to be nothing after all! But no--something there must be, some buried
secret, now to live once more for him, and for him only: the secret,
whereof dim legends had come down through the obscurity of two hundred
years; the secret, too, of old Sir Charles in the frame yonder, the man of
magic repute. What could it be? Some talisman--some volume of the Black
Art perhaps--which would enable him to vanish at will into thin air, and
to travel with the speed of a wish from place to place--to become a
veritable enchanter, endowed with all supernatural powers. With hands
slightly tremulous from eagerness he pushed back the bit of plank and drew
forth the silver rod; then mounted on the chair and applied it to the
hole, which it fitted accurately. Before pushing it home he paused a
moment.

In all the stories he had read, the possessors of magic secrets had
acquired the same, only in exchange for something supposed to be equally
valuable, namely, their own souls. It was not to be expected that
Archibald would be able to modify the terms of the bargain in his own
case: was he, then, prepared to pay the price? Every human being,
probably, is called upon to give a more or less direct answer to this
question at some epoch of their lives: and were it not for curiosity and
scepticism, and an unwillingness to profit by the experience of others,
very likely that answer might be more often favorable to virtue than it
actually is. Archibald did not hesitate long. Whether he decided to
disbelieve in any danger; whether he resolved to brave it whatever it
might be; or whether, having got thus far, he had not sufficient control
over his inclinations to resist going further--at all events he drew in
his breath, set his boyish lips, and drove the silver rod into the
aperture with right good will.

It turned slowly as it entered, the curve of its spiral evidently following