Amine could not walk; she was at
first supported by the familiars, and then carried by them, to the
stake which had been assigned for her. When they put her on her feet
opposite to it, her courage appeared to revive, she walked boldly up,
folded her arms, and leant against it. The executioners now commenced their office: the chains were passed
round Amine's body--the wood and faggots piled around her. The same
preparations had been made with all the other culprits, and the
confessors stood by the side of each victim. Amine waved her hand
indignantly to those who approached her, when Father Mathias, almost
breathless, made his appearance from the crowd, through which he had
forced his way. "Amine Vanderdecken--unhappy woman! had you been counselled by me this
would not have been. Now it is too late, but not too late to save your
soul. Away then with this obstinacy--this hardness of heart; call upon
the blessed Saviour, that He may receive your spirit--call upon His
wounds for mercy. It is the eleventh hour, but not too late. Amine,"
continued the old man, with tears, "I implore, I conjure you. At
least, may this load of trouble be taken from my heart." "'Unhappy woman!' you say?" replied she, "say rather, 'unhappy
priest:' for Amine's sufferings will soon be over, while you must
still endure the torments of the damned. Unhappy was the day when my
husband rescued you from death. Still more unhappy the compassion
which prompted him to offer you an asylum and a refuge. Unhappy the
knowledge of you from the _first_ day to the _last_. I leave you to
your conscience--if conscience you retain--nor would I change this
cruel death for the pangs which you in your future life will suffer. Leave me--_I die in the faith of my forefathers_, and scorn a creed
that warrants such a scene as this." "Amine Vanderdecken," cried the priest on his knees, clasping his
hands in agony. "Leave me, Father." "There is but a minute left--for the love of God--"

"I tell you then, leave me--that minute is my own." Father Mathias turned away in despair, and the tears coursed down the
old man's cheeks. As Amine said, his misery was extreme. The head executioner now inquired of the confessors whether the
culprits died in the _true_ faith? If answered in the affirmative, a
rope was passed round their necks and twisted to the stake, so that
they were strangled before the fire was kindled. All the other
culprits had died in this manner; and the head executioner inquired of
Father Mathias, whether Amine had a claim to so much mercy. The old
priest answered not, but shook his head. The executioner turned away. After a moment's pause, Father Mathias
followed him, and seized him by the arm, saying, in a faltering voice,
"Let her not suffer long." The Grand Inquisitor gave the signal, and the fires were all lighted
at the same moment. In compliance with the request of the priest, the
executioner had thrown a quantity of wet straw upon Amine's pile,
which threw up a dense smoke before it burnt into flames. "Mother! mother! I come to thee!" were the last words heard from
Amine's lips. The flames soon raged furiously, ascending high above the top of the
stake to which she had been chained. Gradually they sunk down; and
only when the burning embers covered the ground, a few fragments of
bones hanging on the chain were all that remained of the once peerless
and high-minded Amine. Chapter XLI


Years have passed away since we related Amine's sufferings and cruel
death; and now once more we bring Philip Vanderdecken on the scene. And during this time, where has he been? A lunatic--at one time
frantic, chained, coerced with blows; at others, mild and peaceable. Reason occasionally appeared to burst out again, as the sun on a
cloudy day, and then it was again obscured. For many years there was
one who watched him carefully, and lived in hope to witness his return
to a sane mind; he watched in sorrow and remorse,--he died without his
desires being gratified. This was Father Mathias! The cottage at Terneuse had long fallen into ruin; for many years it
waited the return of its owners, and at last the heirs-at-law claimed
and recovered the substance of Philip Vanderdecken. Even the fate of
Amine had passed from the recollection of most people; although her
portrait, over burning coals, with her crime announced beneath it, still
hangs--as is the custom in the church of the Inquisition--attracting,
from its expressive beauty, the attention of the most careless
passers-by. But many, many years have rolled away--Philip's hair is white--his
once-powerful frame is broken down--and he appears much older than he
really is. He is now sane; but his vigour is gone. Weary of life, all
he wishes for is to execute his mission--and then to welcome death. The relic has never been taken from him: he has been discharged from
the lunatic asylum, and has been provided with the means of returning
to his country. Alas! he has now no country--no home--nothing in the
world to induce him to remain in it. All he asks is--to do his duty
and to die. The ship was ready to sail for Europe; and Philip Vanderdecken went on
board--hardly caring whither he went. To return to Terneuse was not
his object; he could not bear the idea of revisiting the scene of so
much happiness and so much misery. Amine's form was engraven on his
heart, and he looked forward with impatience to the time when he
should be summoned to join her in the land of spirits. He had awakened as from a dream, after so many years of aberration of
intellect. He was no longer the sincere Catholic that he had been;
for he never thought of religion without his Amine's cruel fate being
brought to his recollection. Still he clung on to the relic--he
believed in that--and that only. It was his god--his creed--his
everything--the passport for himself and for his father into the next
world--the means whereby he should join his Amine--and for hours would
he remain holding in his hand that object so valued--gazing upon
it--recalling every important event in his life, from the death of his
poor mother, and his first sight of Amine; to the last dreadful scene. It was to him a journal of his existence, and on it were fixed all his
hopes for the future. "When! oh when is it to be accomplished!" was the constant subject
of his reveries. "Blessed, indeed, will be the day when I leave this
world of hate, and seek that other in which 'the weary are at rest.'" The vessel on board of which Philip was embarked as a passenger was
the _Nostra Señora da Monte_, a brig of three hundred tons, bound for
Lisbon. The captain was an old Portuguese, full of superstition, and
fond of arrack--a fondness rather unusual with the people of his
nation. They sailed from Goa, and Philip was standing abaft, and sadly
contemplating the spire of the Cathedral, in which he had last parted
with his wife, when his elbow was touched, and he turned round. "Fellow-passenger, again!"