'Very well, then – we'll speak of other commodities.' And, setting down his tay-cup, Enoch reached into his saddle-bags and brought out bags of yellow sulfur he'd collected from a burning mountain in Italy, finger-sized ingots of antimony, heavy flasks of quicksilver, tiny clay crucibles and melting-pots, retorts, spirit-burners, and books with woodcuts showing the design of diverse furnaces. He set them up on the deal tables and counters of the apothecary shop, saying a few words about each one. Clarke stood to one side with his fingers laced together, partly for warmth, and partly just to contain himself from lunging toward the goods. Years had gone by, a Civil War had been prosecuted, and a King's head had rolled in Charing Cross since Clarke had touched some of these items. He imagined that the Continental adepts had been penetrating the innermost secrets of God's creation the entire time. But Enoch knew that the alchemists of Europe were men just like Clarke – hoping, and dreading, that Enoch would return with the news that some English savant, working in isolation, had found the trick of refining, from the base, dark, cold, essentially fœcal matter of which the World was made, the Philosophick Mercury – the pure living essence of God's power and presence in the world – the key to the transmutation of metals, the attainment of immortal life and perfect wisdom.