If the reader can imagine the feelings of a man who, sentenced
to death, and having resigned himself to his fate, finds himself
unexpectedly reprieved; who, having recomposed his mind after the
agitation arising from a renewal of those hopes and expectations which
he had abandoned, once more dwells upon future prospects, and indulges
in pleasing anticipations: we say, that if the reader can imagine
this, and then what would be that man's feelings when he finds that
the reprieve is revoked, and that he is to suffer, he may then form
some idea of the state of Philip's mind when he quitted the cottage.
Long did he walk, careless in which direction, with the letter in his
clenched hand, and his teeth firmly set. Gradually he became more
composed: and out of breath with the rapidity of his motion, he sat
down upon a bank, and there he long remained, with his eyes riveted
upon the dreaded paper, which he held with both his hands upon his
knees.
Mechanically he turned the letter over; the seal was black. Philip
sighed.--"I cannot read it now," thought he, and he rose and continued
his devious way.
For another half-hour did Philip keep in motion, and the sun was not
many degrees above the horizon. Philip stopped and looked at it till
his vision failed. "I could imagine that it was the eye of God,"
thought Philip, "and perhaps it may be. Why then, merciful Creator, am
I thus selected from so many millions to fulfil so dire a task?"
Philip looked about him for some spot where he might be concealed from
observation--where he might break the seal, and read this mission from
a world of spirits. A small copse of brushwood, in advance of a grove
of trees, was not far from where he stood. He walked to it, and sat
down, so as to be concealed from any passers-by. Philip once more
looked at the descending orb of day, and by degrees he became
composed.
"It is thy will," exclaimed he; "it is my fate, and both must be
accomplished."
Philip put his hand to the seal,--his blood thrilled when he called
to mind that it had been delivered by no mortal hand, and that it
contained the secret of one in judgment. He remembered that that one
was his father; and that it was only in the letter that there was
hope,--hope for his poor father, whose memory he had been taught to
love, and who appealed for help.
"Coward that I am, to have lost so many hours!" exclaimed Philip; "yon
sun appears as if waiting on the hill, to give me light to read."
Philip mused a short time; he was once more the daring Vanderdecken.
Calmly he broke the seal, which bore the initials of his father's
name, and read as follows:--
"To CATHERINE.
"One of those pitying spirits whose eyes rain tears for mortal
crimes has been permitted to inform me by what means alone my
dreadful doom may be averted.
"Could I but receive on the deck of my own ship the holy relic
upon which I swore the fatal oath, kiss it in all humility, and
shed one tear of deep contrition on the sacred wood, I then might
rest in peace.
"How this may be effected, or by whom so fatal a task will be
undertaken, I know not. O Catherine, we have a son--but, no, no,
let him not hear of me. Pray for me, and now, farewell.
"I. VANDERDECKEN."
"Then it is true, most horribly true," thought Philip; "and my father
is even now IN LIVING JUDGMENT. And he points to me--to whom else
should he? Am I not his son, and is it not my duty?
"Yes, father," exclaimed Philip aloud, falling on his knees, "you have
not written these lines in vain. Let me peruse them once more."
Philip raised up his hand; but although it appeared to him that he had
still hold of the letter, it was not there--he grasped nothing. He
looked on the grass to see if it had fallen--but no, there was no
letter, it had disappeared. Was it a vision?--no, no, he had read
every word. "Then it must be to me, and me alone, that the mission was
intended. I accept the sign.
"Hear me, dear father,--if thou art so permitted,--and deign to hear
me, gracious Heaven--hear the son who, by this sacred relic, swears
that he will avert your doom, or perish. To that will he devote his
days; and having done his duty, he will die in hope and peace. Heaven,
that recorded my rash father's oath, now register his son's upon
the same sacred cross, and may perjury on my part be visited with
punishment more dire than his! Receive it, Heaven, as at the last I
trust that in thy mercy thou wilt receive the father and the son! and
if too bold, O pardon my presumption."
Philip threw himself forward on his face, with his lips to the sacred
symbol. The sun went down, and twilight gradually disappeared; night
had, for some time, shrouded all in darkness, and Philip yet remained
in alternate prayer and meditation.
