“Alas! this room appears to be fatal.  How many more scenes of horror are to pass within it?”

“None, I trust,” replied Amine; “this is not, to my mind, the scene of horror.  It was when that old man (now called away—­and a victim of his own treachery) stood by your bedside, and with every mark of interest and kindness, offered you the cup—­that was the scene of horror,” said Amine, shuddering—­“one which long will haunt me.”

“God forgive him! as I do,” replied Philip, lifting up the body, and carrying it up the stairs to the room which had been occupied by Mynheer Poots.

“Let it at least be supposed that he died in his bed, and that his death was natural,” said Amine.  “My pride cannot bear that this should be known, or that I should be pointed at as the daughter of a murderer!  O Philip!”

Amine sat down, and burst into tears.

Her husband was attempting to console her, when Father Seysen knocked at the door.  Philip hastened down to open it.

“Good morning, my son.  How is the sufferer?”

“He has ceased to suffer, father.”

“Indeed!” replied the good priest, with sorrow in his countenance; “am I then too late? yet have I not tarried.”

“He went off suddenly, father, in a convulsion,” replied Philip, leading the way upstairs.

Father Seysen looked at the body and perceived that his offices were needless, and then turned to Amine, who had not yet checked her tears.

“Weep, my child, weep! for you have cause,” said the priest.  “The loss of a father’s love must be a severe trial to a dutiful and affectionate child.  But yield not too much to your grief, Amine; you have other duties, other ties, my child—­you have your husband.”

“I know it, father,” replied Amine; “still must I weep, for I was his daughter.”

“Did he not go to bed last night, then, that his clothes are still upon him?  When did he first complain?”

“The last time that I saw him, father,” replied Philip, “he came into my room, and gave me some medicine, and then he wished me good-night.  Upon a summons to attend a sick-bed, my wife went to call him, and found him speechless.”

“It has been sudden,” replied the priest; “but he was an old man, and old men sink at once.  Were you with him when he died?”

“I was not, sir,” replied Philip; “before my wife had summoned me and I had dressed myself, he had left this world.”

“I trust, my children, for a better.”  Amine shuddered.  “Tell me, Amine,” continued the priest, “did he show signs of grace before he died? for you know full well that he has long been looked on as doubtful in his creed, and little attentive to the rites of our holy church.”

“There are times, holy father,” replied Amine, “when even a sincere Christian can be excused, even if he give no sign.  Look at his clenched hands, witness the agony of death on his face, and could you, in that state, expect a sign?”