Philip rose on his elbow, drank off
the wine, and Mynheer Poots then wished him good-night. "Do not leave him, Amine, I will see all right," said Mynheer Poots,
as he left the room. And Amine, who had intended to go down for the
candle left in the parlour, remained with her husband, to whom she
confided her feelings, and also the fact that she had not given him
the powder. "I trust that you are mistaken, Amine," replied Philip, "indeed I
feel sure that you must be. No man can be so bad as you suppose your
father." "You have not lived with him as I have; you have not seen what I have
seen," replied Amine. "You know not what gold will tempt people to do
in this world--but, however, I may be wrong. At all events, you must
go to sleep, and I shall watch you, dearest. Pray do not speak--I feel
I cannot sleep just now--I wish to read a little--I will lie down
by-and-bye." Philip made no further objections, and was soon in a sound sleep, and
Amine watched him in silence till midnight long had passed. "He breathes heavily," thought Amine; "but had I given him that
powder, who knows if he had ever awoke again? My father is so deeply
skilled in the Eastern knowledge, that I fear him. Too often has he,
I well know, for a purse well filled with gold, prepared the sleep of
death. Another would shudder at the thought; but he, who has dealt out
death at the will of his employers, would scruple little to do so even
to the husband of his own daughter; and I have watched him in his
moods, and know his thoughts and wishes. What a foreboding of mishap
has come over me this evening!--what a fear of evil! Philip is ill,
'tis true, but not so very ill. No! no! besides, his time is not yet
come; he has his dreadful task to finish. I would it were morning. How
soundly he sleeps! and the dew is on his brow. I must cover him
up warm, and watch that he remains so. Some one knocks at the
entrance-door. Now will they wake him. 'Tis a summons for my father." Amine left the room, and hastened downstairs. It was, as she supposed,
a summons for Mynheer Poots to a woman taken in labour. "He shall follow you directly," said Amine; "I will now call him up." Amine went upstairs to the room where her father slept, and knocked;
hearing no answer, as usual, she knocked again. "My father is not used to sleep in this way," thought Amine, when she
found no answer to her second call. She opened the door and went in. To her surprise, her father was not in bed. "Strange," thought she;
"but I do not recollect having heard his footsteps coming up after he
went down to take away the lights." And Amine hastened to the parlour,
where, stretched on the sofa, she discovered her father apparently
fast asleep; but to her call he gave no answer. "Merciful Heaven! is
he dead?" thought she, approaching the light to her father's face. Yes, it was so! his eyes were fixed and glazed--his lower jaw had
fallen. For some minutes, Amine leant against the wall in a state of
bewilderment; her brain whirled; at last she recovered herself. "'Tis to be proved at once," thought she, as she went up to the table,
and looked into the silver cup in which she had mixed the powder--it
was empty! "The God of Righteousness hath punished him!" exclaimed
Amine; "but, O! that this man should have been my father! Yes! it is
plain. Frightened at his own wicked, damned intentions, he poured out
more wine from the flagon, to blunt his feelings of remorse; and not
knowing that the powder was still in the cup, he filled it up, and
drank himself--the death he meant for another! For another!--and for
whom? one wedded to his own daughter!--Philip! my husband! Wert thou
not my father," continued Amine, looking at the dead body, "I would
spit upon thee, and curse thee! but thou art punished, and may God
forgive thee! thou poor, weak, wicked creature!" Amine then left the room, and went upstairs, where she found Philip
still fast asleep, and in a profuse perspiration. Most women would
have awakened their husbands, but Amine thought not of herself; Philip
was ill, and Amine would not arouse him to agitate him. She sat down
by the side of the bed, and with her hands pressed upon her forehead,
and her elbows resting on her knees, she remained in deep thought
until the sun had risen and poured his bright beams through the
casement. She was roused from her reflections by another summons at the door of
the cottage. She hastened down to the entrance, but did not open the
door. "Mynheer Poots is required immediately," said the girl, who was the
messenger. "My good Therese," replied Amine, "my father has more need of
assistance than the poor woman; for his travail in this world, I fear,
is well over. I found him very ill when I went to call him, and he
has not been able to quit his bed. I must now entreat you to do my
message, and desire Father Seysen to come hither; for my poor father
is, I fear, in extremity." "Mercy on me!" replied Therese. "Is it so? Fear not but I will do your
bidding, Mistress Amine." The second knocking had awakened Philip, who felt that he was much
better, and his headache had left him. He perceived that Amine had not
taken any rest that night, and he was about to expostulate with her,
when she at once told him what had occurred. "You must dress yourself, Philip," continued she, "and must assist me
to carry up his body, and place it in his bed, before the arrival of
the priest. God of mercy! had I given you that powder, my dearest
Philip--but let us not talk about it. Be quick, for Father Seysen will
be here soon." Philip was soon dressed, and followed Amine down into the parlour. The
sun shone bright, and his rays were darted upon the haggard face of
the old man, whose fists were clenched, and his tongue fixed between
the teeth on one side of his mouth. "Alas! this room appears to be fatal. How many more scenes of horror
are to pass within it?" "None, I trust," replied Amine; "this is not, to my mind, the scene of
horror. It was when that old man (now called away--and a victim of his
own treachery) stood by your bedside, and with every mark of interest
and kindness, offered you the cup--_that_ was the scene of horror,"
said Amine, shuddering--"one which long will haunt me." "God forgive him! as I do," replied Philip, lifting up the body, and
carrying it up the stairs to the room which had been occupied by
Mynheer Poots. "Let it at least be supposed that he died in his bed, and that his
death was natural," said Amine. "My pride cannot bear that this
should be known, or that I should be pointed at as the daughter of a
murderer! O Philip!" Amine sat down, and burst into tears. Her husband was attempting to console her, when Father Seysen knocked
at the door. Philip hastened down to open it. "Good morning, my son. How is the sufferer?" "He has ceased to suffer, father." "Indeed!" replied the good priest, with sorrow in his countenance; "am
I then too late? yet have I not tarried."