It was
evident that Amine alone had for the time conquered his disposition;
and that, with her disappearance, had vanished all the good-will of
Schriften towards her husband. For this Philip cared little; he had a
much more serious weight on his heart--the loss of his dear Amine; and
he felt reckless and indifferent concerning anything else. The breeze now freshened, and they expected that, in two hours, they
would run on the beach, but they were disappointed: the step of the
mast gave way from the force of the wind, and the sail fell upon the
raft. This occasioned great delay; and before they could repair the
mischief, the wind again subsided, and they were left about a mile
from the beach. Tired and worn out with his feelings, Philip at last
fell asleep by the side of Krantz, leaving Schriften at the helm. He
slept soundly--he dreamt of Amine--he thought she was under a grove
of cocoa-nuts in a sweet sleep; that he stood by and watched her, and
that she smiled in her sleep, and murmured "Philip," when suddenly he
was awakened by some unusual movement. Half-dreaming still, he thought
that Schriften, the pilot, had in his sleep been attempting to gain
his relic, had passed the chain over his head, and was removing
quietly from underneath his neck the portion of the chain which, in
his reclining posture, he lay upon. Startled at the idea, he threw up
his hand to seize the arm of the wretch, and found that he had really
seized hold of Schriften, who was kneeling by him, and in possession
of the chain and relic. The struggle was short, the relic was
recovered, and the pilot lay at the mercy of Philip, who held him down
with his knee on his chest. Philip replaced the relic on his bosom,
and, excited to madness, rose from the body of the now breathless
Schriften, caught it in his arms, and hurled it into the sea. "Man or devil! I care not which," exclaimed Philip, breathless;
"escape now, if you can!" The struggle had already roused up Krantz and others, but not in time
to prevent Philip from wreaking his vengeance upon Schriften. In few
words, he told Krantz what had passed; as for the men, they cared not;
they laid their heads down again, and, satisfied that their money was
safe, inquired no further. Philip watched to see if Schriften would rise up again, and try to
regain the raft; but he did not make his appearance above water, and
Philip felt satisfied. Chapter XXV


What pen could portray the feelings of the fond and doting Amine, when
she first discovered that she was separated from her husband? In a
state of bewilderment, she watched the other raft as the distance
between them increased. At last the shades of night hid it from her
aching eyes, and she dropped down in mute despair. Gradually she recovered herself, and turning round, she exclaimed,
"Who's here?" No answer. "Who's here?" cried she in a louder voice; "alone--alone--and Philip
gone. Mother, mother, look down upon your unhappy child!" and Amine
frantically threw herself down so near to the edge of the raft, that
her long hair, which had fallen down, floated on the wave. "Ah me! where am I?" cried Amine, after remaining in a state of torpor
for some hours. The sun glared fiercely upon her, and dazzled her eyes
as she opened them--she cast them on the blue wave close by her, and
beheld a large shark motionless by the side of the raft, waiting for
his prey. Recoiling from the edge, she started up. She turned round,
and beheld the raft vacant, and the truth flashed on her. "Oh! Philip,
Philip!" cried she, "then it is true, and you are gone for ever! I
thought it was only a dream, I recollect all now. Yes--all--all!" And Amine sank down again upon her cot, which had been placed in the
centre of the raft, and remained motionless for some time. But the demand for water became imperious; she seized one of the
bottles, and drank. "Yet why should I drink or eat? Why should I wish
to preserve life?" She rose, and looked round the horizon--"Sky and
water, nothing more. Is this the death I am to die--the cruel death
prophesied by Schriften--a lingering death under a burning sun, while
my vitals are parched within? Be it so! Fate I dare thee to thy
worst--we can die but once--and without him, what care I to live! But
yet I may see him again," continued Amine, hurriedly, after a pause. "Yes! I may--who knows? Then welcome life, I'll nurse thee for that
bare hope--bare indeed with nought to feed on. Let me see, is it here
still?" Amine looked at her zone, and perceived her dagger was still
in it. "Well then, I will live since death is at my command, and be
guardful of life for my dear husband's sake." And Amine threw herself
on her resting-place that she might forget everything. She did: from
that morning till the noon of the next day, she remained in a state of
torpor. When she again rose, she was faint; again she looked round her--there
was but sky and water to be seen. "Oh! this solitude--it is horrible! death would be a release--but no, I must not die--I must live for
Philip." She refreshed herself with water and a few pieces of biscuit,
and folded her arms across her breast. "A few more days without
relief, and all must be over. Was ever woman situated as I am, and yet
I dare to indulge hope? Why, 'tis madness! And why am I thus singled
out: because I have wedded with Philip? It may be so; if so, I welcome
it. Wretches! who thus severed me from my husband; who, to save their
own lives, sacrificed a helpless woman! Nay! they might have saved me,
if they had had the least pity;--but no, they never felt it. And these
are Christians! The creed that the old priests would have had me--yes! that Philip would have had me embrace. Charity and good-will! They
talk of it, but I have never seen them practise it! Loving one
another!--forgiving one another!--say rather hating and preying upon
one another! A creed never practised: why, if not practised, of what
value is it? Any creed were better--I abjure it, and if I be saved,
will abjure it still for ever. Shade of my mother! is it that I have
listened to these men--that I have, to win my husband's love, tried to
forget that which thou taughtest, even when a child at thy feet--that
faith which our forefathers for thousands of years lived and died
in--that creed proved by works, and obedience to the prophet's
will--is it for this that I am punished? Tell me, mother--oh! tell me
in my dreams." The night closed in, and with the gloom rose heavy clouds; the
lightning darted through the firmament, ever and anon lighting up
the raft. At last, the flashes were so rapid, not following each
other--but darting down from every quarter at once, that the whole
firmament appeared as if on fire, and the thunder rolled along the
heavens, now near and loud, then rumbling in the distance. The breeze
rose up fresh, and the waves tossed the raft, and washed occasionally
even to Amine's feet, as she stood in the centre of it.