The Elixir of Life
By Marc R. Schorer and August W. Derleth
THE swinging lantern at the farther end of the narrow-street approached closer and closer the house of Messer Girolani, the magician. The lackey who carried the bobbing light walked swiftly, spurred on by the mutterings of the hooded figure behind him. The night was lighted by the silver moon hanging in the sky, yet but a single moonbeam penetrated the darkness of the strait alley.
Messer Girolani sat alone in the heavily curtained room which he chose to call his laboratorium. The multi-colored liquids in the numerous phials about the room were in odd contrast to the black curtains on all sides. On the oaken table well toward the center of the room stood three large retorts, two or them partly filled with a colorless fluid. The only light in the room was that thrown by the fitful fire from which the hungry flames leaped upward and licked the pot suspended from a tripod above them. The weird shadows danced grotesquely on the black draperies. Messer Girolani's shadow, too, was grotesque, for his long nose and straggly beard made it look for all the world like that of Mephistopheles. Messer Girolani's gaze was fixed upon the hour-glass on the shelf above the fireplace. He watched the grains of sand trickle slowly downward, half eagerly, half apprehensively, with the air of one who expected some event of import to occur. The flickering lantern in the street caught his eye and he rose hurriedly and walked directly to the fireplace, where he stirred the boiling fluid in the vessel.
The dull rap on the heavy doer was answered by the soft padding of feet in the passageway. Messer Girolani's Nubian servitor admitted the hooded figure and his lackey. There was a swish of curtains brushed aside and the man stood in the room, his hood raised.
"Messer Duca" faltered Girolani.
"Indeed, it is I, Messer Girolani."
"You are on time, my lord."
"It is my business to make that a point, Messer."
"But, of course, my lord."
"I have no doubt that my order is filled?"
His Magnificence, the Duke di Sforza, reached far the embroidered purse dangling from the belt about his doublet.
"I greatly fear, your Excellency"
The duke waved a jeweled hand and silenced the wizard.
"Come, come, Messer Girolani, you, a magician—what is there for you to fear? Are you not allied with Satan, the root of evil?"
"But, my lord, I have not the elixir completed."
"What, knave, not completed? I am of half a mind to place your head on a pike pole. What is the reason for this?"
"It is because I lack an ingredient, Excellency."
"An ingredient? Blood of Satan! Have I not given you orders to spare
