At the sound of the knock the magician swept out of the room, once more reminding the young man of a spider when some lost thing touches his web. And, left alone in the room that was sacred to magic, Ramon Alonzo again considered his dark master, whom he regarded henceforth as his opponent, from whom the charwoman’s shadow must yet be won. The Master was keeping to his bargain, thought Ramon Alonzo, and it was a hard bargain, and in the matter of the false shadow a sly one, and the Master knew that he had found this out.
Suddenly his eye fell on the great book, and he left his speculations; which, considering the depths to which the magician’s character ran, had gone but a little way; and he rose up, led by a more practical thought, and turned the Cathayan pages, and came again to the three great syllables of the spell that opened the box. Alas that they were in Chinese.
A swift idea came to him. The padlock knew Chinese, for he had seen it open. He seized the book and carried it to the shadow-box and, leaning over a crocodile, showed the open page to the padlock, holding it still before it; and the padlock never stirred. He rose up then from the dust and gloom and replaced the book on the lectern, and only just in time, for the steps of the magician came resounding back to the door and he came again to his room that was sacred to magic. He gave one scornful glance at the book on the lectern, knowing it had been moved; and in the scorn of that look Ramon Alonzo’s disappointment grew, for he saw not only that he had failed but that the attempt had been hopeless.
“A yokel is at the door of the forest,” he said. “He has a message to you that the oaf will give only to you.”
Ramon Alonzo went in silence, still heavy with failure, and came to the door to the wood. And there outside was Peter, who had knocked on the old green door and had then run back a little way into the wood. Thence he had spoken with the magician. And now to the door that he dreaded, while his fears expected anything that they were able to guess, there came his young master.
“Young master,” cried Peter, “young master. I have brought you a letter from Donna Mirandola. And does he treat you well? Does he feed you well? You’ll be very learned now, master. The big boarhound is eating well.”
“Is he strong?” asked Ramon Alonzo.
“As strong as ever,” said Peter.
“Now the Saints be praised,” said Ramon Alonzo, reverting to an old way of speech that he did not use in that house.
“Here is the letter, master,” said Peter, drawing it out from his cloak. “But, master, there is a word with blots upon it; that word should be ‘love-potion,’ and not the word that is writ under the blots.”
“Love-potion,” repeated Ramon Alonzo.
“Aye, master; and not the word under the blots. Donna Mirandola bid me say it.”
“That is well,” said Ramon Alonzo.
The letter was written in the same clear hand as the one that had come from his father, and was short, as the young man saw with joy, for he wished to read not too slowly before Peter, and fast he could not go.
It said: “To Don Ramon Alonzo. Do not send gold, but send me a prayerbook. Your loving sister, Mirandola.”
Over the word “prayerbook” were the marks of small fingers that had been dipped in ink.
“Say I will send that prayerbook,” said Ramon Alonzo.
“Aye master,” said Peter, “and is there any more?”
“Feed the big boarhound well,” said Ramon Alonzo.
“Aye, indeed, master,” said Peter.
“Farewell.”
“Farewell, young master, farewell. Please God we’ll hunt boars in the winter.”
And Peter turned slowly away and walked a few paces slowly, then faster and faster till he got away from the wood.
Ramon Alonzo pondered bitterly: he had sold his shadow for gold, and now gold was not needed.
He had not yet learned the whole art of transmutation. Would the magician give back his shadow?
And Mirandola must have her love-potion, and the charwoman have her shadow out of the box. He had much to do if his plans were to come to fruition.
Back he went to the gloomy room that was sacred to magic. “I have no need of gold,” he said.
“It is a worthless metal,” replied the magician. “The philosophers sought it for the interest they took in rearranging the element. But the stuff itself was nought to them. They buried it where I have said, and have often warned man of its worthlessness; in testimony whereof their writings remain to this day.”
“I would learn no more of it,” said Ramon Alonzo.
“No?” said the magician.
“I pray you therefore give back my shadow,” he said.
“But it is my fee,” said the magician.
“I would learn other things,” said the young man, “for other fees. But this fee I pray you return.”
“Alas,” said the magician, “you have learned much already.”
“Of this matter nothing,” said Ramon Alonzo.
“Alas, yes,” replied the magician. “For you have learned the oneness of matter, and that there is but one element. And this is a great secret to the vulgar, who believe there are four. And doubtless they will, in their error, discover even more than these four before ever they come to learn that there is but one, which you have learnt already, and this is my fee for it.” And he stooped and rapped the shadow-box somewhat sharply.
“You gave me a shadow to wear
