Mynheer Poots took the cup from Amine’s hands, and went into Philip’s room.

“Here, my son, drink this off, and you will be well,” said Mynheer Poots, whose hand trembled so that he spilt the wine on the coverlet.  Amine, who watched her father, was more than ever pleased that she had not put the powder into the cup.  Philip rose on his elbow, drank off the wine, and Mynheer Poots then wished him good-night.

“Do not leave him, Amine, I will see all right,” said Mynheer Poots, as he left the room.  And Amine, who had intended to go down for the candle left in the parlour, remained with her husband, to whom she confided her feelings, and also the fact that she had not given him the powder.

“I trust that you are mistaken, Amine,” replied Philip, “indeed I feel sure that you must be.  No man can be so bad as you suppose your father.”

“You have not lived with him as I have; you have not seen what I have seen,” replied Amine.  “You know not what gold will tempt people to do in this world—­but, however, I may be wrong.  At all events, you must go to sleep, and I shall watch you, dearest.  Pray do not speak—­I feel I cannot sleep just now—­I wish to read a little—­I will lie down by-and-bye.”

Philip made no further objections, and was soon in a sound sleep, and Amine watched him in silence till midnight long had passed.

“He breathes heavily,” thought Amine; “but had I given him that powder, who knows if he had ever awoke again?  My father is so deeply skilled in the Eastern knowledge, that I fear him.  Too often has he, I well know, for a purse well filled with gold, prepared the sleep of death.  Another would shudder at the thought; but he, who has dealt out death at the will of his employers, would scruple little to do so even to the husband of his own daughter; and I have watched him in his moods, and know his thoughts and wishes.  What a foreboding of mishap has come over me this evening!—­what a fear of evil!  Philip is ill, ’tis true, but not so very ill.  No! no! besides, his time is not yet come; he has his dreadful task to finish.  I would it were morning.  How soundly he sleeps! and the dew is on his brow.  I must cover him up warm, and watch that he remains so.  Some one knocks at the entrance-door.  Now will they wake him.  ’Tis a summons for my father.”

Amine left the room, and hastened downstairs.  It was, as she supposed, a summons for Mynheer Poots to a woman taken in labour.

“He shall follow you directly,” said Amine; “I will now call him up.”  Amine went upstairs to the room where her father slept, and knocked; hearing no answer, as usual, she knocked again.

“My father is not used to sleep in this way,” thought Amine, when she found no answer to her second call.  She opened the door and went in.  To her surprise, her father was not in bed.  “Strange,” thought she; “but I do not recollect having heard his footsteps coming up after he went down to take away the lights.”  And Amine hastened to the parlour, where, stretched on the sofa, she discovered her father apparently fast asleep; but to her call he gave no answer.  “Merciful Heaven! is he dead?” thought she, approaching the light to her father’s face.  Yes, it was so! his eyes were fixed and glazed—­his lower jaw had fallen.