"Are we friends?" asked Septimius, somewhat puzzled by her look.

"We have an intimate relation to one another," replied Sibyl.

"And what is it?" demanded Septimius.

"That will appear hereafter," answered Sibyl, again smiling on him.

He knew not what to make of this, nor whether to be exalted or depressed;
but, at all events, there seemed to be an accordance, a striking together,
a mutual touch of their two natures, as if, somehow or other, they were
performing the same part of solemn music; so that he felt his soul thrill,
and at the same time shudder. Some sort of sympathy there surely was, but
of what nature he could not tell; though often he was impelled to ask
himself the same question he asked Sibyl, "Are we friends?" because of a
sudden shock and repulsion that came between them, and passed away in a
moment; and there would be Sibyl, smiling askance on him.

And then he toiled away again at his chemical pursuits; tried to mingle
things harmoniously that apparently were not born to be mingled;
discovering a science for himself, and mixing it up with absurdities that
other chemists had long ago flung aside; but still there would be that
turbid aspect, still that lack of fragrance, still that want of the
peculiar temperature, that was announced as the test of the matter. Over
and over again he set the crystal vase in the sun, and let it stay there
the appointed time, hoping that it would digest in such a manner as to
bring about the desired result.

One day, as it happened, his eyes fell upon the silver key which he had
taken from the breast of the dead young man, and he thought within himself