“Yes,” acknowledged old Tomaso thoughtfully, “I knew Archiater of Byzantium very well at one time,—and yet no one ever really knew much about him. He was more than a clever alchemist,—he was a discoverer of secrets, and a good man. But for all that, he was condemned and executed as a wizard.”

Alan of York said nothing for a minute, but his fist clenched where it lay on the table. “How could such a thing happen?” he said at last in a low voice.

“Naturally enough, when wisdom must ever contend against the whelming force of folly. But there is something worse—the will of a ruler seeking to enslave knowledge to his own purpose. A madman with ideals is bad enough, but Barbarossa's son is a diabolically sane person without any. A man is not called 'the Cruel' without reason.”

“But what object—” Alan began, and paused.

“Archiater the physician, as I knew him, would have been rather worse than useless to that prince as I have heard of him,” answered the Paduan deliberately. “Such a patron demands creatures who do as they are told,—which is not the duty of a philosopher. The easiest way to dispose of a man who knows too much is to dub him a wizard. But, of course, all this is merely guessing in the dark.

“The little that I do know is this. When we had been acquainted for about three years he told me that he had been offered the use of a house in Goslar in which he might carry on his experiments privately. The chief inducement, for him, lay in the nature of the country, which is very rich in minerals, and he decided to leave Padua in the hope of making important discoveries in this new field. He went first to Hildesheim and developed a formula for making bronze which is said to be extraordinary, and then began exploring the Harz mountains. He sent me some of the ores he found; it appears that there is nearly everything in those ranges. I heard no more until the news came, in a roundabout way, that he was dead and his ashes cast to the four winds. His writings were supposed to have been burned at the same time, but not all of them were, for three manuscripts at least must have gone to make up the fragments we found among our bezants. I wish for your sake, Alan, my son, that I could tell you more, for I know of no man who would gain more by Archiater's work than you. If he had been your master I think you might have rivaled the Venetians.”

Alan was not vain, and he never dreamed that Tomaso thought so highly of his ability. In the Middle Ages the secrets of such arts as glass-making, enameling, leather work, gold and silver work, and the making of dyestuffs, were most jealously guarded. Alan had had two fortunate accidents in his life; he had been taught in the beginning by a master-artist, and later had come upon writings by a still greater genius, the Byzantine philosopher of whom Tomaso had been speaking.

From the first glimpse he had had of the crabbed, clear handwriting, the terse phrases, the daring and independent thought of Archiater, he had been fascinated. Now he had set out to cross the narrow seas and find out what, if anything, remained of the master's life-work.

“May there not have been some friend or pupil,” he asked wistfully, “who would have rescued his manuscripts?”

“In that case,” Tomaso replied with gentle finality, “I think some of us must have heard of it.”

“And yet,” Alan persisted, “some one had those parchments—some one who may have received them from Archiater himself.”

“Take care,” the old man said with a rather melancholy smile. “That a thing is possible and desirable, is no proof that it is true. To search for that man seems to me like hunting the forest for last year's leaves. But here come friends of yours.”

Guy Bouverel came springing up the stair, Giovanni and Padraig close behind him. When greetings had been exchanged, and Alan had told the others that he was in London only for a brief stay on his way to France, Tomaso addressed the young goldsmith.

“Guy,” he said, “did you ever ferret out anything more about those parchment scraps we found among the King's coin? You said that you should make some inquiries.”

“Bezants are bezants and tell no tales,” said Guy with a shrug. “And if they did, they might lie, like so many of those who love them. Why, you recall that I repacked that gold in my own chest because I thought one of the clerks was growing too fond of it. I took it as it lay and never looked at the parchments. I met the clerk one day in Chepe and questioned him. He said that the gold was a part of that the King recovered from the London Templars—you know, when he had to come with an armed guard to get his moneys that were stored in their house. Gregory of Hildesheim had something to do with it, for he was very wroth when he found that I had got this particular chest. But he could not have known what these scripts were or he would have kept them in a sealed packet under his own hand.”

“He could not have read most of them,” said Tomaso. “Archiater usually wrote his diaries in cipher. Who is this clerk?”

“Simon Gastard his name is. He was very anxious to leave England when last I saw him. He was at me to join in a scheme for digging gold out of the Harz mountains—Padraig, what are you grinning at?”

“Only to see how keen is your nose for a thief,” Padraig chuckled. “If Simon is after digging gold out of the ground with his hands 'tis the honestest plan he has had this long time. Simon thinks gold is what heaven is made of. He would look at the sunset and calculate what the gold would be worth in zecchins—he would. But why all this talk of the parchments?”