But he was disturbed by the voices of some men, who sat down upon the
turf but a few yards from where he was concealed. The conversation he
little heeded; but it had roused him, and his first feeling was to
return to the cottage, that he might reflect over his plans; but
although the men spoke in a low tone, his attention was soon arrested
by the subject of their conversation, when he heard the name mentioned
of Mynheer Poots. He listened attentively, and discovered that they
were four disbanded soldiers, who intended that night to attack the
house of the little doctor, who had, they knew, much money in his
possession.
"What I have proposed is the best," said one of them; "he has no one
with him but his daughter."
"I value her more than his money," replied another; "so, recollect
before we go, it is perfectly understood that she is to be my
property."
"Yes, if you choose to purchase her, there's no objection," replied a
third.
"Agreed; how much will you in conscience ask for a puling girl?"
"I say five hundred guilders," replied another.
"Well, be it so, but on this condition, that if my share of the booty
does not amount to so much, I am to have her for my share, whatever it
may be."
"That's very fair," replied the other; "but I'm much mistaken if
we don't turn more than two thousand guilders out of the old man's
chest."
"What do you two say--is it agreed--shall Baetens have her?"
"O yes," replied the others.
"Well, then," replied the one who had stipulated for Mynheer Poots'
daughter, "now I am with you, heart and soul. I loved that girl, and
tried to get her,--I positively offered to marry her, but the old
hunks refused me, an ensign, an officer; but now I'll have revenge. We
must not spare him."
"No, no," replied the others.
"Shall we go now, or wait till it is later? In an hour or more the
moon will be up,--we may be seen."
"Who is to see us? unless, indeed, some one is sent for him. The later
the better, I say."
"How long will it take us to get there? Not half an hour, if we walk.
Suppose we start in half an hour hence, we shall just have the moon to
count the guilders by."
"That's all right. In the meantime I'll put a new flint in my lock,
and have my carbine loaded. I can work in the dark."
"You are used to it, Jan."
"Yes, I am,--and I intend this ball to go through the old rascal's
head."
"Well, I'd rather you should kill him than I," replied one of the
others, "for he saved my life at Middleburgh, when everyone made sure
I'd die."
Philip did not wait to hear any more; he crawled behind the bushes
until he gained the grove of trees, and passing through them, made
a detour, so as not to be seen by these miscreants. That they were
disbanded soldiers, many of whom were infesting the country, he
knew well. All his thoughts were now to save the old doctor and his
daughter from the danger which threatened them; and for a time he
forgot his father, and the exciting revelations of the day. Although
Philip had not been aware in what direction he had walked when he set
off from the cottage, he knew the country well; and now that it was
necessary to act, he remembered the direction in which he should find
the lonely house of Mynheer Poots: with the utmost speed he made his
way for it, and in less than twenty minutes he arrived there, out of
breath.
As usual, all was silent, and the door fastened. Philip knocked, but
there was no reply. Again and again he knocked, and became impatient.
Mynheer Poots must have been summoned, and was not in the house;
Philip therefore called out, so as to be heard within. "Maiden, if
your father is out, as I presume he must be, listen to what I have to
say--I am Philip Vanderdecken. But now I overheard four wretches who
have planned to murder your father, and rob him of his gold. In one
hour or less they will be here, and I have hastened to warn and to
protect you, if I may. I swear upon the relic that you delivered to me
this morning that what I state is true."
Philip waited a short time, but received no answer.
"Maiden," resumed he, "answer me, if you value that which is more dear
to you, than even your father's gold to him. Open the casement above,
and listen to what I have to say. In so doing there is no risk; and
even if it were not dark, already have I seen you."
A short time after this second address, the casement of the upper
window was unbarred, and the slight form of the fair daughter of
Mynheer Poots was to be distinguished by Philip through the gloom.
"What wouldst thou, young sir, at this unseemly hour? and what is it
thou wouldst impart, but imperfectly heard by me, when thou spokest
this minute at the door?"
Philip then entered into a detail of all that he had overheard, and
concluded by begging her to admit him, that he might defend her.
"Think, fair maiden, of what I have told you. You have been sold
to one of those reprobates, whose name I think they mentioned, was
Baetens. The gold, I know, you value not; but think of thine own dear
self--suffer me to enter the house, and think not for one moment that
my story's feigned. I swear to thee, by the soul of my poor dear
mother, now, I trust, in heaven, that every word is true."
"Baetens, said you, sir?"
"If I mistook them not, such was the name; he said he loved you once."
