d 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