and it was under this man that he obtained a knowledge of the art.  In a few years he was equal to his master; but, as a slave, he worked not for himself.  You know, indeed it cannot be concealed, my father’s avarice.  He sighed to become as wealthy as his master, and to obtain his freedom; he became a follower of Mahomet, after which he was free, and practised for himself.  He took a wife from an Arab family, the daughter of a chief whom he had restored to health, and he settled in the country.  I was born; he amassed wealth, and became much celebrated; but the son of a Bey dying under his hands was the excuse for persecuting him.  His head was forfeited, but he escaped; not, however, without the loss of all his beloved wealth.  My mother and I went with him; he fled to the Bedouins, with whom we remained some years.  There I was accustomed to rapid marches, wild and fierce attacks, defeat and flight, and oftentimes to indiscriminate slaughter.  But the Bedouins paid not well for my father’s services, and gold was his idol.  Hearing that the Bey was dead, he returned to Cairo, where he again practised.  He was allowed once more to amass until the heap was sufficient to excite the cupidity of the new Bey; but this time he was fortunately made acquainted with the intentions of the ruler.  He again escaped, with a portion of his wealth, in a small vessel, and gained the Spanish coast; but he never has been able to retain his money long.  Before he arrived in this country he had been robbed of almost all, and has now been for these three years laying up again.  We were but one year at Middleburgh, and from thence removed to this place.  Such is the history of my life, Philip.”

“And does your father still hold the Mahomedan faith, Amine?”

“I know not.  I think he holds no faith whatever:  at least he hath taught me none.  His god is gold.”

“And yours?”

“Is the God who made this beautiful world, and all which it contains—­the God of nature—­name him as you will.  This I feel, Philip, but more I fain would know; there are so many faiths, but surely they must be but different paths leading alike to heaven.  Yours is the Christian faith, Philip.  Is it the true one?  But everyone calls his own the true one, whatever his creed may be.”

“It is the true and only one, Amine.  Could I but reveal—­I have such dreadful proofs—­”

“That your faith is true; then is it not your duty to reveal these proofs?  Tell me, are you bound by any solemn obligation never to reveal?”

“No, I am not; yet do I feel as if I were.  But I hear voices—­it must be your father and the authorities—­I must go down and meet them.”

Philip rose, and went downstairs.  Amine’s eyes followed him as he went, and she remained looking towards the door.

“Is it possible,” said she, sweeping the hair from off her brow, “so soon,—­yes, yes, ’tis even so.  I feel that I would sooner share his hidden woe—­his dangers—­even death itself were preferable with him, than ease and happiness with any other.  And it shall be strange indeed if I do not.  This night my father shall move into his cottage:  I will prepare at once.”