“That is another matter, sir, and it depends upon you.”

“Science and Truth shall have both honors and gold.”

He bowed until the tip of his beard touched the ground. We were silent for a while. Then he began again. “Where is the spirit of life housed? In the blood. Remove a few jars of the red elixir from the body,—does not man die? Is it not because the blood is hot that we are young; and when the blood freezes, like water in winter, are we not old? And how do we live once more in our children, if not through the blood? The blood is the man. Blood is the symbol and the truth of Life!”

I nodded.

“Therefore, if your blood fills this young man’s veins,—he will partake of your life.”

“It seems logical,” I said.

“It is the truth of all the Buddhas. It is a great discovery, and the stars are propitious.”

“When can this transfusion of my blood into my friend’s veins take place?”

“At once, if you will. I have prepared a couch in my other room. You will both stretch out upon it. I shall open a vein in his arm, and a vein in yours, and let the stream of your blood trickle into his body.”

I looked at him somewhat unconvinced.

“Have you ever performed such an operation before?”

“Several times, but for other reasons. The quantity of blood tapped from your body need not be large. The intermingling of your life and his will be sufficient. The marriage of the blood will be consummated.”

I kept silent.

“No other leech in all India would undertake this operation.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he whispered mysteriously, “I found the method in the Book of Forbidden Lore.”

“Will you permit me to consult with my friend for a few moments?”

“Certainly.”

“Damis,” I said, “I believe his idea is the true one, for I, too, have long ago come to a similar conclusion. My blood must mingle with yours, that you may partake of my life.”

“Yes, Cartaphilus.”

“Damis, are you still willing to risk—immortality? The marriage of our spirits, alas, may be shorter-lived than the marriage of our blood…”

“Cartaphilus, Apollonius was as a father to me; you are my brother. I cannot face the future alone. I need you as the vine needs the oak. Let me lean against you forever!” His pale features were flushed, his eyes were restless like torches reflected in water that is stirred. “Unless,” he added suddenly, “you think I will be a burden– —”

“Your delicate weight shall be as natural to me and as pleasurable as upon my shoulders is the weight of my head.”

I turned to the leech.

“We are ready.”

He asked us to strip, and offered us a potion. “This will deaden the pain, although I expect it to be very slight.”

We stretched out upon the couch. He looked at us, took our pulse, examined our eyes, tested each limb. Over Damis he stopped much longer, troubled by the boy’s epicene beauty. His aged hands trembled. ‘His senses are not dead,’ I thought. “My friend is very handsome,” I whispered. He looked at me guiltily. “Yes, very handsome.”

Damis was asleep. The potion and the loss of blood had weakened him. I was quite conscious, and felt no pain, save a tiny itching sensation. The little doctor had bandaged our arms to stop the flow of the blood. Seeing that I watched him, he made many curious motions and mumbled extravagant sounds. I smiled. I had lived long enough to know that every trade had its tricks.

“Is my friend still asleep, Doctor?” I asked.

“I shall wake him now.”

He touched him gently over the face. Damis did not stir. He shook him, at first lightly, then a little more energetically. Damis remained stock-still. He rubbed his temples, tickled the soles of his feet, pricked him with a needle. All in vain.

“What is wrong, Doctor?” I asked, jumping up. He did not answer, but pressed his ear against the heart, and applied a small metal object to the nostrils. He glared at me.

“What is the trouble?” I shouted. “Quick, tell me!”

“You have killed him. Your blood is poison,” he hissed.

“I killed him! You scoundrel, it was your potion– —”

“My potion?”

“Yes, your potion.”

“The drug was harmless, mainly water.”

I hurled him against the wall, where he crouched, groaning and grumbling, “Your blood is poison! Your blood is poison!”

I bent over Damis. His features were pinched and his limbs had already the rigidity of a corpse. “Damis, Damis,” I wept. “Damis, do you not hear me? Cartaphilus calls you, Damis,—my friend!”

The physician did not dare to move from the spot. I rushed at him again. “Fool!” I shouted. “You consulted the stars, and went into trances…and now, look! See what you have done! You have killed him! You have killed my friend!”

“How should I know that your blood is poison? The stars did not mention that, nor the voice in the trance.”

“My blood is poison?”

“Look at him, look at your minion! He is turning black!”

It was true. I covered my face with my hands. ‘Your blood is poison!’ The sentence maddened me. It seemed like the echo of another sentence years ago that had rung in my ears, with the violence of a storm.

“Help me carry him out.”

We placed the corpse upon a pile of wood, sprinkled it with perfumes and aromatics. The red fangs of the fire devoured the body of him to whom the gift of life was the gift of death.

I turned to go. The physician held my arm. “Go away!” I shouted. “Clumsy fool!”

“Am I to get no reward for my labors?”

I glared at him. He followed me. “Master, Master! Are you breaking your promise?”

“What promise?”

“My fee!”

“Impudent wretch!” I walked on. He followed me, mumbling, “Was it my fault that your blood– —?”

Before he could finish the sentence, I struck him on the mouth. He fell. “You have killed me!” he shouted. I threw a purse at him. He rose, seized it, and ran off with the agility of a young animal.

I DID not leave my room for a long while. I do not know what perturbed me more: the loss of Damis, or the knowledge that my blood was accurst. Was I fated to slay those I loved? Was my love a serpent, whose fangs are fatal? Must I wander henceforth uncompanioned and loveless? I walked up and down my room, talking to myself in all the languages I knew.

It struck me that I did not even possess a language quite my own. “Who am I, what am I?” I shouted, and the walls answered, “Stranger! Wanderer!” I envied the pariah who dared to call himself by his true name, who could mention the place and date of his birth, without fear or confusion.

“A human being,” I expostulated, “has significance alone in time and space. He can be neither a star, whirling in infinity, nor a feather blown about by whimsical winds.” I thought of Jesus, and a great hatred overcame me. “Who was he to impose upon me a life suitable for a god or a demon, but not for a man? By what right, natural or supernatural, did he wish this doom upon me? We shall be enemies,” I shouted, “eternal enemies!”

My nature had become very elastic, however, and I could pass rapidly from despair to a rational understanding. ‘After all,’ I thought, ‘had you been like other men, Cartaphilus, you would have turned to dust long ago, after dragging your body through wearisome years of decrepitude and pain. What have you lost that you cannot replace? Love? Is not one love the antidote of another? And if your blood be poison, if you are brother to the rattlesnake, Cartaphilus, what of that? The serpent is not venomous to its mate. Find the mate to whom your blood is a balm.

‘What have you known of love? What have you known of life? Ten times the span of man’s life are not sufficient to slake your thirst for knowledge. Time is your ally. He will bring back all your loves, even Damis, even Mary and John. Time holds for you under the cloak of the years, unimaginable delights. Apollonius the Tyanean, has said that a great, a supreme love waits for you in some far away corner of the corridor of infinity,—a love which will be both Mary and John. You shall yet find it, Cartaphilus.