"You were so anxious to possess that relic, that I cannot help thinking
it has connection with the mystery. Is it not so?"
"For the last time, Amine, I will answer your question--it has to do
with it; but now no more."
Philip's blunt and almost rude manner of finishing his speech was not
lost upon Amine, who replied:--
"You are so engrossed with other thoughts, that you have not felt the
compliment shown you by my taking such interest about you, sir?"
"Yes, I do--I feel and thank you too, Amine. Forgive me, if I have been
rude; but recollect, the secret is not mine--at least, I feel as if it
were not. God knows, I wish I never had known it, for it has blasted
all my hopes in life."
Philip was silent; and when he raised his eyes, he found that Amine's
were fixed upon him.
"Would you read my thoughts, Amine, or my secret?"
"Your thoughts, perhaps--your secret I would not; yet do I grieve that
it should oppress you so heavily as evidently it does. It must, indeed,
be one of awe to bear down a mind like yours, Philip."
"Where did you learn to be so brave, Amine?" said Philip, changing the
conversation.
"Circumstances make people brave or otherwise; those who are accustomed
to difficulty and danger fear them not."
"And where have you met with them, Amine?"
"In the country where I was born, not in this dank and muddy land."
"Will you trust me with the story of your former life, Amine? I can be
secret, if you wish."
"That you can be secret, perhaps, against my wish, you have already
proved to me," replied Amine, smiling; "and you have a claim to know
something of the life you have preserved. I cannot tell you much, but
what I can will be sufficient. My father, when a lad, on board of a
trading vessel, was taken by the Moors, and sold as a slave to a Hakim,
or physician, of their country. Finding him very intelligent, the Moor
brought him up as an assistant, and it was under this man that he
obtained a knowledge of the art. In a few years he was equal to his
master; but, as a slave, he worked not for himself. You know, indeed it
cannot be concealed, my father's avarice. He sighed to become as
wealthy as his master, and to obtain his freedom; he became a follower
of Mahomet, after which he was free, and practised for himself. He took
a wife from an Arab family, the daughter of a chief whom he had restored
to health, and he settled in the country. I was born; he amassed
wealth, and became much celebrated; but the son of a Bey dying under his
hands was the excuse for persecuting him. His head was forfeited, but
he escaped; not, however, without the loss of all his beloved wealth.
My Mother and I went with him; he fled to the Bedouins, with whom we
remained some years. There I was accustomed to rapid marches, wild and
fierce attacks, defeat and flight, and oftentimes to indiscriminate
slaughter. But the Bedouins paid not well for my father's services, and
gold was his idol. Hearing that the Bey was dead, he returned to Cairo,
where he again practised. He was allowed once more to amass until the
heap was sufficient to excite the cupidity of the new Bey; but this time
he was fortunately made acquainted with the intentions of the ruler. He
again escaped, with a portion of his wealth, in a small vessel, and
gained the Spanish coast; but he never has been able to retain his money
long. Before he arrived in this country he had been robbed of almost
all, and has now been for these three years laying up again. We were
but one year at Middleburg, and from thence removed to this place. Such
is the history of my life, Philip."
"And does your father still hold the Mahomedan faith, Amine?"
"I know not. I think he holds no faith whatever: at least he hath
taught me none. His god is gold."
"And yours?"
"Is the God who made this beautiful world, and all which it contains--
the God of nature--name him as you will. This I feel, Philip, but more
I fain would know; there are so many faiths, but surely they must be but
different paths leading alike to heaven. Yours is the Christian faith,
Philip. Is it the true one? But every one calls his own the true one,
whatever his creed may be."
"It is the true and only one, Amine. Could I but reveal--I have such
dreadful proofs--"
"That your own faith is true: then is it not your duty to reveal these
proofs? Tell me, are you bound by any solemn obligations never to
reveal?"
"No, I am not; yet do I feel as if I were. But I hear voices--it must
be your father and the authorities--I must go down and meet them."
Philip rose and went down stairs. Amine's eyes followed him as he went
and she remained looking towards the door.
"Is it possible," said she, sweeping the hair from off her brow, "so
soon,--yes, yes, 'tis even so. I feel that I would sooner share his
hidden woe--his dangers--even death itself were preferable with him,
than ease and happiness with any other. And it shall be strange indeed
if I do not. This night my father shall move into his cottage; I will
prepare at once."
The report of Philip and Mynheer Poots was taken down by the
authorities, the bodies examined, and one or two of them recognised as
well-known marauders. They were then removed by the order of the
burgomaster. The authorities broke up their council, and Philip and
Mynheer Poots were permitted to return to Amine. It will not be
necessary to repeat the conversation which ensued: it will be sufficient
to state that Poots yielded to the arguments employed by Amine and
Philip, particularly the one of paying no rent. A conveyance for the
furniture and medicines was procured, and in the afternoon most of the
effects were taken away. It was not, however, till dusk that the strong
box of the doctor was put into the cart, and Philip went with it as a
protector. Amine also walked by the side of the vehicle, with her
father. As it may be supposed, it was late that night before they had
made their arrangements, and had retired to rest.