The indefatigable alchymist once more bent his steps for Spain, full
of renovated hope. He had made his way to Granada: he had wearied
himself in the study of Arabic, in deciphering inscriptions, in
rummaging libraries, and exploring every possible trace left by the
Arabian sages.
In all his wanderings, he had been accompanied by Inez through the
rough and the smooth, the pleasant and the adverse; never complaining,
but rather seeking to soothe his cares by her innocent and playful
caresses. Her instruction had been the employment and the delight of
his hours of relaxation. She had grown up while they were wandering,
and had scarcely ever known any home but by his side. He was family,
friends, home, everything to her. He had carried her in his arms, when
they first began their wayfaring; had nestled her, as an eagle does
its young, among the rocky heights of the Sierra Morena; she had
sported about him in childhood, in the solitudes of the Bateucas; had
followed him, as a lamb does the shepherd, over the rugged Pyrenees,
and into the fair plains of Languedoc; and now she was grown up to
support his feeble steps among the ruined abodes of her maternal
ancestors.
His property had gradually wasted away, in the course of his travels
and his experiments.
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