We must now pass over two months, during which Mynheer Poots continued to labour at his vocation, and was seldom within doors, and our two young friends were left for hours together.  Philip’s love for Amine was fully equal to hers for him.  It was more than love—­it was a devotion on both sides, each day increasing.  Who, indeed, could be more charming, more attractive in all ways than the high-spirited, yet tender Amine?  Occasionally the brow of Philip would be clouded when he reflected upon the dark prospect before him; but Amine’s smile would chase away the gloom, and, as he gazed on her, all would be forgotten.  Amine made no secret of her attachment; it was shown in every word, every look, and every gesture.  When Philip would take her hand, or encircle her waist with his arm, or even when he pressed her coral lips, there was no pretence of coyness on her part.  She was too noble, too confiding; she felt that her happiness was centred in his love, and she lived but in his presence.  Two months had thus passed away, when Father Seysen, who often called, and had paid much attention to Amine’s instruction, one day came in as Amine was encircled in Philip’s arms.

“My children,” said he, “I have watched you for some time:  this is not well.  Philip, if you intend marriage, as I presume you do, still it is dangerous.  I must join your hands.”

Philip started up.

“Surely I am not deceived in thee, my son,” continued the priest, in a severe tone.

“No, no, good Father; but I pray you leave me now:  to-morrow you may come, and all will be decided.  But I must talk with Amine.”

The priest quitted the room, and Amine and Philip were again alone.  The colour in Amine’s cheek varied and her heart beat, for she felt how much her happiness was at stake.

“The priest is right, Amine,” said Philip, sitting down by her.  “This cannot last;—­would that I could ever stay with you:  how hard a fate is mine!  You know I love the very ground you tread upon, yet I dare not ask thee to wed to misery.”

“To wed with thee would not be wedding misery, Philip,” replied Amine, with downcast eyes.

“’Twere not kindness on my part, Amine.  I should indeed be selfish.”

“I will speak plainly, Philip,” replied Amine.  “You say you love me,—­I know not how men love,—­but this I know, how I can love.  I feel that to leave me now were indeed unkind and selfish on your part; for, Philip, I—­I should die.  You say that you must go away,—­that fate demands it,—­and your fatal secret.  Be it so;—­but cannot I go with you?”

“Go with me, Amine—­unto death?”

“Yes, death; for what is death but a release?  I fear not death, Philip; I fear but losing thee.  Nay, more; is not your life in the hands of Him who made all? then why so sure to die?  You have hinted to me that you are chosen—­selected for a task;—­if chosen, there is less chance of death; for until the end be fulfilled, if chosen, you must live.  I would I knew your secret, Philip:  a woman’s wit might serve you well:  and if it did not serve you, is there no comfort, no pleasure, in sharing sorrow as well as joy with one you say you dote upon?”