“Because I have a mind to see whether any more of Archiater's work is to be found,” said Alan quietly. “It may be a fool's errand, but I could not rest till I had made a beginning.”

Three faces looked astonished, sympathetic and interested. Alan had the hearty liking of his friends. They could depend upon him as on the market cross. But they would almost as soon have expected to see that cross set forth on pilgrimage as to find the quiet North Country glassmaker beginning any such weird journey as this.

Tomaso broke the little silence, leaning forward in his oaken chair, his finger-tips meeting. “We may as well sift what evidence we have,” he said. “If the manuscripts had been in the hands of any one who knew the cipher he must have done work so far beyond anything else in his craft that it would be heard of. Archiater never made use of half his discoveries—and he was always finding out secrets concerning the crafts. He knew things about glassmaking, enamel-work, dyestuffs, and medicine, that no one else did. He was occupied almost wholly with experiment and research. There are not two such men in a century.

“Giovanni, you are the only one of us who has been beyond the Rhine. Do you know any one there who might possibly aid in this search?”

The Lombard seldom talked unless he was directly addressed. “One man,” he said, “might know the truth.”

“Would he reply to a letter?”

Giovanni shook his head. “He does not write letters. If I could see him I would ask him, but the air of Goslar is not wholesome for me.” He looked at Alan curiously. “Do you think of going there?”

“Why not?” Alan returned.

“There are rather more than half a score of reasons why not,” said Giovanni, with a little mocking smile. “Do you speak many foreign languages?”

“Only French.”

“And the moment you opened your mouth they would know you for an Englishman. A foreign glassworker searching for the books of a reputed wizard who made the Hildesheim bronze they are so proud of. That would interest the Imperial spies.”

“Vanni,” said Alan, getting up, “I know well what a hare-brained undertaking this must seem to you. But if you see fit to give me any advice, I shall value it.”

The young men took their leave of Tomaso and followed the curving shore of the Thames eastward to the city. “Look you,” said Guy presently, “I have a plan—not a very shrewd one perhaps, but you shall judge of that. This clerk, Simon Gastard, knows the country and the language. If his story is true it may be worth looking into. I would not trust him alone with the value of a Scotch penny. But if you were to go with him as my proxy, you would have a chance of talking with this man Giovanni has in mind.”

Padraig sniffed. “And Simon would sell ye to the devil if he got his price. 'Tis pure rainbow-chasing, Alan—but I love ye for it.”

“Fools are safer than philosophers, in some parts of the world,” observed Giovanni dryly. “And they are commoner everywhere. I hear that the Templars are trying to find a tame wizard who can be kept in a tower to make gold.”

“Vanni,” said Guy demurely, “did you ever, in your travels, hear of any one making gold?”

“No,” said the Milanese, “but I have known of a score finding fool's gold, and that's the kind you come on at the end of the rainbow. Alan, if you are resolved on this thing, I will give you a token and a password to a man you can trust.”

At London Stone they separated, Giovanni turning toward London Bridge, Padraig wending his way to Saint Paul's, Guy and Alan making their way through clamorous narrow streets to the Sign of the Gold Finch.

“By Saint Loy,” said the goldsmith suddenly, “here comes the clerk himself. Gastard,” he beckoned to a little threadbare man edging along by the wall, “I have a question to ask about the matter you wot of.”

If Alan had heard nothing beforehand he would have taken the man for a fussy, inoffensive little scrivener who would never do more than he was bid—or less. But when they were seated in the private room above the shop, in which Guy kept some of the finest of his gold and silver work, Simon's restless eyes began to glitter, and he reminded Alan of a rat in the dairy.

Guy came at once to the point. Would Simon repeat his story for Alan's enlightenment? Simon would. He related how, when returning from pilgrimage, he had lost his way in the Harz valley and come upon a hermitage where a very old monk lay near death. In gratitude (Simon said) for services to him in his extremity, the hermit had revealed the secret of a rich mine of gold in the mountains. Simon had gone to the mine, secured nuggets of the precious metal, but most unfortunately had shown them to Gregory of Hildesheim, a Templar said to be wise in the arts of alchemy and metal-working. Gregory had seemed interested at first, but afterward had told him that the ore was not gold at all, but a cunning counterfeit devised by Satan. He had not even returned the specimens, but had railed upon Simon for trying to pass them off as gold. That night a heavy snowfall, the first of many, made it impossible to visit the mine again. Now that Gregory was in England Simon wished to go again and secure more of the gold secretly. It was scarcely possible to find the place without direction, but one man, Simon solemnly declared, could, with pick and shovel and leathern bag, bring away a fortune.

