“That is very bad news, indeed.”

No answer was made by Amine or Philip, who quitted the room together.

We must pass over this week, which was occupied in preparations for Philip’s departure.  We must pass over the heroism of Amine, who controlled her feelings, racked as she was with intense agony at the idea of separating from her adored husband.  We cannot dwell upon the conflicting emotions in the breast of Philip, who left competence, happiness, and love, to encounter danger, privation, and death.  Now, at one time, he would almost resolve to remain, and then at others, as he took the relic from his bosom and remembered his vow registered upon it, he was nearly as anxious to depart.  Amine, too, as she fell asleep in her husband’s arms, would count the few hours left them; or she would shudder, as she lay awake and the wind howled, at the prospect of what Philip would have to encounter.  It was a long week to both of them, and, although they thought that time flew fast, it was almost a relief when the morning came that was to separate them; for to their feelings, which, from regard to each other, had been pent up and controlled, they could then give vent; their surcharged bosoms could be relieved; certainty had driven away suspense, and hope was still left to cheer them and brighten up the dark horizon of the future.

“Philip,” said Amine, as they sat together with their hands entwined, “I shall not feel so much when you are gone.  I do not forget that all this was told me before we were wed, and that for my love I took the hazard.  My fond heart often tells me that you will return; but it may deceive me—­return you may, but not in life.  In this room I shall await you; on this sofa, removed to its former station, I shall sit; and if you cannot appear to me alive, O refuse me not, if it be possible, to appear to me when dead.  I shall fear no storm, no bursting open of the window.  O no!  I shall hail the presence even of your spirit.  Once more; let me but see you—­let me be assured that you are dead—­and then I shall know that I have no more to live for in this world, and shall hasten to join you in a world of bliss.  Promise me, Philip.”

“I promise all you ask, provided Heaven will so permit; but, Amine,” and Philip’s lips trembled, “I cannot—­merciful God!  I am indeed tried.  Amine, I can stay no longer.”

Amine’s dark eyes were fixed upon her husband—­she could not speak—­her features were convulsed—­nature could no longer hold up against her excess of feeling—­she fell into his arms, and lay motionless.  Philip, about to impress a last kiss upon her pale lips, perceived that she had fainted.

“She feels not now,” said he, as he laid her upon the sofa; “it is better that it should be so—­too soon will she awake to misery.”

Summoning to the assistance of his daughter Mynheer Poots, who was in the adjoining room, Philip caught up his hat, imprinted one more fervent kiss upon her forehead, burst from the house, and was out of sight long before Amine had recovered from her swoon.