Sage, and now called on the magician, in whose art was his last hope, to reprieve him from the--grave. He turned round to Sir Philip, when the latter entered the room, and exclaimed in English, “I am here because you are. Your intimacy with this man was known to me. I took your character as the guarantee of his own. Tell me that I am no credulous dupe. Tell him that I, Louis Grayle, am no needy petitioner. Tell me of his wisdom; assure him of my wealth.” Sir Philip looked inquiringly at Haroun, who remained seated on his carpet in profound silence. “What is it you ask of Haroun?” “To live on--to live on! For every year of life he can give me, I will load these floors with gold.” “Gold will not tempt Haroun.” “What will?” “Ask him yourself; you speak his language.” “I have asked him; he vouchsafes me no answer.” Haroun here suddenly roused himself as from a revery. He drew from under his robe a small phial, from which he let fall a single drop into a cup of water, and said, “Drink this; send to me tomorrow for such medicaments as I may prescribe. Return hither yourself in three days; not before!” When Grayle was gone, Sir Philip, moved to pity, asked Haroun if, indeed, it were within the compass of his art to preserve life in a frame that appeared so thoroughly exhausted. Haroun answered, “A fever may so waste the lamp of life that one ruder gust of air could extinguish the flame, yet the sick man recovers. This sick man’s existence has been one long fever; this sick man can recover.” “You will aid him to do so?” “Three days hence I will tell you.” On the third day Grayle revisited Haroun, and, at Haroun’s request, Sir Philip came also. Grayle declared that he had already derived unspeakable relief from the remedies administered; he was lavish in expressions of gratitude; pressed large gifts on Haroun, and seemed pained when they were refused. This time Haroun conversed freely, drawing forth Grayle’s own irregular, perverted, stormy, but powerful intellect. I can best convey the general nature of Grayle’s share in the dialogue between himself, Haroun, and Derval--recorded in the narrative in words which I cannot trust my memory to repeat in detail--by stating the effect it produced on my own mind. It seemed, while I read, as if there passed before me some convulsion of Nature,--a storm, an earthquake,--outcries of rage, of scorn, of despair, a despot’s vehemence of will, a rebel’s scoff at authority; yet, ever and anon, some swell of lofty thought, some burst of passionate genius,--abrupt variations from the vaunt of superb defiance to the wail of intense remorse.