“It would be necessary,” said Guy, “to purify the gold so far as to make it into rude ingots, if it is, as you say, in the rocks and not in free lumps and particles washed down a stream. You need a companion who understands such work. Now, I cannot take up the matter myself, but my friend here knows enough of metals, though he is no goldsmith, to do that part of the work. Some sort of makeshift laboratory might be arranged for that. Then, if it is really a rich mine, we will see what can be done next. But you will understand that I cannot be expected to undertake any work involving great expense unless I have some other proof than you can give me now. If you will take my friend to this mine, so that he may secure ore enough to make his experiments, and I see the gold for myself, I will pay the cost of the expedition. More than this, it seems to me, you cannot expect.”

With this Simon effusively agreed. Alan had been watching Guy's face with interest during the interview. The Londoner's usual debonair manner had become the cool decision of a man with whom it is unsafe to deal slyly.

When Simon's back had vanished in the crowd of Chepe, Guy began rolling up papers and closing books. “That may save you some time and trouble,” he said, “if you can stomach his company. I do not believe, you know, that there is any gold in the ledges. Simon knows no more of the nature of metals than Saint Anthony's Pig.”

“What is the truth of the matter, do you think?” asked Alan.

“I thought at first that he had invented the whole story. But in that case he would hardly have agreed to my plan so eagerly. It is just possible, of course, that gold is there—it has been found in the Harz. He says that the stuff is not brittle, and can be hammered and cut, which does not sound like an iron ore. And his description of the rocks is too good to be his own fancy. Again, the ore may be 'fool's gold',—a mixture of copper and sulphur. In that case you will know it right enough when you come to the roasting of it. In any case I am interested enough in the tale to take a little trouble, and you and your private treasure-hunt happen to alloy very happily with my curiosity.”

“Guy,” said Alan, “you may laugh, but your aid means more to me than you know. If the clerk's tale is false you shall be repaid for your outlay.”

“Pshaw!” laughed Guy, “a copper mine is good enough to repay me. And then, I take a certain interest in the manuscripts you are after. After all, if you should find them it would be no stranger than those parchments coming to us as they did, through the very hands of both Gregory and Simon. That was a golden jest—but we must keep it hid for awhile. And now, what I know of metals and their ways is at your service.”

Behold Alan then, after no more than the usual adventures of a journey, busied with a small furnace in a small stone-floored room over an archway in the walled city of Goslar. It was a late spring and bitterly cold, and the heat of the fire was grateful. Simon had thus far put off taking his companion to see the mine, and Alan had been occupied with fitting up a place in which the ore should be tested when the time came.

Hearing the blare of trumpets, he craned his head out of window, and caught a glimpse of the imperial banner flaunting and snapping in the chill wind. He caught up cap and cloak and ran down the winding stone stairs, coming out upon the market-square just as the guards entered it. So close that Alan could have touched him, there went by a humped and twisted figure with a jester's bells and bauble—a man with a maliciously smiling mouth and wicked, observant, tired eyes. The white pointed beard and worn, lined face belonged to an older man than Alan had expected to see. The eyes met his for a second, he flung his cloak over the left shoulder with the gesture Giovanni had taught him, and a few minutes later an impudent small page pulled his sleeve and whispered that Master Stefano desired to see him.

The boy led him through ancient streets to the entrance of a tall house near the wall, and went off whistling. An old woman opened the door and showed him into a little ante-room where, the jester sat, perched upon the corner of a table. Alan bowed, and waited in silence.

“Very well,” said the jester with a laugh. “And now, since we are quite alone, why do you, an honest man, pretend to be the fellow of that rascally clerk?”

Alan always met an emergency coolly. “I did not know the country or the language,” he said, “and I took this way of reaching Goslar in the hope of learning the truth about one Archiater of Byzantium.”

The jester's high cackling laughter broke in. “Truth from a fool!” he shrilled. “Oh, the wisdom of those who are not fools is past understanding! Why do you rake those ashes?”

“I have read some of his writings,” Alan went on undisturbed, “and if there should be more—anywhere—I would risk much for the sake of them.”

Stefano shook his head mockingly, and the bells mocked with him. “You English are mad after gold. They say here that Archiater sold his soul for his knowledge.”

