Basil saw, and in a moment he had rushed into the burning dwelling. He gained the room, and with a wild cry of joy, Isilda sprung into his arms. Without a word, he bore her, insensible as she was, through the smoke and flame, to a spot where the fire had not reached. Farther he could not go, for his strength failed him. He laid his burden down, and leaned against the wall. “I might not live for thee, Isilda,” cried the student, “but I can die for thee. Yet is there no help,——no hope? Where are the spirits that were once subject unto me? And thou, my guardian,——spirit of fire!——is this thy work? Where art thou?” “I am here!” answered a voice; and the Salamandrine appeared. The flames drew nearer, and Basil saw myriads of aerial shapes flitting among them in mazy wreaths. They came nigh,——they hovered over his mortal love,——their robes of seeming flame swept her form. “Touch her not!” shrieked the student, as he bent over Isilda, his human fear overpowering him. “The good and pure like her are ever safe,” replied the Salamandrine. “We harm her not.” And she breathed over the maiden, who awoke. “O my Basil!” murmured the girl, “is death then past? Thou didst come to save me,——thou lovest me,——thou art mine again!” And she stretched out to him her loving arms; but Basil turned away. “Hush!” he said, “dost thou not see them,——the spirits?” Isilda looked round fearfully. “I see nothing,——only thee.” The student’s eyes flashed with insanity. “See!” he cried, “they fill the air, they gather round us, they come between thee and me. Now,——now their forms grow fainter,——they are vanishing,——it is thou, woman! who art driving them from my sight forever. Stay, glorious beings, stay! I give up all,——even her.” “Nothing shall part me from thee!” shrieked the girl, as she clung to her lover, and wound her arms round him. “No power in heaven or earth shall tear us asunder,——thou art mine, Basil,——let me live for thee,——die for thee.” “Thou shalt have thy desire!” the student cried, as he struggled in her frantic clasp. There was the gleam of steel,——one faint, bubbling sigh,——the arms relaxed their hold, and Basil was alone,——with the dead! The fire stayed in its dire path, and a wailing sound rose as the spirits fled away. Heaven and earth had alike forsaken the murderer. He knelt beside his victim; he wept, he laughed, he screamed; for madness was in his brain. “I may clasp thee now, Isilda,” he shouted, “thou art all my own!” And he strained the cold, still form to his breast, kissing the lips and cheeks with passionate vehemence. “I will make thee a pyre,——a noble funereal pyre,” he continued; “I will purify this mortal clay, and thou shalt become a spirit, Isilda,——a beautiful, immortal spirit.”