On the twenty-second day the high land of the south of Sumatra was in view; as there were no vessels in sight, they resolved to keep their course through the Straits, and run for Pulo Penang, which they expected, as their vessel laid so close to the wind, to reach in seven or eight days.  By constant exposure, Philip and Krantz were now so bronzed, that with their long beards and Mussulman dresses, they might easily have passed off for natives.  They had steered during the whole of the days exposed to a burning sun; they had lain down and slept in the dew of night, but their health had not suffered.  But for several days, since he had confided the history of his family to Philip, Krantz had become silent and melancholy; his usual flow of spirits had vanished, and Philip had often questioned him as to the cause.  As they entered the Straits, Philip talked of what they should do upon their arrival at Goa.  When Krantz gravely replied, “For some days, Philip, I have had a presentiment that I shall never see that city.”

“You are out of health, Krantz,” replied Philip.

“No; I am in sound health, body and mind.  I have endeavoured to shake off the presentiment, but in vain; there is a warning voice that continually tells me that I shall not be long with you.  Philip, will you oblige me by making me content on one point:  I have gold about my person which may be useful to you; oblige me by taking it, and securing it on your own.”

“What nonsense, Krantz.”

“It is no nonsense, Philip.  Have you not had your warnings?  Why should I not have mine?  You know that I have little fear in my composition, and that I care not about death; but I feel the presentiment which I speak of more strongly every hour.  It is some kind spirit who would warn me to prepare for another world.  Be it so.  I have lived long enough in this world to leave it without regret; although to part with you and Amine, the only two now dear to me, is painful, I acknowledge.”

“May not this arise from over-exertion and fatigue, Krantz? consider how much excitement you have laboured under within these last four months.  Is not that enough to create a corresponding depression?  Depend upon it, my dear friend, such is the fact.”

“I wish it were—­but I feel otherwise, and there is a feeling of gladness connected with the idea that I am to leave this world, arising from another presentiment, which equally occupies my mind.”

“Which is?”

“I hardly can tell you; but Amine and you are connected with it.  In my dreams I have seen you meet again; but it has appeared to me, as if a portion of your trial was purposely shut from my sight in dark clouds; and I have asked, ’May not I see what is there concealed?’—­and an invisible has answered, ’No! ’twould make you wretched.  Before these trials take place, you will be summoned away’—­and then I have thanked Heaven, and felt resigned.”

“These are the imaginings of a disturbed brain, Krantz; that I am destined to suffering may be true; but why Amine should suffer, or why you, young, in full health and vigour, should not pass your days in peace, and live to a good old age, there is no cause for believing.  You will be better to-morrow.”