"That name I have in memory--I know not what to do or what to say--my
father has been summoned to a birth, and may be yet away for many
hours. Yet how can I open the door to you--at night--he is not at
home--I alone? I ought not--cannot--yet do I believe you. You surely
never could be so base as to invent this tale."
"No--upon my hopes of future bliss I could not, maiden! You must not
trifle with your life and honour, but let me in."
"And if I did, what could you do against such numbers? They are four
to one--would soon overpower you, and one more life would be lost."
"Not if you have arms; and I think your father would not be left
without them. I fear them not--you know that I am resolute."
"I do indeed--and now you'd risk your life for those you did assail. I
thank you--thank you kindly, sir--but dare not open the door."
"Then, maiden, if you'll not admit me, here will I now remain; without
arms, and but ill able to contend with four armed villains; but still,
here will I remain and prove my truth to one I will protect against
any odds--yes, even here!"
"Then shall I be thy murderer!--but that must not be. Oh! sir--swear,
swear by all that's holy, and by all that's pure, that you do not
deceive me."
"I swear by thyself, maiden, than all to me more sacred!"
The casement closed, and in a short time a light appeared above. In a
minute or two more the door was opened to Philip by the fair daughter
of Mynheer Poots. She stood with the candle in her right hand, the
colour in her cheeks varying--now flushing red, and again deadly pale.
Her left hand was down by her side, and in it she held a pistol half
concealed. Philip perceived this precaution on her part but took no
notice of it; he wished to reassure her.
"Maiden!" said he, not entering, "if you still have doubts--if you
think you have been ill-advised in giving me admission--there is yet
time to close the door against me: but for your own sake I entreat you
not. Before the moon is up, the robbers will be here. With my life I
will protect you, if you will but trust me. Who indeed could injure
one like you?"
She was indeed (as she stood irresolute and perplexed from the
peculiarity of her situation, yet not wanting in courage when, it was
to be called forth) an object well worthy of gaze and admiration. Her
features thrown into broad light and shade by the candle which at
times was half extinguished by the wind--her symmetry of form and
the gracefulness and singularity of her attire--were matter of
astonishment to Philip. Her head was without covering, and her long
hair fell in plaits behind her shoulders; her stature was rather
under the middle size, but her form perfect; her dress was simple but
becoming, and very different from that usually worn by the young women
of the district. Not only her features but her dress would at once
have indicated to a traveller that she was of Arab blood, as was the
fact.
She looked in Philip's face as she spoke--earnestly, as if she would
have penetrated into his inmost thoughts; but there was a frankness
and honesty in his bearing, and a sincerity in his manly countenance,
which reassured her. After a moment's hesitation she replied--
"Come in, sir; I feel that I can trust you."
Philip entered. The door was then closed and made secure.
"We have no time to lose, maiden," said Philip: "but tell me your
name, that I may address you as I ought."
"My name is Amine," replied she, retreating a little.
"I thank you for that little confidence; but I must not dally. What
arms have you in the house, and have you ammunition?"
"Both. I wish that my father would come home."
"And so do I," replied Philip, "devoutly wish he would, before these
murderers come; but not, I trust, while the attack is making, for
there's a carbine loaded expressly for his head, and if they make
him prisoner, they will not spare his life, unless his gold and your
person are given in ransom. But the arms, maiden--where are they?"
"Follow me," replied Amine, leading Philip to an inner room on the
upper floor. It was the sanctum of her father, and was surrounded with
shelves filled with bottles and boxes of drugs. In one corner was an
iron chest, and over the mantel-piece were a brace of carbines and
three pistols.
"They are all loaded," observed Amine, pointing to them, and laying on
the table the one which she had held in her hand.
Philip took down the arms, and examined all the primings. He then took
up from the table the pistol which Amine had laid there, and threw
open the pan. It was equally well prepared. Philip closed the pan, and
with a smile observed,
"So this was meant for me, Amine?"
"No--not for you--but for a traitor, had one gained admittance."
"Now, maiden," observed Philip, "I shall station myself at the
casement which you opened, but without a light in the room. You may
remain here, and can turn the key for your security."
"You little know me," replied Amine. "In that way at least I am not
fearful; I must remain near you and reload the arms--a task in which I
am well practised."
"No, no," replied Philip; "you might be hurt."
"I may. But think you I will remain here idly, when I can assist one
who risks his life for me? I know my duty, sir, and I shall perform
it."
