“Oh! that I had my mother’s art,” repeated Amine once more, as she entered the cottage; “then would I know where my Philip was at this moment.  Oh! for the black mirror in which I used to peer at her command, and tell her what passed in array before me.  How well do I remember that time—­the time of my father’s absence, when I looked into the liquid on the palm of my hand, and told her of the Bedouin camp—­of the skirmish—­the horse without a rider—­and the turban on the sand!” And again Amine fell into deep thought.  “Yes,” cried she, after a time, “thou canst assist me, mother!  Give me in a dream thy knowledge; thy daughter begs it as a boon.  Let me think again.  The word—­what was the word? what was the name of the spirit—­Turshoon?  Yes, methinks it was Turshoon.  Mother! mother! help your daughter.”

“Dost thou call upon the Blessed Virgin, my child?” said Father Mathias, who had entered the room as she pronounced the last words.  “If so, thou dost well, for she may appear to thee in thy dreams, and strengthen thee in the true faith.”

“I called upon my own mother, who is in the land of spirits, good father,” replied Amine.

“Yes; but, as an infidel; not, I fear, in the land of the blessed spirits, my child.”

“She hardly will be punished for following the creed of her fathers, living where she did, where no other creed was known?” replied Amine, indignantly.  “If the good on earth are blessed in the next world—­if she had, as you assert she had, a soul to be saved—­an immortal spirit—­He who made that spirit will not destroy it because she worshipped as her fathers did.—­Her life was good:  why should she be punished for ignorance of that creed which she never had an opportunity of rejecting?”

“Who shall dispute the will of Heaven, my child?  Be thankful that you are permitted to be instructed, and to be received into the bosom of the holy church.”

“I am thankful for many things, father; but I am weary, and must wish you a good-night.”

Amine retired to her room—­but not to sleep.  Once more did she attempt the ceremonies used by her mother, changing them each time, as doubtful of her success.  Again the censer was lighted—­the charm essayed; again the room was filled with smoke as she threw in the various herbs which she had knowledge of, for all the papers thrown aside at her father’s death had been carefully collected, and on many were directions found as to the use of those herbs.  “The word! the word!  I have the first—­the second word!  Help me, mother!” cried Amine, as she sat by the side of the bed, in the room, which was now so full of smoke that nothing could be distinguished.  “It is of no use,” thought she at last, letting her hands fall at her side; “I have forgotten the art.  Mother! mother! help me in my dreams this night.”

The smoke gradually cleared away, and, when Amine lifted up her eyes, she perceived a figure standing before her.  At first she thought she had been successful in her charm; but, as the figure became more distinct, she perceived that it was Father Mathias, who was looking at her with a severe frown and contracted brow, his arms folded before him.