Retire to your bed, and
leave me to my watch and my own thoughts." "I will, my son! may Heaven guard you! Take an old man's blessing. Good-night." "Good-night," replied Philip, glad to be alone. "Shall I confess all
to him?" thought Philip. "I feel I could confess to him.--But no. I
would not to Father Seysen,--why to him? I should put myself in his
power, and he might order me--No, no! my secret is my own. I need no
advisers." And Philip pulled out the relic from his bosom, and put it
reverently to his lips. The _Batavia_ waited a few days at St Helena, and then continued her
voyage. In six weeks Philip again found himself at anchor in the
Zuyder Zee, and having the captain's permission, he immediately set
off for his own home, taking with him the old Portuguese priest
Mathias, with whom he had formed a great intimacy, and to whom he had
offered his protection for the time he might wish to remain in the Low
Countries. Chapter XIII


"Far be it from me to wish to annoy you, my son," said Father Mathias,
as with difficulty he kept pace with the rapid strides of Philip, who
was now within a quarter of a mile of his home; "but still recollect
that this is but a transitory world, and that much time has elapsed
since you quitted this spot. For that reason I would fain desire you,
if possible, to check these bounding aspirations after happiness,
these joyful anticipations in which you have indulged since we quitted
the vessel. I hope and trust in the mercy of God, that all will be
right, and that in a few minutes you will be in the arms of your
much-loved wife: but still, in proportion as you allow your hopes
to be raised, so will you inevitably have them crushed should
disappointment cross your path. At Flushing we were told that there
has been a dreadful visitation in this land, and death may not have
spared even one so young and fair." "Let us haste on, father," replied Philip. "What you say is true, and
suspense becomes most dreadful." Philip increased his speed, leaving the old man to follow him: he
arrived at the bridge with its wooden gate. It was then about seven
o'clock in the morning, for they had crossed the Scheldt at the dawn
of day. Philip observed that the lower shutters were still closed. "They might have been up and stirring before this," thought he, as he
put his hand to the latch of the door. It was not fastened. Philip
entered! there was a light burning in the kitchen; he pushed open
the door, and beheld a maid-servant leaning back in her chair in a
profound sleep. Before he had time to go in and awaken her, he heard a
voice at the top of the stairs, saying, "Marie, is that the doctor?" Philip waited no longer; in three bounds he was on the landing-place
above, and brushing by the person who had spoken, he opened the door
of Amine's room. A floating wick in a tumbler of oil gave but a faint and glimmering
light; the curtains of the bed were drawn, and by the side of it
was kneeling a figure that was well known to Philip--that of Father
Seysen. Philip recoiled; the blood retreated to his heart; he could
not speak: panting for breath, he supported himself against the wall,
and at last vented his agony of feeling by a deep groan, which aroused
the priest, who turned his head, and perceiving who it was, rose from
his knees, and extended his hand in silence. "She is dead, then!" at last exclaimed Philip. "No, my son, not dead; there is yet hope. The crisis is at hand;
in one more hour her fate will be decided: then either will she be
restored to your arms, or follow the many hundreds whom this fatal
epidemic has consigned to the tomb." Father Seysen then led Philip to the side of the bed, and withdrew the
curtain. Amine lay insensible, but breathing heavily; her eyes were
closed. Philip seized her burning hand, knelt down, pressed it to his
lips, and burst into a paroxysm of tears. As soon as he had become
somewhat composed, Father Seysen persuaded him to rise and sit with
him by the side of the bed. "This is a melancholy sight to witness at your return, Philip," said
he; "and to you who are so ardent, so impetuous, it must be doubly so;
but God's will be done. Remember there is yet hope--not strong hope, I
grant, but still there is hope, for so told me the medical man who has
attended her, and who will return, I expect, in a few minutes. Her
disease is a typhus fever, which has swept off whole families within
these last two months, and still rages violently; fortunate, indeed,
is the house which has to mourn but one victim. I would that you had
not arrived just now, for it is a disease easily communicated. Many
have fled from the country for security. To add to our misfortunes,
we have suffered from the want of medical advice, for physician and
patient have been swept away together." The door was now slowly opened, and a tall, dark man, in a brown
cloak, holding to his nose a sponge saturated with vinegar, entered
the room. He bowed his head to Philip and the priest, and then went
to the bedside. For a minute he held his fingers to the pulse of the
sufferer, then laying down her arm, he put his hand to her forehead,
and covered her up with the bedclothes. He handed to Philip the sponge
and vinegar, making a sign that he should use it, and beckoned Father
Seysen out of the room. In a minute the priest returned. "I have received his directions, my
son; he thinks that she may be saved. The clothes must be kept on her,
and replaced if she should throw them off; but everything will depend
upon quiet and calm after she recovers her senses." "Surely we can promise her that," replied Philip. "It is not the knowledge of your return, or even the sight of you,
which alarms me. Joy seldom kills, even when the shock is great, but
there are other causes for uneasiness." "What are they, holy father?" "Philip, it is now thirteen days that Amine has raved, and during
that period I have seldom quitted her but to perform the duties of my
office to others who required it. I have been afraid to leave her,
Philip, for in her ravings she has told such a tale, even unconnected
as it has been, as has thrilled my soul with horror. It evidently has
long lain heavily on her mind, and must retard her recovery. Philip
Vanderdecken, you may remember that I would once have had the secret
from you--the secret which forced your mother to her tomb, and which
now may send your young wife to follow her, for it is evident that she
knows all. Is it not true?" "She does know all," replied Philip, mournfully. "And she has in her delirium told all. Nay, I trust she has told more
than all; but of that we will not speak now: watch her, Philip. I will
return in half an hour, for by that time, the doctor tells me, the
symptoms will decide whether she will return to reason, or be lost to
you for ever."