There are few who have passed through life so quietly, as not to recollect how much grief has been assuaged by confiding its cause to, and listening to the counsels and consolations of, some dear friend.  It must not therefore appear surprising, that, situated as he was, and oppressed with the loss of Amine, Philip should regard Krantz as one to whom he might venture to confide his important secret.  He commenced his narrative with no injunctions, for he felt that if Krantz could not respect his secret for his secret’s sake, or from good-will towards him, he was not likely to be bound by any promise; and as, during the day, the raft passed by the various small capes and headlands of the island, he poured into Krantz’s ear the history which the reader is acquainted with.  “Now you know all,” said Philip with a deep sigh, as the narrative was concluded.  “What think you?  Do you credit my strange tale, or do you imagine, as some well would, that it is a mere phantom of a disordered brain?”

“That it is not so, Philip, I believe,” replied Krantz; “for I too have had ocular proof of the correctness of a part of your history.  Remember how often I have seen this Phantom Ship—­and if your father is permitted to range over the seas, why should you not be selected and permitted to reverse his doom?  I fully believe every word that you have told me, and since you have told me this, I can comprehend much that in your behaviour at times appeared unaccountable; there are many who would pity you, Philip, but I envy you.”

“Envy me?” cried Philip.

“Yes! envy you:  and gladly would I take the burden of your doom on my own shoulders, were it only possible.  Is it not a splendid thought that you are summoned to so great a purpose,—­that instead of roaming through the world as we all do in pursuit of wealth, which possibly we may lose after years of cost and hardship, by the venture of a day, and which, at all events, we must leave behind us,—­you are selected to fulfil a great and glorious work—­the work of angels, I may say—­that of redeeming the soul of a father, suffering indeed, for his human frailties, but not doomed to perish for eternity; you have, indeed, an object of pursuit worthy of all the hardships and dangers of a maritime life.  If it ends in your death, what then?  Where else end our futile cravings, our continual toil, after nothing?  We all must die—­but how few—­who indeed besides yourself—­was ever permitted before his death to ransom the soul of the author of his existence!  Yes, Philip, I envy you!”

“You think and speak like Amine.  She too is of a wild and ardent soul, that would mingle with the beings of the other world, and hold intelligence with disembodied spirits.”

“She is right,” replied Krantz; “there are events in my life, or rather connected with my family, which have often fully convinced me that this is not only possible but permitted.  Your story has only corroborated what I already believed.”