It was not until late in the autumn that Philip was roused from his dream of love (for what, alas! is every enjoyment of this life but a dream?) by a summons from the captain of the vessel with whom he had engaged to sail.  Strange as it may appear, from the first day which put him in possession of his Amine, Philip had no longer brooded over his future destiny:  occasionally it was recalled to his memory, but immediately rejected, and, for the time, forgotten.  Sufficient he thought it to fulfil his engagement when the time should come; and although the hours flew away, and day succeeded day, week week, and month month, with the rapidity accompanying a life of quiet and unvarying bliss, Philip forgot his vow in the arms of Amine, who was careful not to revert to a topic which would cloud the brow of her adored husband.  Once, indeed, or twice, had old Poots raised the question of Philip’s departure, but the indignant frown and the imperious command of Amine (who knew too well the sordid motives which actuated her father, and who, at such times, looked upon him with abhorrence) made him silent, and the old man would spend his leisure hours in walking up and down the parlour with his eyes riveted upon the buffets, where the silver tankards now beamed in all their pristine brightness.

One morning, in the month of October, there was a tapping with the knuckles at the cottage door.  As this precaution implied a stranger, Amine obeyed the summons, “I would speak with Master Philip Vanderdecken,” said the stranger, in a half-whispering sort of voice.

The party who thus addressed Amine was a little meagre personage, dressed in the garb of the Dutch seamen of the time, with a cap made of badger-skin hanging over his brow.  His features were sharp and diminutive, his face of a deadly white, his lips pale, and his hair of a mixture between red and white.  He had very little show of beard—­indeed, it was almost difficult to say what his age might be.  He might have been a sickly youth early sinking into decrepitude, or an old man, hale in constitution, yet carrying no flesh.  But the most important feature, and that which immediately riveted the attention of Amine, was the eye of this peculiar personage—­for he had but one; the right eye-lid was closed, and the ball within had evidently wasted away; but his left eye was, for the size of his face and head, of unusual dimensions, very protuberant, clear and watery, and most unpleasant to look upon, being relieved by no fringe of eyelash either above or below it.  So remarkable was the feature, that when you looked at the man, you saw his eye and looked at nothing else.  It was not a man with one eye, but one eye with a man attached to it:  the body was but the tower of the lighthouse, of no further value, and commanding no further attention, than does the structure which holds up the beacon to the venturous mariner; and yet, upon examination, you would have perceived that the man, although small, was neatly made; that his