It was now time to part with Amine, who had remained at the hostelry, and to whom Philip had dedicated every spare moment that he could obtain.  The fleet was expected to sail in two days, and it was decided, that on the morrow they should part.  Amine was cool and collected.  She felt convinced that she should see her husband again, and with that feeling, she embraced him as they separated on the beach, and he stepped into the boat in which he was to be pulled on board.

“Yes,” thought Amine, as she watched the form of her husband, as the distance between them increased—­“yes, I know that we shall meet again.  It is not this voyage which is to be fatal to you or me; but I have a dark foreboding that the next, in which I shall join you, will separate us for ever—­in which way, I know not—­but it is destined.  The priests talk of free-will.  Is it free-will which takes him away from me?  Would he not rather remain on shore with me?  Yes.  But he is not permitted, for he must fulfil his destiny.  Free-will!  Why, if it were not destiny it were tyranny.  I feel, and have felt, as if these priests are my enemies; but why I know not:  they are both good men, and the creed they teach is good.  Good-will and charity, love to all, forgiveness of injuries, not judging others.  All this is good; and yet my heart whispers to me that—­but the boat is alongside, and Philip is climbing up the vessel.  Farewell, farewell, my dearest husband.  I would I were a man!  No, no! ’tis better as it is.”

Amine watched till she could no longer perceive Philip, and then walked slowly to the hostelry.  The next day, when she arose, she found that the fleet had sailed at daylight, and the channel, which had been so crowded with vessels, was now untenanted.

“He is gone,” muttered Amine; “now for many months of patient, calm enduring,—­I cannot say of living, for I exist but in his presence.”

Chapter XVI

We must leave Amine to her solitude, and follow the fortunes of Philip.  The fleet had sailed with a flowing sheet, and bore gallantly down the Zuyder Zee; but they had not been under way an hour before the Vrow Katerina was left a mile or two astern.  Mynheer Barentz found fault with the setting and trimming of the sails, and with the man at the helm, who was repeatedly changed; in short, with everything but his dear Vrow Katerina:  but all would not do; she still dropped astern, and proved to be the worst-sailing vessel in the fleet.

“Mynheer Vanderdecken,” said he, at last, “the Vrow, as my father used to say, is not so very fast before the wind.  Vessels that are good on a wind seldom are:  but this I will say, that, in every other point of sailing, there is no other vessel in the fleet equal to the Vrow Katerina.”

“Besides,” observed Philip, who perceived how anxious his captain was on the subject, “we are heavily laden, and have so many troops on deck.”