“For the devil, who brewed it!” answered Foster; and, turning on his heel, he left the chamber.

Janet looked at her mistress with a countenance expressive in the highest degree of shame, dismay, and sorrow.

“Do not weep for me, Janet,” said the Countess kindly.

“No, madam,” replied her attendant, in a voice broken by sobs, “it is not for you I weep; it is for myself—­it is for that unhappy man.  Those who are dishonoured before man—­those who are condemned by God—­have cause to mourn; not those who are innocent!  Farewell, madam!” she said hastily assuming the mantle in which she was wont to go abroad.

“Do you leave me, Janet?” said her mistress—­“desert me in such an evil strait?”

“Desert you, madam!” exclaimed Janet; and running back to her mistress, she imprinted a thousand kisses on her hand—­“desert you I—­may the Hope of my trust desert me when I do so!  No, madam; well you said the God you serve will open you a path for deliverance.  There is a way of escape.  I have prayed night and day for light, that I might see how to act betwixt my duty to yonder unhappy man and that which I owe to you.  Sternly and fearfully that light has now dawned, and I must not shut the door which God opens.  Ask me no more.  I will return in brief space.”

So speaking, she wrapped herself in her mantle, and saying to the old woman whom she passed in the outer room that she was going to evening prayer, she left the house.

Meanwhile her father had reached once more the laboratory, where he found the accomplices of his intended guilt.  “Has the sweet bird sipped?” said Varney, with half a smile; while the astrologer put the same question with his eyes, but spoke not a word.

“She has not, nor she shall not from my hands,” replied Foster; “would you have me do murder in my daughter’s presence?”

“Wert thou not told, thou sullen and yet faint-hearted slave,” answered Varney, with bitterness, “that no murder as thou callest it, with that staring look and stammering tone, is designed in the matter?  Wert thou not told that a brief illness, such as woman puts on in very wantonness, that she may wear her night-gear at noon, and lie on a settle when she should mind her domestic business, is all here aimed at?  Here is a learned man will swear it to thee by the key of the Castle of Wisdom.”

“I swear it,” said Alasco, “that the elixir thou hast there in the flask will not prejudice life!  I swear it by that immortal and indestructible quintessence of gold, which pervades every substance in nature, though its secret existence can be traced by him only to whom Trismegistus renders the key of the Cabala.”

“An oath of force,” said Varney.  “Foster, thou wert worse than a pagan to disbelieve it.  Believe me, moreover, who swear by nothing but by my own word, that if you be not conformable, there is no hope, no, not a glimpse of hope, that this thy leasehold may be transmuted into a copyhold.  Thus, Alasco will leave your pewter artillery untransmigrated, and I, honest Anthony, will still have thee for my tenant.”