The poor alchymist had heard all patiently, or, at least, passively.
He had disdained to vindicate his name otherwise than by his word; he
had smiled at the accusations of sorcery, when applied merely to
himself; but when the sublime art, which had been the study and
passion of his life, was assailed, he could no longer listen in
silence. His head gradually rose from his bosom; a hectic colour came
in faint streaks to his cheek; played about there, disappeared,
returned, and at length kindled into a burning glow. The clammy
dampness dried from his forehead; his eyes, which had nearly been
extinguished, lighted up again, and burned with their wonted and
visionary fires. He entered into a vindication of his favourite art.
His voice at first was feeble and broken; but it gathered strength as
he proceeded, until it rolled in a deep and sonorous volume. He
gradually rose from his seat, as he rose with his subject; he threw
back the scanty black mantle which had hitherto wrapped his limbs; the
very uncouthness of his form and looks gave an impressive effect to
what he uttered; it was as though a corpse had become suddenly
animated.
He repelled with scorn the aspersions cast upon alchymy by the
ignorant and vulgar.
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