“He was,” replied his friend; “but things have changed, and now he is like to invoke thy aid.  He will help us to have our revenge, maybe, for I have been persuading him; he is very bitter now against the Vernons, and will make thee a good accomplice.”

“Revenge,” murmured Edmund, “ha! revenge is sweet.  The baron shall be punished; my machine—­”

“Never mind the machine now,” broke in Sir Ronald, who was by no means anxious to listen to the well-worn rigmarole again.  “You can show that to him, and tell him all about it.  I shall bring him down, for he knows not the way.”

“Well, I will yield to thee; do as you list,” he replied, and the man of science turned his back abruptly upon his friend, and vigorously stirred the seething liquid which was beginning to boil over upon the fire.

In a few minutes Manners appeared, but Sir Ronald Bury had brought him purposely with so little noise that the alchemyst was not aware of his presence, and for a long time they stood in the doorway, and watched his movements.

He was talking to himself, as he often did.  It was a habit into which he had unconsciously fallen.  He had persuaded himself to think that the great posterity for which he laboured so hard could hear him, and in his isolation the reflection was a great consolation to him.

“Ha, ha,” he muttered, “thou hast had thy little day, Sir George Vernon.  ‘King of the Peak,’ indeed—­thy reign is o’er.  And Margaret, proud Margaret, and the haughty Lady Maude, aha!  You shall all tremble at my name.”

“Hist, move thee not,” whispered Sir Ronald, “he is, about to test his engine again; it blows off sparks of fire as if it were the smithy’s forge, but without the noise.  I have seen him perform with it often.  Hark.”

Edmund had brought out his engine from a deep recess in the wall, and a rough, unsightly piece of mechanism it was.  It was intended to be square, but constant testings and trials had caused it to assume more the appearance of an octagon, and as the sides had thus bulged out, the bands which had held the instrument together became loosened and untrustworthy.

Edmund surveyed it affectionately.  It was the offspring of his genius, and he blindly disregarded all its little imperfections amid the great love he bore towards it.

“Aha,” he murmured, “thou art done, thou art ready now.  Thou art an angel of death, and thou”—­turning to his elixir—­“thou art an angel of life.”

“Mix them up, Nathan, mix them up,” gaily exclaimed Manners as he stepped into the room.  “We will give the Vernons a dose.”

Edmund was startled, and he hastily retreated to his engine to protect it.

“Avaunt!” he cried, “touch it not.”

“Nay, I want not to injure it,” returned the other, whose smile contrasted with the alchemyst’s scowl.  “Shake hands, man; I will do thee no harm.”

“Beware,” cried Edmund, distrustfully, as he covered over the angel.  “Beware!”