"If your father will not admit me as a boarder for the short time I
remain here, I will seek some shelter elsewhere; but if he will, I
will indemnify him well--that is, if you raise no objection to my
being for a few days in the house?" "Why should I? Our habitation is no longer safe, and you offer us a
shelter. It were, indeed, unjust and most ungrateful to turn you out
from beneath your own roof." "Then persuade him, Amine. I will accept of nothing, but take it as
a favour; for I should depart in sorrow if I saw you not in
safety.--Will you promise me?" "I do promise to use my best endeavours--nay, I may as well say at
once it shall be so; for I know my influence. Here is my hand upon it. Will that content you?" Philip took the small hand extended towards him. His feelings overcame
his discretion; he raised it to his lips. He looked up to see if Amine
was displeased, and found her dark eye fixed upon him, as once before
when she admitted him, as if she would see his thoughts--but the hand
was not withdrawn. "Indeed, Amine," said Philip, kissing her hand once more, "you may
confide in me." "I hope--I think--nay, I am sure I may," at last replied she. Philip released her hand. Amine returned to the seat, and for some
time remained silent and in a pensive attitude. Philip also had his
own thoughts, and did not open his lips. At last Amine spoke. "I think I have heard my father say that your mother was very poor--a
little deranged; and that there was a chamber in the house which had
been shut up for years." "It was shut up till yesterday." "And there you found your money? Did your mother not know of the
money?" "She did, for she spoke of it on her death-bed." "There must have been some potent reasons for not opening the
chamber." "There were." "What were they, Philip?" said Amine, in a soft and low tone of voice. "I must not tell, at least I ought not. This must satisfy you--'twas
the fear of an apparition." "What apparition?" "She said that my father had appeared to her." "And did he, think you, Philip?" "I have no doubt that he did. But I can answer no more questions,
Amine. The chamber is open now, and there is no fear of his
reappearance." "I fear not that," replied Amine, musing. "But," continued she, "is
not this connected with your resolution of going to sea?" "So far will I answer you, that it has decided me to go to sea; but I
pray you ask no more. It is painful to refuse you, and my duty forbids
me to speak further." For some minutes they were both silent, when Amine resumed--

"You were so anxious to possess that relic, that I cannot help
thinking it has connection with the mystery. Is it not so?" "For the last time, Amine, I will answer your question--it has to do
with it: but now no more." Philip's blunt and almost rude manner of finishing his speech was not
lost upon Amine, who replied,

"You are so engrossed with other thoughts, that you have not felt the
compliment shown you by my taking such interest about you, sir." "Yes, I do--I feel and thank you too, Amine. Forgive me, if I have
been rude; but recollect, the secret is not mine--at least, I feel as
if it were not. God knows, I wish I never had known it, for it has
blasted all my hopes in life." Philip was silent; and when he raised his eyes, he found that Amine's
were fixed upon him. "Would you read my thoughts, Amine, or my secret?" "Your thoughts perhaps--your secret I would not; yet do I grieve
that it should oppress you so heavily as evidently it does. It must,
indeed, be one of awe to bear down a mind like yours, Philip." "Where did you learn to be so brave, Amine?" said Philip, changing the
conversation. "Circumstances make people brave or otherwise; those who are
accustomed to difficulty and danger fear them not." "And where have you met with them, Amine?" "In the country where I was born, not in this dank and muddy land." "Will you trust me with the story of your former life, Amine? I can be
secret, if you wish." "That you can be secret perhaps, against my wish, you have already
proved to me," replied Amine, smiling; "and you have a claim to know
something of the life you have preserved. I cannot tell you much, but
what I can will be sufficient. My father, when a lad on board of a
trading vessel, was taken by the Moors, and sold as a slave to a
Hakim, or physician, of their country. Finding him very intelligent,
the Moor brought him up as an assistant, and it was under this man
that he obtained a knowledge of the art. In a few years he was equal
to his master; but, as a slave, he worked not for himself. You know,
indeed it cannot be concealed, my father's avarice. He sighed to
become as wealthy as his master, and to obtain his freedom; he became
a follower of Mahomet, after which he was free, and practised for
himself. He took a wife from an Arab family, the daughter of a chief
whom he had restored to health, and he settled in the country. I was
born; he amassed wealth, and became much celebrated; but the son of a
Bey dying under his hands was the excuse for persecuting him. His head
was forfeited, but he escaped; not, however, without the loss of all
his beloved wealth. My mother and I went with him; he fled to the
Bedouins, with whom we remained some years. There I was accustomed
to rapid marches, wild and fierce attacks, defeat and flight, and
oftentimes to indiscriminate slaughter. But the Bedouins paid not well
for my father's services, and gold was his idol. Hearing that the
Bey was dead, he returned to Cairo, where he again practised. He was
allowed once more to amass until the heap was sufficient to excite
the cupidity of the new Bey; but this time he was fortunately made
acquainted with the intentions of the ruler. He again escaped, with
a portion of his wealth, in a small vessel, and gained the Spanish
coast; but he never has been able to retain his money long. Before he
arrived in this country he had been robbed of almost all, and has now
been for these three years laying up again. We were but one year
at Middleburgh, and from thence removed to this place. Such is the
history of my life, Philip." "And does your father still hold the Mahomedan faith, Amine?" "I know not. I think he holds no faith whatever: at least he hath
taught me none. His god is gold." "And yours?" "Is the God who made this beautiful world, and all which it
contains--the God of nature--name him as you will. This I feel,
Philip, but more I fain would know; there are so many faiths, but
surely they must be but different paths leading alike to heaven. Yours
is the Christian faith, Philip. Is it the true one? But everyone calls
his own the true one, whatever his creed may be." "It is the true and only one, Amine. Could I but reveal--I have such
dreadful proofs--"

"That your faith is true; then is it not your duty to reveal these
proofs? Tell me, are you bound by any solemn obligation never to
reveal?" "No, I am not; yet do I feel as if I were.