“That is child's prattle,” said the young man a little impatiently. “Gold is all very well, but a man's life is in his work, not his wages. If you can tell me nothing of what I seek, I will not trouble you.”

The fool clasped one knee in his long crooked white fingers. “You have no wife, I take it.”

“I have not thought about it. But that has nothing to do with secrets of the laboratory.”

“Heh-heh! Little you know of women. They have everything to do with a secret. But suppose the manuscrips are worthless?”

“That is not possible,” Alan returned. “The lightest memorandum of such a man has value. It is like a finger-post pointing to treasure. There are writings, then?”

“I said nothing of the sort,” retorted Stefano. “I know all about your search for treasure. Your clerk is digging the hills up this very day for fool's gold. It has the look of gold—yes—but it is copper and brimstone mixed in Satan's crucible—fool's gold and no more. Neither you nor he will get any true gold out of that mine.”

“I tell you,” said Alan in sharp earnest, “that I came here with him for convenience, not for treasure. A friend to whom I owe much desired to know whether the clerk's story were true or false. For myself I seek only to know what remains of the work of Archiater, because he was a master whose work should not be lost. There must be those—somewhere—who could go on with it,—if we but knew.”

“Aye,” chuckled the jester, “if we but knew!” Then leaning forward he caught Alan by the shoulder. “Listen, you young chaser of dreams—what would you give to see what Archiater left? Eh? Would you guard the secret with your life? Eh? They burned the books in the public square—yes—but if there was something that was not a book, what would you do for a sight of that?”

Alan's heart was pounding with excitement, but his face was unmoved. “I am not good at fencing, Master Stefano. I have been frank with you because I am assured that you are to be trusted, and I think that you trust me or you would not thus play with me. When you are ready to ask a pledge,—ask it.”

“Well and straightly spoken,” nodded the jester. “If I reveal to you what I know of this philosopher and his work, you shall pledge yourself to betray nothing, to say nothing—not so much as a hint that I knew him—whether I am alive or dead.”

Now and then in his life Alan had acted from pure blind instinct. This was the blindest, blackest place it had ever led him to. He did not hesitate. “I promise,” he said.

“Very good,” said the jester, and drummed thoughtfully upon the table. “We will begin with matters which are not bound up in your promise—for they concern your friend who desires to sift out the clerk's tale about his mine. This is the true story. Archiater found many metals and minerals in these hills, and made some of his experiments in the ruins of an old pagan temple close to the spot where he discovered a vein of copper. He was half a winter trying out what he found, from arsenic to zircon. Simon watched him by stealth, tracked him like a beagle, and finally went to one high in authority with the report that he was making secret poisons. This would have been no crime had the poisons been available for practical use. As it was, they felt it safest to have Archiater seized when he came back to the city, and tried as a wizard.

“They ransacked his house and got his books, of course, but Simon had stolen some stray manuscripts he found in the old ruin and sold them. Nothing, however, was gained by the person who paid the money, because the writings were partly in cipher, and the key to the cipher had been burned in the public square.”

“Then the Templars may still have the manuscripts,” mused Alan disconsolately.

“Maybe,” the fool said with a little laugh, “but I said there might be something that was not a manuscript. Come you with me.”

Taking a rushlight from a shelf the jester toiled slowly up two flights of winding stairs, and then a short, straight flight of wooden steps,—opened a door, and stood aside to let Alan pass. The young man paused on the threshold in silent wonder.

The room within was not large, but it glowed from floor to ceiling like some rare work in mosaic or Limoges enamel. The walls were hung with such tapestries as Alan had seen on rare holidays in a cathedral, or in the palace of duke or bishop. They were covered with needlework of silk in all the colors of the rainbow, wrought into graceful interwoven garlands and figures. The cushions of chair and settle, the panels of a screen, the curtains of the latticed windows, displayed still more of this marvelous embroidery, subtly contrasted and harmonized with the coloring of a rich Persian rug upon the floor. The heart of all this glowing, exquisite beauty was a young girl in straight-hanging robes of fine silk and wool, her gleaming bronze hair falling free over her shoulders from a gold fillet, her deep eyes meeting the stranger's with the sweet frankness of a sheltered, beloved child.

The jester bowed low, his gay fantastic cap in hand, all his fleering, mocking manner changed to a gentle deference.

“Josian, my dear,” he said, “this is the young man of whom I sent you word. He has traveled many weary miles to see and speak with Archiater's daughter.”

TO JOSIAN FROM PRISON

To Josian my daughter and sole heiress.