The priest quitted the room, and Amine and Philip were again alone. The colour in Amine's cheek varied and her heart beat, for she felt
how much her happiness was at stake. "The priest is right, Amine," said Philip, sitting down by her. "This
cannot last;--would that I could ever stay with you: how hard a fate
is mine! You know I love the very ground you tread upon, yet I dare
not ask thee to wed to misery." "To wed with thee would not be wedding misery, Philip," replied Amine,
with downcast eyes. "'Twere not kindness on my part, Amine. I should indeed be selfish." "I will speak plainly, Philip," replied Amine. "You say you love
me,--I know not how men love,--but this I know, how I can love. I feel
that to leave me now were indeed unkind and selfish on your part; for,
Philip, I--I should die. You say that you must go away,--that fate
demands it,--and your fatal secret. Be it so;--but cannot I go with
you?" "Go with me, Amine--unto death?" "Yes, death; for what is death but a release? I fear not death,
Philip; I fear but losing thee. Nay, more; is not your life in the
hands of Him who made all? then why so sure to die? You have hinted to
me that you are chosen--selected for a task;--if chosen, there is less
chance of death; for until the end be fulfilled, if chosen, you must
live. I would I knew your secret, Philip: a woman's wit might serve
you well: and if it did not serve you, is there no comfort, no
pleasure, in sharing sorrow as well as joy with one you say you dote
upon?" "Amine, dearest Amine; it is my love, my ardent love alone, which
makes me pause: for, O Amine, what pleasure should I feel if we were
this hour united! I hardly know what to say, or what to do. I could
not withhold my secret from you if you were my wife, nor will I wed
you till you know it. Well, Amine, I will cast my all upon the die. You shall know this secret, learn what a doomed wretch I am, though
from no fault of mine, and then you yourself shall decide. But
remember, my oath is registered in heaven, and I must not be dissuaded
from it; keep that in mind, and hear my tale,--then if you choose to
wed with one whose prospects are so bitter, be it so,--a short-lived
happiness will then be mine, but for you, Amine--"

"At once the secret, Philip," cried Amine, impatiently. Philip then entered into a detail of what our readers are acquainted
with. Amine listened in silence; not a change of feature was to be
observed in her countenance during the narrative. Philip wound up
with stating the oath which he had taken. "I have done," said Philip,
mournfully. "'Tis a strange story, Philip," replied Amine: "and now hear me;--but
give me first that relic,--I wish to look upon it. And can there be
such virtue--I had nigh said, such mischief--in this little thing? Strange; forgive me, Philip,--but I've still my doubts upon this tale
of _Eblis_. You know I am not yet strong in the new belief which
you and the good priest have lately taught me. I do not say that it
_cannot_ be true: but still, one so unsettled as I am may be allowed
to waver. But, Philip, I'll assume that all is true. Then, if it be
true, without the oath you would be doing but your duty; and think not
so meanly of Amine as to suppose she would restrain you from what is
right. No, Philip, seek your father, and, if you can, and he requires
your aid, then save him. But, Philip, do you imagine that a task like
this, so high, is to be accomplished at one trial? O! no;--if you have
been so chosen to fulfil it, you will be preserved through difficulty
and danger until you have worked out your end. You will be preserved,
and you will again and again return;--be comforted--consoled--be
cherished--and be loved by Amine as your wife. And when it pleases Him
to call you from this world, your memory, if she survive you, Philip,
will equally be cherished in her bosom. Philip, you have given me to
decide;--dearest Philip, I am thine." Amine extended her arms, and Philip pressed her to his bosom. That
evening Philip demanded his daughter of the father, and Mynheer Poots,
as soon as Philip opened the iron safe and displayed the guilders,
gave his immediate consent. Father Seysen called the next day and received his answer; and three
days afterwards, the bells of the little church of Terneuse were
ringing a merry peal for the union of Amine Poots and Philip
Vanderdecken. Chapter VII


It was not until late in the autumn that Philip was roused from his
dream of love (for what, alas! is every enjoyment of this life but a
dream?) by a summons from the captain of the vessel with whom he had
engaged to sail. Strange as it may appear, from the first day which
put him in possession of his Amine, Philip had no longer brooded over
his future destiny: occasionally it was recalled to his memory, but
immediately rejected, and, for the time, forgotten. Sufficient he
thought it to fulfil his engagement when the time should come; and
although the hours flew away, and day succeeded day, week week, and
month month, with the rapidity accompanying a life of quiet and
unvarying bliss, Philip forgot his vow in the arms of Amine, who was
careful not to revert to a topic which would cloud the brow of her
adored husband. Once, indeed, or twice, had old Poots raised the
question of Philip's departure, but the indignant frown and the
imperious command of Amine (who knew too well the sordid motives which
actuated her father, and who, at such times, looked upon him with
abhorrence) made him silent, and the old man would spend his leisure
hours in walking up and down the parlour with his eyes riveted upon
the buffets, where the silver tankards now beamed in all their
pristine brightness. One morning, in the month of October, there was a tapping with the
knuckles at the cottage door. As this precaution implied a stranger,
Amine obeyed the summons, "I would speak with Master Philip
Vanderdecken," said the stranger, in a half-whispering sort of voice. The party who thus addressed Amine was a little meagre personage,
dressed in the garb of the Dutch seamen of the time, with a cap made
of badger-skin hanging over his brow. His features were sharp and
diminutive, his face of a deadly white, his lips pale, and his hair
of a mixture between red and white. He had very little show of
beard--indeed, it was almost difficult to say what his age might be. He might have been a sickly youth early sinking into decrepitude, or
an old man, hale in constitution, yet carrying no flesh. But the most
important feature, and that which immediately riveted the attention of
Amine, was the eye of this peculiar personage--for he had but one; the
right eye-lid was closed, and the ball within had evidently wasted
away; but his left eye was, for the size of his face and head, of
unusual dimensions, very protuberant, clear and watery, and most
unpleasant to look upon, being relieved by no fringe of eyelash either
above or below it.