by those who put their whole faith in the
Great Elixir.

But there never yet was an adept in any
art or science who freely communicated to
his pupil the full amount of his own
knowledge; something for experience to gather, or
for ingenuity to discover, is always kept in
reserve, and the instructions of Roger Bacon
stopped short at one point. He was himself
engaged in the prosecution of that chemical
secret which he rightly judged to be a dangerous
one, and, while he experimented with
the compound of sulphur, saltpetre and charcoal,
he kept himself apart from his general
laboratory and wrought in a separate cell,
to which not even Hubert had access. To
know that the Friar had a mysterious
occupation, which, more than the making of gold
or the universal medicine, engrossed him, was
enough of itself to rouse the young man's
curiosity; but when to this was added the
fact, that, from time to time, strange and
mysterious noises were heard, accompanied
by bright corruscations and a new and
singular odour, penetrating through the
chinks close to which his eyes were stealthily
rivetted, Hubert's eagerness to know all that
his master concealed had no limit. He resolved
to discover the secret, even though he should
perish in the attempt; he feared that there
was good reason for the accusation of dealing
in the Black Art, which, more than all others
the monks of Bacon's own convent
countenanced; but this apprehension only stimulated
him the more. For some time Hubert
waited without an opportunity occurring for
gratifying the secret longing of his heart;
at last it presented itself.

To afford medical assistance to the sick,
was, perhaps, the most useful practice of
conventual life, and the monks had always
amongst them practitioners of the healing
art, more or less skilful. Of this number,
Roger Bacon was the most eminent, not only
in the monastery to which he belonged, but
in all Oxford.

It was about the hour of noon on a gloomy
day towards the end of November, in the
year 1282, while the Friar and his pupil were
severally employed, the former in his secret
cell, and the latter in the general laboratory,
that there arrived at the gate of the Franciscan
convent a messenger on horseback, the
bearer of news from Abingdon that Walter
de Losely, the sheriff of Berkshire, had that
morning met with a serious accident by a
hurt from a lance, and was then lying
dangerously wounded at the hostelry of the
Chequers in Abingdon, whither he had been
hastily conveyed. The messenger added that
the leech who had been called in was most
anxious for the assistance of the skilful Friar
Roger Bacon, and urgently prayed that he
would lose no time in coming to the aid of
the wounded knight.

Great excitement prevailed amongst the
monks on the receipt of this intelligence, for
Walter de Losely was not only a man of
power and influence, but moreover, a great
benefactor to their order. Friar Bacon was
immediately sought and speedily made his
appearance, the urgency of the message
admitting of no delay. He hastily enjoined
Hubert to continue the preparation of an
amalgam which he was desirous of getting
into a forward state, and taking with him
his case of instruments with the bandages
and salves which he thought needful, was
soon mounted on an easy, ambling palfrey on
his way towards Abingdon, the impatient
messenger riding before him to announce his
approach.

When he was gone, quiet again reigned in
the convent, and Herbert de Dreux resumed
his occupation. But it did not attract him
long. Suddenly he raised his head from the
work and his eyes were lit up with a gleam
in which joy and fear seemed equally blended.
For the first time, for months, he was quite
alone. What if he could obtain access to his
master's cell and penetrate the mystery in
which his labours had been so long enveloped!
He cautiously stole to the door of the laboratory,
and peeped out into a long passage, at
the further extremity of which a door opened
into a small court where, detached from the
main edifice and screened from all observation,
was a small building which the Friar
had recently caused to be constructed. He
looked about him timorously, fearing lest he
might be observed; but there was no cause
for apprehension, scarcely any inducement
could have prevailed with the superstitious
Franciscans to turn their steps willingly
in the direction of Roger Bacon's solitary
cell.

Re-assured by the silence, Hubert stole
noiselessly onward, and tremblingly
approached the forbidden spot. His quick eye
saw at a glance that the key was not in the
door, and his countenance fell. The Friar's
treasure was locked up! He might see
something, however, if he could not enter the
chamber. He knelt down, therefore, at the
door, and peered through the keyhole. As
he pressed against the door, in doing so, it
yielded to his touch. In the haste with
which Friar Bacon had closed the entrance,
the bolt had not been shot. Herbert rose
hastily to his feet, and the next moment he
was in the cell, looking eagerly round upon
the crucibles and alembics, which bore witness
to his master's labours. But beyond a general
impression of work in hand, there was nothing
to be gleaned from this survey. An open
parchment volume, in which the Friar had
recently been writing, next caught his attention.
If the secret should be there in any
known language. Hubert knew something of
the Hebrew, but nothing yet of Arabic. He
was reassured; the characters were familiar
to him; the language Latin. He seized the
volume, and read the few lines which the
Friar had just traced on the last page.