“Thy predecessor?”

“He who had last made the attempt before me.  Upon any one’s penetrating the Valley of Purple, as it is termed, with the design I have indicated, the inhabitants, observant of the precepts of their ancestors, append him to a cross by the feet only, confining his arms by ropes at the shoulders, and setting vessels of cooling drink within his grasp.  If, overcome with thirst, he partakes of the beverage, they leave him to expire at leisure; if he endures for three days, he is permitted to depart with the object of his quest.  My predecessor, belonging, as I conjecture, to the Epicurean persuasion, and consequently unable to resist the allurements of sense, had perished in the manner aforesaid.  I, a Stoic, refrained and attained.”

“Thou didst bear away the tincture? thou hast it now?” impetuously interrogated the Persian.

“Behold it!” replied the Greek, exhibiting a small flask filled with the most gorgeous purple liquid.  “What seest thou here?” demanded he triumphantly, holding it up to the light.  “To me this vial displays the University of Athens, and throngs of fair youths hearkening to the discourse of one who resembles myself.”

“To my vision,” responded the Persian, peering at the vial, “it rather reveals a palace, and a dress of honour.  But suffer me to contemplate it more closely, for my eyes have waxed dim by over application to study.”

So saying, he snatched the flask from Sorianus, and immediately turned to fly.  The Greek sprang after his treasure, and failing to grasp Marcobad’s wrist, seized his beard, plucking the hair out by handfuls.  The infuriated Persian smote him on the head with the crystal flagon.  It burst into shivers, and the priceless contents gushed forth in a torrent over the uncovered head and uplifted visage of Sorianus, bathing every hair and feature with the most vivid purple.

The aghast and thunderstricken philosophers remained gazing at each other for a moment.

“It is indelible!” cried Sorianus in distraction, rushing down, however, to the brink of the little stream, and plunging his head beneath the waters.  They carried away a cloud of purple, but left the purple head stained as before.

The philosopher, as he upraised his glowing and dripping countenance from the brook, resembled Silenus emerging from one of the rivers which Bacchus metamorphosed into wine during his campaign in India.  He resorted to attrition and contrition, to maceration and laceration; he tried friction with leaves, with grass, with sedge, with his garments; he regarded himself in one crystal pool after another, a grotesque anti-Narcissus.  At last he flung himself on the earth, and gave free course to his anguish.

The grace of repentance is rarely denied us when our misdeeds have proved unprofitable.  Marcobad awkwardly approached.

“Brother,” he whispered, “I will restore the tincture of which I have deprived thee, and add thereto an antidote, if such may be found.  Await my return under this camphor tree.”