There was a curious expression in the face of the old man as he
endeavoured to suppress, before Amine and her husband, the joy which
he felt at Philip's departure. Gradually he subdued his features into
gravity, and said--

"That is very bad news, indeed."

No answer was made by Amine or Philip, who quitted the room together.

We must pass over this week, which was occupied in preparations for
Philip's departure. We must pass over the heroism of Amine, who
controlled her feelings, racked as she was with intense agony at the
idea of separating from her adored husband. We cannot dwell upon the
conflicting emotions in the breast of Philip, who left competence,
happiness, and love, to encounter danger, privation, and death. Now,
at one time, he would almost resolve to remain, and then at others,
as he took the relic from his bosom and remembered his vow registered
upon it, he was nearly as anxious to depart. Amine, too, as she fell
asleep in her husband's arms, would count the few hours left them;
or she would shudder, as she lay awake and the wind howled, at the
prospect of what Philip would have to encounter. It was a long week to
both of them, and, although they thought that time flew fast, it was
almost a relief when the morning came that was to separate them; for
to their feelings, which, from regard to each other, had been pent up
and controlled, they could then give vent; their surcharged bosoms
could be relieved; certainty had driven away suspense, and hope was
still left to cheer them and brighten up the dark horizon of the
future.

"Philip," said Amine, as they sat together with their hands entwined,
"I shall not feel so much when you are gone. I do not forget that all
this was told me before we were wed, and that for my love I took the
hazard. My fond heart often tells me that you will return; but it may
deceive me--return you _may_, but not in life. In this room I shall
await you; on this sofa, removed to its former station, I shall sit;
and if you cannot appear to me alive, O refuse me not, if it be
possible, to appear to me when dead. I shall fear no storm, no
bursting open of the window. O no! I shall hail the presence even of
your spirit. Once more; let me but see you--let me be assured that you
are dead--and then I shall know that I have no more to live for in
this world, and shall hasten to join you in a world of bliss. Promise
me, Philip."

"I promise all you ask, provided Heaven will so permit;