"You see--you see," said the old man sarcastically, "how
reluctantly she parts with it. Take it, sir; it is yours."
It was a small bar of metal. I examined it carefully, poised it in
my hand--the color, weight, everything, announced that it really
was gold.
"You doubt its genuineness, perhaps," continued the alchemist.
"There are acids on yonder table--test it."
I confess that I DID doubt its genuineness; but after I had acted
upon the old man's suggestion, all further suspicion was rendered
impossible. It was gold of the highest purity. I was astounded.
Was then, after all, this man's tale a truth? Was his daughter,
that fair, angelic-looking creature, a demon of avarice, or a slave
to worse passions? I felt bewildered. I had never met with
anything so incomprehensible. I looked from father to daughter in
the blankest amazement. I suppose that my countenance betrayed my
astonishment, for the old man said: "I perceive that you are
surprised. Well, that is natural. You had a right to think me mad
until I proved myself sane."
"But, Mr. Blakelock," I said, "I really cannot take this gold.
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