“Unholy child! what dost thou?”

Amine had roused the suspicions of the priests, not only by her conversation, but by several attempts which she had before made to recover her lost art; and on one occasion, in which she had defended it, both Father Mathias and Father Seysen had poured out the bitterest anathemas upon her, or anyone who had resort to such practices.  The smell of the fragrant herbs thrown into the censer, and the smoke, which afterwards had escaped through the door and ascended the stairs, had awakened the suspicions of Father Mathias, and he had crept up silently, and entered the room without her perceiving it.  Amine at once perceived her danger.  Had she been single, she would have dared the priest; but, for Philip’s sake, she determined to mislead him.

“I do no wrong, father,” replied she, calmly; “but it appears to me not seemly that you should enter the chamber of a young woman during her husband’s absence.  I might have been in my bed.  It is a strange intrusion.”

“Thou canst not mean this, woman!  My age—­my profession—­are a sufficient warranty,” replied Father Mathias, somewhat confused at this unexpected attack.

“Not always, Father, if what I have been told of monks and priests be true,” replied Amine.  “I ask again, why comest thou here into an unprotected woman’s chamber?”

“Because I felt convinced that she was practising unholy arts.”

“Unholy arts!—­what mean you?  Is the leech’s skill unholy? is it unholy to administer relief to those who suffer?—­to charm the fever and the ague which rack the limbs of those who live in this unwholesome climate?”

“All charms are most unholy.”

“When I said charms, Father, I meant not what you mean; I simply would have said a remedy.  If a knowledge of certain wonderful herbs, which, properly combined will form a specific to ease the suffering wretch—­an art well known unto my mother, and which I now would fain recall—­if that knowledge, or a wish to regain that knowledge, be unholy, then are you correct.”

“I heard thee call upon thy mother for her help.”

“I did, for she well knew the ingredients; but I, I fear have not the knowledge that she had.  Is that sinful, good Father?”

“’Tis, then, a remedy that you would find?” replied the priest; “I thought that thou didst practise that which is most unlawful.”

“Can the burning of a few weeds be then unlawful?  What did you expect to find?  Look you, Father, at these ashes—­they may, with oil, be rubbed into the pores and give relief—­but can they do more?  What do you expect from them—­a ghost?—­a spirit?—­like the prophet raised for the King of Israel?” And Amine laughed aloud.

“I am perplexed, but not convinced,” replied the priest.

“I, too, am perplexed and not convinced,” responded Amine, scornfully.  “I cannot satisfy myself that a man of your discretion could really suppose that there was mischief in burning weeds; nor am I convinced that such was the occasion of your visit at this hour of the night to a lone woman’s chamber.  There may be natural charms more powerful than those you call supernatural.  I pray you, Father, leave this chamber.  It is not seemly.  Should you again presume, you leave the house.  I thought better of you.  In future, I will not be left at any time alone.”