’Yet the man who could write that was in many ways a mere buffoon, who praised his wares with the vulgar glibness of a quack.  He was vain and ostentatious, intemperate and boastful.  Listen: 

’After me, O Avicenna, Galen, Rhases and Montagnana!  After me, not I after you, ye men of Paris, Montpellier, Meissen, and Cologne; all you that come from the countries along the Danube and the Rhine, and you that come from the islands of the sea.  It is not for me to follow you, because mine is the lordship.  The time will come when none of you shall remain in his dark corner who will not be an object of contempt to the world, because I shall be the King, and the Monarchy will be mine.’

Dr Porhoet closed the book.

’Did you ever hear such gibberish in your life?  Yet he did a bold thing.  He wrote in German instead of in Latin, and so, by weakening the old belief in authority, brought about the beginning of free thought in science.  He continued to travel from place to place, followed by a crowd of disciples, some times attracted to a wealthy city by hope of gain, sometimes journeying to a petty court at the invitation of a prince.  His folly and the malice of his rivals prevented him from remaining anywhere for long.  He wrought many wonderful cures.  The physicians of Nuremberg denounced him as a quack, a charlatan, and an impostor.  To refute them he asked the city council to put under his care patients that had been pronounced incurable.  They sent him several cases of elephantiasis, and he cured them:  testimonials to that effect may still be found in the archives of Nuremberg.  He died as the result of a tavern brawl and was buried at Salzburg.  Tradition says that, his astral body having already during physical existence become self-conscious, he is now a living adept, residing with others of his sort in a certain place in Asia.  From there he still influences the minds of his followers and at times even appears to them in visible and tangible substance.’

‘But look here,’ said Arthur, ’didn’t Paracelsus, like most of these old fellows, in the course of his researches make any practical discoveries?’

‘I prefer those which were not practical,’ confessed the doctor, with a smile.  ’Consider for example the Tinctura Physicorum, which neither Pope nor Emperor could buy with all his wealth.  It was one of the greatest alchemical mysteries, and, though mentioned under the name of The Red Lion in many occult works, was actually known to few before Paracelsus, except Hermes Trismegistus and Albertus Magnus.  Its preparation was extremely difficult, for the presence was needed of two perfectly harmonious persons whose skill was equal.  It was said to be a red ethereal fluid.  The least wonderful of its many properties was its power to transmute all inferior metals into gold.  There is an old church in the south of Bavaria where the tincture is said to be still buried in the ground.  In