“I do not believe so, Amine:  you know well I wish I could.”

“Then is my reasoning proved:  for if such communications can be made to you, why cannot others?  You cannot tell by what agency; your priests say it is that of the evil one; you think it is from on high.  By the same rule, who is to decide from whence the dream shall come?”

“’Tis true, Amine; but are you certain of your power?”

“Certain of this:  that if it pleases superior intelligence to communicate with you, that communication may be relied upon.  Either you will not dream, but pass away the hours in deep sleep, or what you dream will be connected with the question at issue.”

“Then, Amine, I have made up my mind—­I will dream:  for at present my mind is racked by contending and perplexing doubts.  I would know whether I am right or wrong.  This night your art shall be employed.”

“Not this night, nor yet to-morrow night, Philip.  Think you one moment that, in proposing this, I serve you against my own wishes?  I feel as if the dream will decide against me, and that you will be commanded to return to your duty; for I tell you honestly, I think not with the priests; but I am your wife, Philip, and it is my duty that you should not be deceived.  Having the means, as I suppose, to decide your conduct, I offer them.  Promise me that, if I do this, you will grant me a favour which I shall ask as my reward.”

“It is promised, Amine, without its being known,” replied Philip, rising from the turf; “and now let us go home.”

We observed that Philip, previous to his sailing in the Batavia, had invested a large proportion of his funds in Dutch East India stock:  the interest of the money was more than sufficient for the wants of Amine, and, on his return, he found that the funds left in her charge had accumulated.  After paying to Father Seysen the sums for the masses, and for the relief of the poor, there was a considerable residue, and Philip had employed this in the purchase of more shares in the India stock.

The subject of their conversation was not renewed.  Philip was rather averse to Amine practising those mystical arts, which, if known to the priests, would have obtained for her, in all probability, the anathema of the Church.  He could not but admire the boldness and power of Amine’s reasonings, but still he was averse to reduce them into practice.  The third day had passed away, and no more had been said upon the subject.

Philip retired to bed, and was soon fast asleep; but Amine slept not.  So soon as she was convinced that Philip would not be awakened, she slipped from the bed and dressed herself.  She left the room, and in a quarter of an hour returned, bringing in her hand a small brazier of lighted charcoal, and two small pieces of parchment, rolled up and fixed by a knot to the centre of a narrow fillet.  They exactly resembled the philacteries that were once