"Good-night," said Amine, extending her hand, "and many, many thanks." "Thousands of guilders!" muttered the old man, as Philip left the room
and went below. Chapter V


Philip Vanderdecken sat down at the porch of the door; he swept his
hair from his forehead, which he exposed to the fanning of the breeze;
for the continued excitement of the last three days had left a fever
on his brain which made him restless and confused. He longed for
repose, but he knew that for him there was no rest. He had his
forebodings--he perceived in the vista of futurity a long-continued
chain of danger and disaster, even to death; yet he beheld it without
emotion and without dread. He felt as if it were only three days
that he had begun to exist; he was melancholy, but not unhappy. His
thoughts were constantly recurring to the fatal letter--its strange
supernatural disappearance seemed pointedly to establish its
supernatural origin, and that the mission had been intended for him
alone; and the relic in his possession more fully substantiated the
fact. It is my fate, my duty, thought Philip. Having satisfactorily made up
his mind to these conclusions, his thoughts reverted to the beauty,
the courage, and presence of mind shown by Amine. And, thought he,
as he watched the moon soaring high in the heavens, is this fair
creature's destiny to be interwoven with mine? The events of the last
three days would almost warrant the supposition. Heaven only knows,
and Heaven's will be done. I have vowed, and my vow is registered,
that I will devote my life to the release of my unfortunate
father--but does that prevent my loving Amine?--No, no; the sailor on
the Indian seas must pass months and months on shore before he can
return to his duty. My search must be on the broad ocean, but how
often may I return? and why am I to be debarred the solace of a
smiling hearth?--and yet--do I right in winning the affections of one
who, if she loves, would, I am convinced, love so dearly, fondly,
truly--ought I to persuade her to mate herself with one whose life
will be so precarious? but is not every sailor's life precarious,
daring the angry waves, with but an inch of plank 'tween him and
death? Besides, I am chosen to fulfil a task--and if so, what can hurt
me, till in Heaven's own time it is accomplished? but then how soon,
and how is it to end? in death! I wish my blood were cooler, that I
might reason better. Such were the meditations of Philip Vanderdecken, and long did he
revolve such chances in his mind. At last the day dawned, and as he
perceived the blush upon the horizon, less careful of his watch he
slumbered where he sat. A slight pressure on the shoulder made him
start up and draw the pistol from his bosom. He turned round and
beheld Amine. "And that pistol was intended for me," said Amine, smiling, repeating
Philip's words of the night before. "For you, Amine?--yes, to defend you, if 'twere necessary, once more." "I know it would--how kind of you to watch this tedious night after so
much exertion and fatigue! but it is now broad day." "Until I saw the dawn, Amine, I kept a faithful watch." "But now retire and take some rest. My father is risen--you can lie
down on his bed." "I thank you, but I feel no wish for sleep. There is much to do. We
must to the burgomaster and state the facts, and these bodies must
remain where they are until the whole is known. Will your father go,
Amine, or shall I?" "My father surely is the more proper person, as the proprietor of the
house. You must remain; and if you will not sleep, you must take some
refreshment. I will go in and tell my father; he has already taken his
morning's meal." Amine went in, and soon returned with her father, who had consented
to go to the burgomaster. He saluted Philip kindly as he came out;
shuddered as he passed on one side to avoid stepping over the dead
bodies, and went off at a quick pace to the adjacent town, where the
burgomaster resided. Amine desired Philip to follow her, and they went into her father's
room, where, to his surprise, he found some coffee ready for him--at
that time a rarity, and one which Philip did not expect to find in the
house of the penurious Mynheer Poots; but it was a luxury which, from
his former life, the old man could not dispense with. Philip, who had not tasted food for nearly twenty-four hours, was not
sorry to avail himself of what was placed before him. Amine sat down
opposite to him, and was silent during his repast. "Amine," said Philip at last, "I have had plenty of time for
reflection during this night, as I watched at the door. May I speak
freely?" "Why not?" replied Amine. "I feel assured that you will say nothing
that you should not say, or should not meet a maiden's ear." "You do me justice, Amine. My thoughts have been upon you and your
father. You cannot stay in this lone habitation." "I feel it is too lonely; that is, for his safety--perhaps for
mine--but you know my father--the very loneliness suits him, the price
paid for rent is little, and he is careful of his money." "The man who would be careful of his money should place it in
security--here it is not secure. Now hear me, Amine. I have a cottage
surrounded, as you may have heard, by many others, which mutually
protect each other. That cottage I am about to leave--perhaps for
ever; for I intend to sail by the first ship to the Indian seas." "The Indian seas! why so?--did you not last night talk of thousands of
guilders?" "I did, and they are there; but, Amine, I must go--it is my duty. Ask
me no more, but listen to what I now propose. Your father must live in
my cottage; he must take care of it for me in my absence; he will do
me a favour by consenting; and you must persuade him. You will there
be safe. He must also take care of my money for me. I want it not at
present--I cannot take it with me." "My father is not to be trusted with the money of other people." "Why does your father hoard? He cannot take his money with him when
he is called away. It must be all for you--and is not then my money
safe?" "Leave it then in my charge, and it will be safe; but why need you go
and risk your life upon the water, when you have such ample means?" "Amine, ask not that question. It is my duty as a son, and more I
cannot tell, at least at present." "If it is your duty, I ask no more. It was not womanish curiosity--no,
no--it was a better feeling, I assure you, which prompted me to put
the question." "And what was the better feeling, Amine?" "I hardly know--many good feelings perhaps mixed up
together--gratitude, esteem, respect, confidence, good-will. Are not
these sufficient?" "Yes, indeed, Amine, and much to gain upon so short an acquaintance;
but still I feel them all, and more, for you. If, then, you feel so
much for me, do oblige me by persuading your father to leave this
lonely house this day, and take up his abode in mine." "And where do you intend to go yourself?"