Ancient’s knees.
“There!” said he; “Sir Rafe Piersie sends thee that; ’tis to secure thee as his friend. Use thine art magic in his favour, to incline the haughty damosel to his wishes. Thou mayest do much with her father. ’Tis well known that the old knight looketh with awe upon thy powers. Thou art thyself aware that thou canst bend him as thou wilt; he doth hold thee as his oracle. Work upon his fears, then; work upon him, I say, to compel this marriage—a marriage the which is so well calculated to gratify his desire of high family alliance. He is ignorant that thou knowest of the negotiation; to find that thou dost, when he supposes that it is only known to the chief parties, will increase his veneration for thy skill. Exert thy [[52]]power over him; he is weak, and thou mayest easily make him thy slave. Stimulate him to firmness, to severity, nay, if necessary, to harshness with his daughter. Thou knowest ’tis for his happiness, as well as for the happiness of the silly damosel, that she should be coarted. Then do thy best to screw him up to the pitch of determination that may secure her yielding. I leave it to thyself to find out what schemes and arguments thou must employ. The world lies if thou canst not invent enow to make him do as thou wouldst have him. Remember, the Piersie is thy friend, as thou mayst do him proper service. There are more bags of broad pieces in the same treasury that came from. And now I leave thee to the hatching of thy plans. Let them be quickly concerted, and speedily put in execution, for your Piersie never was famous for patience. Farewell, and may powerful spirits aid thee!”
The Franciscan gathered up his grey gown, drew his cowl over his face, and, creeping on hands and knees to the door, disappeared in a moment.
The Ancient remained for some minutes in stupid astonishment, with his back against his corner, and his vast length of limbs stretched across the floor. He almost doubted the reality of the vision that had appeared to him. He drew up his knees to his mouth, and the leathern bag appeared. He thought of the Devil as he seized it; and, as he poured the glittering gold into his broad palm, he almost expected to see the pieces change into dried leaves, cinders, slates, or some such rubbish. Twice or thrice the thought recurred that it might have been the Great Tempter himself who had visited him. The hour—the place—the difficulty of anything mortal reaching him there, through all the intricacies of a well-watched garrison—the great knowledge displayed by the unknown—all contributed to support the idea that his visitor was something more than man. Then, on the other hand, he remembered the friar’s bare feet, that were certainly human. He again looked at the broad pieces of gold; they were bright, and fresh, and heavy as he poised them. His confidence that they were genuine became stronger, and he slipped them into the bag, and the bag into an inner pocket of his black jerkin, resolving that they should be the test of the reality of the seeming friar.