“Surely we can promise her that,” replied Philip.

“It is not the knowledge of your return, or even the sight of you, which alarms me.  Joy seldom kills, even when the shock is great, but there are other causes for uneasiness.”

“What are they, holy father?”

“Philip, it is now thirteen days that Amine has raved, and during that period I have seldom quitted her but to perform the duties of my office to others who required it.  I have been afraid to leave her, Philip, for in her ravings she has told such a tale, even unconnected as it has been, as has thrilled my soul with horror.  It evidently has long lain heavily on her mind, and must retard her recovery.  Philip Vanderdecken, you may remember that I would once have had the secret from you—­the secret which forced your mother to her tomb, and which now may send your young wife to follow her, for it is evident that she knows all.  Is it not true?”

“She does know all,” replied Philip, mournfully.

“And she has in her delirium told all.  Nay, I trust she has told more than all; but of that we will not speak now:  watch her, Philip.  I will return in half an hour, for by that time, the doctor tells me, the symptoms will decide whether she will return to reason, or be lost to you for ever.”

Philip whispered to the priest that he had been accompanied by Father Mathias, who was to remain as his guest, and requested him to explain the circumstances of his present position to him, and see that he was attended to.  Father Seysen then quitted the room, when Philip sat down by the bedside, and drew back the curtain.

Perhaps there is no situation in life so agonising to the feelings as that in which Philip was now placed.  His joyful emotions when expecting to embrace in health and beauty the object of his warmest affections, and of his continual thought during his long absence, suddenly checked by disappointment, anxiety, and grief, at finding her lying emaciated, changed, corrupted with disease—­her mind overthrown—­her eyes unconscious of his presence—­her existence hanging by a single hair—­her frame prostrate before the King of Terrors who hovers over her with uplifted dart, and longs for the fiat which should permit him to pierce his unconscious victim.

“Alas!” thought Philip, “is it thus we meet, Amine?  Truly did Father Mathias advise me, as I hurried so impetuously along, not (as I fondly thought) to happiness, but to misery.  God of Heaven! be merciful and forgive me.  If I have loved this angelic creature of Thy formation, even more than I have Thee—­spare her—­good Heaven, spare her—­or I am lost for ever.”

Philip covered up his face, and remained for some time in prayer.  He then bent over his Amine, and impressed a kiss upon her burning lips.  They were burning, but still there was moisture upon them, and Philip perceived that there was also moisture on her forehead.  He felt her hand, and the palm of it was moist; and carefully covering her with the bedclothes, he watched her with anxiety and hope.