interrupted by the entrance
of Mynheer Poots, who, struck with the alteration in Amine's radiant
features, exclaimed, "Holy prophet! what is the matter now?"

"Nothing more than what we all knew before," replied Philip; "I am about
to leave you--the ship will sail in a week."

"Oh! you will sail in a week?"

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 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