Philip looked about him for some spot where he might be concealed from observation—­where he might break the seal, and read this mission from a world of spirits.  A small copse of brushwood, in advance of a grove of trees, was not far from where he stood.  He walked to it, and sat down, so as to be concealed from any passers-by.  Philip once more looked at the descending orb of day, and by degrees he became composed.

“It is thy will,” exclaimed he; “it is my fate, and both must be accomplished.”

Philip put his hand to the seal,—­his blood thrilled when he called to mind that it had been delivered by no mortal hand, and that it contained the secret of one in judgment.  He remembered that that one was his father; and that it was only in the letter that there was hope,—­hope for his poor father, whose memory he had been taught to love, and who appealed for help.

“Coward that I am, to have lost so many hours!” exclaimed Philip; “yon sun appears as if waiting on the hill, to give me light to read.”

Philip mused a short time; he was once more the daring Vanderdecken.  Calmly he broke the seal, which bore the initials of his father’s name, and read as follows:—­

    “To CATHERINE.

    “One of those pitying spirits whose eyes rain tears for mortal
    crimes has been permitted to inform me by what means alone my
    dreadful doom may be averted.

“Could I but receive on the deck of my own ship the holy relic upon which I swore the fatal oath, kiss it in all humility, and shed one tear of deep contrition on the sacred wood, I then might rest in peace.

    “How this may be effected, or by whom so fatal a task will be
    undertaken, I know not.  O Catherine, we have a son—­but, no, no,
    let him not hear of me.  Pray for me, and now, farewell.

    “I.  VANDERDECKEN.”

“Then it is true, most horribly true,” thought Philip; “and my father is even now IN LIVING JUDGMENT.  And he points to me—­to whom else should he?  Am I not his son, and is it not my duty?

“Yes, father,” exclaimed Philip aloud, falling on his knees, “you have not written these lines in vain.  Let me peruse them once more.”

Philip raised up his hand; but although it appeared to him that he had still hold of the letter, it was not there—­he grasped nothing.  He looked on the grass to see if it had fallen—­but no, there was no letter, it had disappeared.  Was it a vision?—­no, no, he had read every word.  “Then it must be to me, and me alone, that the mission was intended.  I accept the sign.

“Hear me, dear father,—­if thou art so permitted,—­and deign to hear me, gracious Heaven—­hear the son who, by this sacred relic, swears that he will avert your doom, or perish.  To that will he devote his days; and having done his duty, he will die in hope and peace.  Heaven, that recorded my rash father’s oath, now register his son’s upon the same sacred cross, and may perjury on my part be visited with punishment more dire than his!  Receive it, Heaven, as at the last I trust that in thy mercy thou wilt receive the father and the son! and if too bold, O pardon my presumption.”