“I have thought much of it, Philip.  At first it startled me almost into a belief, but even your own priests helped to undeceive me.  They would not answer you; they would have left you to guide yourself; the message and the holy word, and the wonderful signs given were not in unison with their creed, and they halted.  May I not halt, if they did?  The relic may be as mystic, as powerful as you describe; but the agencies may be false and wicked, the power given to it may have fallen into wrong hands—­the power remains the same, but it is applied to uses not intended.”

“The power, Amine, can only be exercised by those who are friends to Him who died upon it.”

“Then is it no power at all; or if a power, not half so great as that of the arch-fiend; for his can work for good and evil both.  But on this point, dear Philip, we do not well agree, nor can we convince each other.  You have been taught in one way, I another.  That which our childhood has imbibed, which has grown up with our growth, and strengthened with our years, is not to be eradicated.  I have seen my mother work great charms, and succeed.  You have knelt to priests:  I blame not you!—­blame not then your Amine.  We both mean well—­I trust, do well.”

“If a life of innocence and purity were all that were required, my Amine would be sure of future bliss.”

“I think it is; and thinking so, it is my creed.  There are many creeds:  who shall say which is the true one?  And what matters it? they all have the same end in view—­a future Heaven.”

“True, Amine, true,” replied Philip, pacing the cabin thoughtfully; “and yet our priests say otherwise.”

“What is the basis of their creed, Philip?”

“Charity, and good-will.”

“Does charity condemn to eternal misery those who have never heard this creed, who have lived and died worshipping the Great Being after their best endeavours, and little knowledge?”

“No, surely.”

Amine made no further observations; and Philip, after pacing for a few minutes in deep thought, walked out of the cabin.

The Utrecht arrived at the Cape, watered, and proceeded on her voyage and, after two months of difficult navigation, cast anchor off Gambroon.  During this time, Amine had been unceasing in her attempts to gain the good-will of Schriften.  She had often conversed with him on deck, and had done him every kindness, and had overcome that fear which his near approach had generally occasioned.  Schriften gradually appeared mindful of this kindness, and at last to be pleased with Amine’s company.  To Philip he was at times civil and courteous, but not always; but to Amine he was always deferent.  His language was mystical, she could not prevent his chuckling laugh, his occasional “He! he!” from breaking forth.  But when they anchored at Gambroon, he was on such terms with her, that he would occasionally come into the cabin; and, although he would not sit down, would talk to Amine for a few minutes, and then depart.  While the vessel lay at anchor at Gambroon, Schriften one evening walked up to Amine, who was sitting on the poop.  “Lady,” said he, after a pause, “yon ship sails for your own country in a few days.”