“And even if my conjecture were correct, what does it matter?” replied Amine.  “There can be nothing more—­nothing which can render your position more awful and more desperate.  As your wife, Philip, I feel less courage than I did when I gave my willing hand.  I knew not then what would be the extent of my loss; but fear not, much as I feel here,” continued Amine, putting her hand to her heart—­“I am prepared, and proud that he who is selected for such a task is my husband.”  Amine paused.  “You cannot surely have been mistaken, Philip?”

“No!  Amine, I have not been mistaken, either in the summons or in my own courage, or in my selection of a wife,” replied Philip, mournfully, as he embraced her.  “It is the will of Heaven.”

“Then may its will be done,” replied Amine, rising from her seat.  “The first pang is over.  I feel better now, Philip.  Your Amine knows her duty.”

Philip made no reply; when, after a few moments, Amine continued: 

“But one short week, Philip—­”

“I would it had been but one day;” replied he; “it would have been long enough.  He has come too soon—­the one-eyed monster.”

“Nay, not so, Philip.  I thank him for the week—­’tis but a short time to wean myself from happiness.  I grant you, that were I to tease, to vex, to unman you with my tears, my prayers, or my upbraidings (as some wives would do, Philip), one day would be more than sufficient for such a scene of weakness on my part, and misery on yours.  But, no, Philip, your Amine knows her duty better.  You must go like some knight of old to perilous encounter, perhaps to death; but Amine will arm you, and show her love by closing carefully each rivet to protect you in your peril, and will see you depart full of hope and confidence, anticipating your return.  A week is not too long, Philip, when employed as I trust I shall employ it—­a week to interchange our sentiments, to hear your voice, to listen to your words (each of which will be engraven on my heart’s memory), to ponder on them, and feed my love with them in your absence and in my solitude.  No! no!  Philip; I thank God that there is yet a week.”

“And so do I, then, Amine; and, after all, we knew that this must come.”

“Yes! but my love was so potent, that it banished memory.”

“And yet during our separation your love must feed on memory, Amine.”

Amine sighed.  Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mynheer Poots, who, struck with the alteration in Amine’s radiant features, exclaimed, “Holy Prophet! what is the matter now?”

“Nothing more than what we all knew before,” replied Philip; “I am about to leave you—­the ship will sail in a week.”

“Oh! you will sail in a week?”

There was a curious expression in the face of the old man as he endeavoured to suppress, before Amine and her husband, the joy which he felt at Philip’s departure.  Gradually he subdued his features into gravity, and said—­