[Footnote 8:  Amphitheatre of the Eternal Wisdom.]

The student had a high veneration for the fathers of alchymy, and a profound respect for his instructor; but what was Henry Kuhnrade, Geber, Lully, or even Albertus Magnus himself, compared to the countenance of Inez, which presented such a page of beauty to his perusal?  While, therefore, the good alchymist was doling out knowledge by the hour, his disciple would forget books, alchymy, every thing but the lovely object before him.  Inez, too, unpractised in the science of the heart, was gradually becoming fascinated by the silent attentions of her lover.  Day by day, she seemed more and more perplexed by the kindling and strangely pleasing emotions of her bosom.  Her eye was often cast down in thought.  Blushes stole to her cheek without any apparent cause, and light, half-suppressed sighs would follow these short fits of musing.  Her little ballads, though the same that she had always sung, yet breathed a more tender spirit.  Either the tones of her voice were more soft and touching, or some passages were delivered with a feeling she had never before given them.  Antonio, beside his love for the abstruse sciences, had a pretty turn for music; and never did philosopher touch the guitar more tastefully.  As, by degrees, he conquered the mutual embarrassment that kept them asunder, he ventured to accompany Inez in some of her songs.  He had a voice full of fire and tenderness:  as he sang, one would have thought, from the kindling blushes of his companion, that he had been pleading his own passion in her ear.  Let those who would keep two youthful hearts asunder, beware of music.  Oh! this leaning over chairs, and conning the same music-book, and entwining of voices, and melting away in harmonies!—­the German waltz is nothing to it.

The worthy alchymist saw nothing of all this.  His mind could admit of no idea that was not connected with the discovery of the grand arcanum, and he supposed his youthful coadjutor equally devoted.  He was a mere child as to human nature; and, as to the passion of love, whatever he might once have felt of it, he had long since forgotten that there was such an idle passion in existence.  But, while he dreamed, the silent amour went on.  The very quiet and seclusion of the place were favourable to the growth of romantic passion.  The opening bud of love was able to put forth leaf by leaf, without an adverse wind to check its growth.  There was neither officious friendship to chill by its advice, nor insidious envy to wither by its sneers, nor an observing world to look on and stare it out of countenance.  There was neither declaration, nor vow, nor any other form of Cupid’s canting school.  Their hearts mingled together, and understood each other without the aid of language.  They lapsed into the full current of affection, unconscious of its depth, and thoughtless of the rocks that might lurk beneath its surface.  Happy lovers! who wanted nothing to make their felicity complete, but the discovery of the philosopher’s stone!