Amine had just returned from an afternoon’s walk through the streets of Goa; she had made some purchases at different shops in the bazaar, and had brought them home under her mantilla.  “Here, at last, thank Heaven, I am alone and not watched,” thought Amine, as she threw herself on the couch.  “Philip, Philip, where are you?” exclaimed she; “I have now the means, and I soon will know.”  Little Pedro, the son of the widow, entered the room, ran up to Amine, and kissed her.  “Tell me, Pedro, where is your mother?”

“She has gone out to see her friends this evening, and we are alone.  I will stay with you.”

“Do so, dearest.  Tell me, Pedro, can you keep a secret?”

“Yes, I will—­tell it me.”

“Nay, I have nothing to tell, but I wish to do something:  I wish to make a play, and you shall see things in your hand.”

“Oh! yes, shew me, do shew me.”

“If you promise not to tell.”

“No, by the Holy Virgin, I will not.”

“Then you shall see.”

Amine lighted some charcoal in a chafing dish, and put it at her feet; she then took a reed pen, some ink from a small bottle, and a pair of scissors, and wrote down several characters on a paper, singing, or rather chanting, words which were not intelligible to her young companion.  Amine then threw frankincense and coriander seed into the chafing dish, which threw out a strong aromatic smoke; and desiring Pedro to sit down by her on a small stool, she took the boy’s right hand and held it in her own.  She then drew upon the palm of his hand a square figure with characters on each side of it, and in the centre poured a small quantity of the ink, so as to form a black mirror of the size of a half-a-crown.

“Now all is ready,” said Amine; “look, Pedro, what see you in the ink?”

“My own face,” replied the boy.

She threw more frankincense upon the chafing dish, until the room was full of smoke, and then chanted.

“Turshoon, turyo-shoon—­come down, come down.

“Be present, ye servants of these names.

“Remove the veil, and be correct.”

The characters she had drawn upon the paper she had divided with the scissors, and now taking one of the pieces, she dropped it into the chafing dish, still holding the boy’s hand.

“Tell me now, Pedro, what do you see?”

“I see a man sweeping,” replied Pedro, alarmed.

“Fear not, Pedro, you shall see more.  Has he done sweeping?”

“Yes, he has.”

And Amine muttered words, which were unintelligible, and threw into the chafing dish the other half of the paper with the characters she had written down.  “Say now, Pedro, Philip Vanderdecken, appear.”

“Philip Vanderdecken, appear!” responded the boy, trembling.

“Tell me what thou seest, Pedro—­tell me true?” said Amine, anxiously.

“I see a man lying down on the white sand; (I don’t like this play.)”