Philip waited no longer; in three bounds he was on the landing-place above, and brushing by the person who had spoken, he opened the door of Amine’s room.

A floating wick in a tumbler of oil gave but a faint and glimmering light; the curtains of the bed were drawn, and by the side of it was kneeling a figure that was well known to Philip—­that of Father Seysen.  Philip recoiled; the blood retreated to his heart; he could not speak:  panting for breath, he supported himself against the wall, and at last vented his agony of feeling by a deep groan, which aroused the priest, who turned his head, and perceiving who it was, rose from his knees, and extended his hand in silence.

“She is dead, then!” at last exclaimed Philip.

“No, my son, not dead; there is yet hope.  The crisis is at hand; in one more hour her fate will be decided:  then either will she be restored to your arms, or follow the many hundreds whom this fatal epidemic has consigned to the tomb.”

Father Seysen then led Philip to the side of the bed, and withdrew the curtain.  Amine lay insensible, but breathing heavily; her eyes were closed.  Philip seized her burning hand, knelt down, pressed it to his lips, and burst into a paroxysm of tears.  As soon as he had become somewhat composed, Father Seysen persuaded him to rise and sit with him by the side of the bed.

“This is a melancholy sight to witness at your return, Philip,” said he; “and to you who are so ardent, so impetuous, it must be doubly so; but God’s will be done.  Remember there is yet hope—­not strong hope, I grant, but still there is hope, for so told me the medical man who has attended her, and who will return, I expect, in a few minutes.  Her disease is a typhus fever, which has swept off whole families within these last two months, and still rages violently; fortunate, indeed, is the house which has to mourn but one victim.  I would that you had not arrived just now, for it is a disease easily communicated.  Many have fled from the country for security.  To add to our misfortunes, we have suffered from the want of medical advice, for physician and patient have been swept away together.”

The door was now slowly opened, and a tall, dark man, in a brown cloak, holding to his nose a sponge saturated with vinegar, entered the room.  He bowed his head to Philip and the priest, and then went to the bedside.  For a minute he held his fingers to the pulse of the sufferer, then laying down her arm, he put his hand to her forehead, and covered her up with the bedclothes.  He handed to Philip the sponge and vinegar, making a sign that he should use it, and beckoned Father Seysen out of the room.

In a minute the priest returned.  “I have received his directions, my son; he thinks that she may be saved.  The clothes must be kept on her, and replaced if she should throw them off; but everything will depend upon quiet and calm after she recovers her senses.”