So remarkable was the feature, that when you looked
at the man, you saw his eye and looked at nothing else. It was not a
man with one eye, but one eye with a man attached to it: the body was
but the tower of the lighthouse, of no further value, and commanding
no further attention, than does the structure which holds up the
beacon to the venturous mariner; and yet, upon examination, you would
have perceived that the man, although small, was neatly made; that his
hands were very different in texture and colour from those of common
seamen; that his features in general, although sharp, were regular;
and that there was an air of superiority even in the obsequious manner
of the little personage, and an indescribable something about his
whole appearance which almost impressed you with awe. Amine's dark
eyes were for a moment fixed upon the visitor, and she felt a chill at
her heart for which she could not account, as she requested that he
would walk in. Philip was greatly surprised at the appearance of the stranger, who,
as soon as he entered the room, without saying a word, sat down on the
sofa by Philip in the place which Amine had just left. To Philip there
was something ominous in this person taking Amine's seat; all that
had passed rushed into his recollection, and he felt that there was a
summons from his short existence of enjoyment and repose to a life of
future activity, danger, and suffering. What peculiarly struck Philip
was, that when the little man sat beside him, a sensation of sudden
cold ran through his whole frame. The colour fled from Philip's
cheek, but he spoke not. For a minute or two there was a silence. The
one-eyed visitor looked round him, and turning from the buffets he
fixed his eyes on the form of Amine, who stood before him; at last the
silence was broken by a sort of giggle on the part of the stranger,
which ended in--

"Philip Vanderdecken--he! he!--Philip Vanderdecken, you don't know
me?" "I do not," replied Philip, in a half-angry tone. The voice of the little man was most peculiar--it was a sort of
subdued scream, the notes of which sounded in your ear long after he
had ceased to speak. "I am Schriften, one of the pilots of the _Ter Schilling_," continued
the man; "and I'm come--he! he!" --and he looked hard at Amine--"to
take you away from love"--and looking at the buffets--"he! he! from
comfort, and from this also," cried he, stamping his foot on the floor
as he rose from the sofa--"from terra firma--he! he!--to a watery
grave perhaps. Pleasant!" continued Schriften, with a giggle; and with
a countenance full of meaning he fixed his one eye on Philip's face. Philip's first impulse was to put his new visitor out of the door; but
Amine, who read his thoughts, folded her arms as she stood before the
little man, and eyed him with contempt, as she observed:--

"We all must meet our fate, good fellow; and, whether by land or sea,
death will have his due. If death stare him in the face, the cheek of
Philip Vanderdecken will never turn as white as yours is now." "Indeed!" replied Schriften, evidently annoyed at this cool
determination on the part of one so young and beautiful; and
then fixing his eye upon the silver shrine of the Virgin on the
mantel-piece--"You are a Catholic, I perceive--he!" "I am a Catholic," replied Philip; "but does that concern you? When
does the vessel sail?" "In a week--he! he!--only a week for preparation--only seven days to
leave all--short notice!" "More than sufficient," replied Philip, rising up from the sofa. "You
may tell your captain that I shall not fail. Come, Amine, we must lose
no time." "No, indeed," replied Amine, "and our first duty is hospitality:
Mynheer, may we offer you refreshment after your walk?" "This day week," said Schriften, addressing Philip, and without making
a reply to Amine. Philip nodded his head, the little man turned on his
heel and left the room, and in a short time was out of sight. Amine sank down on the sofa. The breaking-up of her short hour of
happiness had been too sudden, too abrupt, and too cruelly brought
about for a fondly doting, although heroic, woman. There was an
evident malignity in the words and manner of the one-eyed messenger,
an appearance as if he knew more than others, which awed and confused
both Philip and herself. Amine wept not, but she covered her face with
her hands as Philip, with no steady pace, walked up and down the small
room. Again, with all the vividness of colouring, did the scenes
half forgotten recur to his memory. Again did he penetrate the fatal
chamber--again was it obscure. The embroidery lay at his feet, and
once more he started as when the letter appeared upon the floor. They had both awakened from a dream of present bliss, and shuddered at
the awful future which presented itself. A few minutes were sufficient
for Philip to resume his natural self-possession. He sat down by the
side of his Amine, and clasped her in his arms. They remained silent. They knew too well each other's thoughts; and, excruciating as was
the effort, they were both summoning up their courage to bear, and
steeling their hearts against the conviction that, in this world, they
must now expect to be for a time, perhaps for ever, separated. Amine was the first to speak: removing her arms, which had been wound
round her husband, she first put his hand to her heart, as if to
compress its painful throbbings, and then observed--

"Surely that was no earthly messenger, Philip! Did you not feel
chilled to death when he sat by you? I did, as he came in." Philip, who had the same thought as Amine, but did not wish to alarm
her, answered confusedly--

"Nay, Amine, you fancy--that is, the suddenness of his appearance and
his strange conduct have made you imagine this; but I saw in him but a
man who, from his peculiar deformity, has become an envious outcast
of society--debarred from domestic happiness, from the smiles of the
other sex; for what woman could smile upon such a creature? His
bile raised at so much beauty in the arms of another, he enjoyed a
malignant pleasure in giving a message which he felt would break upon
those pleasures from which he is cut off. Be assured, my love, that it
was nothing more." "And even if my conjecture were correct, what does it matter?" replied
Amine. "There can be nothing more--nothing which can render your
position more awful and more desperate. As your wife, Philip, I feel
less courage than I did when I gave my willing hand. I knew not then
what would be the extent of my loss; but fear not, much as I feel
here," continued Amine, putting her hand to her heart--"I am prepared,
and proud that he who is selected for such a task is my husband." Amine paused. "You cannot surely have been mistaken, Philip?" "No! Amine, I have not been mistaken, either in the summons or in
my own courage, or in my selection of a wife," replied Philip,
mournfully, as he embraced her. "It is the will of Heaven."