The chamber of trial was spacious and gloomy.  At one end was a huge crucifix, the standard of the inquisition.  A long table extended through the centre of the room, at which sat the inquisitors and their secretary; at the other end, a stool was placed for the prisoner.

He was brought in, according to custom, bare-headed and bare-legged.  He was enfeebled by confinement and affliction; by constantly brooding over the unknown fate of his child, and the disastrous interruption of his experiments.  He sat bowed down and listless; his head sunk upon his breast; his whole appearance that of one “past hope, abandoned, and by himself given over.”

The accusation alleged against him was now brought forward in a specific form; he was called upon by name, Felix de Vasquez, formerly of Castile, to answer to the charges of necromancy and demonology.  He was told that the charges were amply substantiated; and was asked whether he was ready, by full confession, to throw himself upon the well-known mercy of the holy inquisition.

The philosopher testified some slight surprise at the nature of the accusation, but simply replied, “I am innocent.”

“What proof have you to give of your innocence?”

“It rather remains for you to prove your charges,” said the old man.  “I am a stranger and a sojourner in the land, and know no one out of the doors of my dwelling.  I can give nothing in my vindication but the word of a nobleman and a Castilian.”

The inquisitor shook his head, and went on to repeat the various inquiries that had before been made as to his mode of life and pursuits.  The poor alchymist was too feeble and too weary at heart to make any but brief replies.  He requested that some man of science might examine his laboratory, and all his books and papers, by which it would be made abundantly evident that he was merely engaged in the study of alchymy.

To this the inquisitor observed, that alchymy had become a mere covert for secret and deadly sins.  That the practisers of it were apt to scruple at no means to satisfy their inordinate greediness of gold.  Some had been known to use spells and impious ceremonies; to conjure the aid of evil spirits; nay, even to sell their souls to the enemy of mankind, so that they might riot in boundless wealth while living.

The poor alchymist had heard all patiently, or, at least, passively.  He had disdained to vindicate his name otherwise than by his word; he had smiled at the accusations of sorcery, when applied merely to himself; but when the sublime art, which had been the study and passion of his life, was assailed, he could no longer listen in silence.  His head gradually rose from his bosom; a hectic colour came in faint streaks to his cheek; played about there, disappeared, returned, and at length kindled into a burning glow.  The clammy dampness dried from his forehead; his eyes, which had nearly been extinguished, lighted up again,