Amine made no further observations; and Philip, after pacing for a few
minutes in deep thought, walked out of the cabin. The _Utrecht_ arrived at the Cape, watered, and proceeded on her
voyage and, after two months of difficult navigation, cast anchor off
Gambroon. During this time, Amine had been unceasing in her attempts
to gain the good-will of Schriften. She had often conversed with him
on deck, and had done him every kindness, and had overcome that fear
which his near approach had generally occasioned. Schriften gradually
appeared mindful of this kindness, and at last to be pleased with
Amine's company. To Philip he was at times civil and courteous, but
not always; but to Amine he was always deferent. His language was
mystical, she could not prevent his chuckling laugh, his occasional
"He! he!" from breaking forth. But when they anchored at Gambroon, he
was on such terms with her, that he would occasionally come into the
cabin; and, although he would not sit down, would talk to Amine for
a few minutes, and then depart. While the vessel lay at anchor at
Gambroon, Schriften one evening walked up to Amine, who was sitting on
the poop. "Lady," said he, after a pause, "yon ship sails for your own
country in a few days." "So I am told," replied Amine. "Will you take the advice of one who wishes you well? Return in that
vessel, go back to your own cottage, and stay there till your husband
comes to you once more." "Why is this advice given?" "Because I forbode danger, nay, perhaps death, a cruel death, to one I
would not harm." "To me!" replied Amine, fixing her eyes upon Schriften, and meeting
his piercing gaze. "Yes, to you. Some people can see into futurity farther than others." "Not if they are mortal," replied Amine. "Yes, if they are mortal. But mortal or not, I do see that which I
would avert. Tempt not destiny farther." "Who can avert it? If I take your counsel, still was it my destiny to
take your counsel. If I take it not, still it was my destiny." "Well, then, avoid what threatens you." "I fear not, yet do I thank you. Tell me, Schriften, hast thou not
thy fate someway interwoven with that of my husband? I feel that thou
hast." "Why think you so, lady?" "For many reasons: twice you have summoned him, twice have you been
wrecked, and miraculously reappeared and recovered. You know, too, of
his mission, that is evident." "But proves nothing." "Yes! it proves much; for it proves that you knew what was supposed to
be known but to him alone." "It was known to you, and holy men debated on it," replied Schriften
with a sneer. "How knew you that, again?" "He! he!" replied Schriften; "forgive me, lady, I meant not to affront
you." "You cannot deny that you are connected mysteriously and
incomprehensibly with this mission of my husband's. Tell me, is it as
he believes, true and holy?" "If he thinks that it is true and holy, it becomes so." "Why then do you appear his enemy?" "I am not _his_ enemy, fair lady." "You are not his enemy--why then did you once attempt to deprive him
of the mystic relic by which the mission is to be accomplished?" "I would prevent his further search, for reasons which must not be
told. Does that prove that I am his enemy? Would it not be better that
he should remain on shore with competence and you, than be crossing
the wild seas on this mad search? Without the relic it is not to be
accomplished. It were a kindness, then, to take it from him." Amine answered not, for she was lost in thought. "Lady," continued Schriften, after a time; "I wish you well. For your
husband I care not, yet do I wish him no harm. Now hear me; if you
wish for your future life to be one of ease and peace--if you wish to
remain long in this world with the husband of your choice--of your
first and warmest love--if you wish that he should die in his bed at a
good old age, and that you should close his eyes with children's tears
lamenting, and their smiles reserved to cheer their mother--all this I
see and can promise is in futurity, if you will take that relic from
his bosom and give it up to me. But if you would that he should
suffer more than man has ever suffered, pass his whole life in doubt,
anxiety, and pain, until the deep wave receive his corpse, then let
him keep it--If you would that your own days be shortened, and yet
those remaining be long in human sufferings, if you would be separated
from him and die a cruel death, then let him keep it. I can read
futurity, and such must be the destiny of both. Lady, consider well, I
must leave you now. To-morrow I will have your answer." Schriften walked away and left Amine to her own reflections. For a
long while she repeated to herself the conversation and denunciations
of the man, whom she was now convinced was not of this world, and was
in some way or another deeply connected with her husband's fate. "To me he wishes well, no harm to my husband, and would prevent his
search. Why would he?--that he will not tell. He has tempted me,
tempted me most strangely. How easy 'twere to take the relic whilst
Philip sleeps upon my bosom--but how treacherous! And yet a life of
competence and ease, a smiling family, a good old age; what offers to
a fond and doting wife! And if not, toil, anxiety, and a watery grave;
and for me! Pshaw! that's nothing. And yet to die separated from
Philip, is that nothing? Oh, no, the thought is dreadful.--I do
believe him. Yes, he has foretold the future, and told it truly. Could
I persuade Philip? No! I know him well; he has vowed, and is not to be
changed. And yet, if the relic were taken without his knowledge, he
would not have to blame himself. Who then would he blame? Could I
deceive him? I, the wife of his bosom tell a lie. No! no! it must not
be. Come what will, it is our destiny, and I am resigned. I would that
Schriften had not spoken. Alas! we search into futurity, and then
would fain retrace our steps, and wish we had remained in ignorance." "What makes you so pensive, Amine?" said Philip, who some time
afterwards walked up to where she was seated. Amine replied not at first. "Shall I tell him all?" thought she. "It
is my only chance--I will." Amine repeated the conversation between
her and Schriften. Philip made no reply; he sat down by Amine and took
her hand. Amine dropped her head upon her husband's shoulder. "What
think you, Amine?" said Philip, after a time. "I could not steal your relic, Philip; perhaps you'll give it to me." "And my father, Amine, my poor father--his dreadful doom to be
eternal! He who appealed, was permitted to appeal to his son, that
that dreadful doom might be averted. Does not the conversation of this
man prove to you that my mission is not false? Does not his knowledge
of it strengthen all? Yet, why would he prevent it?" continued Philip,
musing. "Why, I cannot tell, Philip, but I would fain prevent it. I feel that
he has power to read the future, and has read aright." "Be it so; he has spoken, but not plainly.