"Age needs them not," she said. "Drive away the burden of years and we will have all else which soul could desire."
The Master smiled again, as he replied: "Souls... You have no souls. Those are already bargained away. But here is the precious substance which you crave. He held up the last of the bottles. It was labeled: "Klixir of Youth."
"Yes, yes," and both of them crawled toward him, screaming with delight.
"Will you obey me then? Will you bring about their destruction, if I give it to you?"
"Anything! We will obey you from now until doomsday!" cried the woman.
"Yes, that and more!" asserted the old woman. They seemed for all the world like drugs (lends begging for the daily stuff, after a period of enforced fasting.
"Very good? Or better still, very bad, then," and the Master arose. He poured a few drops into a little curved goblet and handed it to the old woman.
She drank it eagerly, and staggered, as though the liquid had burned her lips and mouth. She clutched at her bosom, and sank moaning into a chair held by the waiting leader of ceremonies. Her companion watched her anxiously, his skinny fingers closing and opening in a tremor of fear and uncertainty.
"The is dying!" he gasped.
"No, she is being born again!" answered the Master.
Even as he spoke an inscrutable change then his heavy brows contracted in a frown. He could see the athletic shoulders and sun-viried arms of some man, facing away from  "Turse him: It is that confounded Alden, again!" he muttered with a pang of jealousy, "and the good intentions." As he peered, Myra stopped to tie her shoe lace. 