"You must not risk your life, Amine," replied Philip; "my aim will not
be steady, if I know that you're in danger. But I must take the arms
into the other chamber, for the time is come."
Philip, assisted by Amine, carried the carbines and pistols into the
adjoining chamber; and Amine then left Philip, carrying with her the
light. Philip, as soon as he was alone, opened the casement and looked
out--there was no one to be seen; he listened, but all was silent. The
moon was just rising above the distant hill, but her light was dimmed
by fleecy clouds, and Philip watched for a few minutes; at length he
heard a whispering below. He looked out, and could distinguish through
the dark the four expected assailants, standing close to the door of
the house. He walked away softly from the window, and went into the
next room to Amine, whom he found busy preparing the ammunition.
"Amine, they are at the door, in consultation. You can see them now,
without risk. I thank them, for they will convince you that I have
told the truth."
Amine, without reply, went into the front room and looked out of the
window. She returned, and laying her hand upon Philip's arm, she
said--
"Grant me your pardon for my doubts. I fear nothing now but that my
father may return too soon, and they seize him."
Philip left the room again, to make his reconnaissance. The robbers
did not appear to have made up their mind--the strength of the door
defied their utmost efforts, so they attempted stratagem. They
knocked, and as there was no reply, they continued to knock louder and
louder: not meeting with success they held another consultation, and
the muzzle of a carbine was then put to the keyhole, and the piece
discharged. The lock of the door was blown off, but the iron bars
which crossed the door within, above and below, still held it fast.
Although Philip would have been justified in firing upon the robbers
when he first perceived them in consultation at the door, still there
is that feeling in a generous mind which prevents the taking away of
life, except from stern necessity; and this feeling made him withhold
his fire until hostilities had actually commenced. He now levelled one
of the carbines at the head of the robber nearest to the door, who was
busy examining the effect which the discharge of the piece had made,
and what further obstacles intervened. The aim was true, and the
man fell dead, while the others started back with surprise at the
unexpected retaliation. But in a second or two a pistol was discharged
at Philip, who still remained leaning out of the casement, fortunately
without effect; and the next moment he felt himself drawn away, so as
to be protected from their fire. It was Amine, who, unknown to Philip,
had been standing by his side.
"You must not expose yourself, Philip," said she, in a low tone.
She called me Philip, thought he, but made no reply.
"They will be watching for you at the casement now," said Amine. "Take
the other carbine, and go below in the passage. If the lock of the
door is blown off, they may put their arms in perhaps, and remove the
bars. I do not think they can, but I'm not sure; at all events, it is
there you should now be, as there they will not expect you."
"You are right," replied Philip, going down.
"But you must not fire more than once there; if another fall, there
will be but two to deal with, and they cannot watch the casement and
force admittance to. Go--I will reload the carbine."
Philip descended softly and without a light. He went up to the door
and perceived that one of the miscreants, with his arms through the
hole where the lock was blown off, was working at the upper iron bar,
which he could just reach. He presented his carbine, and was about to
fire the whole charge into the body of the man under his raised arm,
when there was a report of fire-arms from the robbers outside.
"Amine has exposed herself," thought Philip, "and may be hurt."
The desire of vengeance prompted him first to fire his piece through
the man's body, and then he flew up the stairs to ascertain the state
of Amine. She was not at the casement; he darted into the inner room,
and found her deliberately loading the carbine.
"My God! how you frightened me, Amine. I thought by their firing that
you had shown yourself at the window."
"Indeed I did not; but I thought that when you fired through the door
they might return your fire, and you be hurt; so I went to the side of
the casement and pushed out on a stick some of my father's clothes,
and they who were watching for you fired immediately."
"Indeed, Amine! who could have expected such courage and such coolness
in one so young and beautiful?" exclaimed Philip, with surprise.
"Are none but ill-favoured people brave, then?" replied Amine,
smiling.
"I did not mean that, Amine--but I am losing time. I must to the door
again. Give me that carbine, and reload this."
Philip crept downstairs that he might reconnoitre, but before he had
gained the door he heard at a distance the voice of Mynheer Poots.
Amine, who also heard it, was in a moment at his side with a loaded
pistol in each hand.
"Fear not, Amine," said Philip, as he unbarred the door, "there are
but two, and your father shall be saved."
The door was opened, and Philip, seizing his carbine, rushed out; he
found Mynheer Poots on the ground between the two men, one of whom
had raised his knife to plunge it into his body, when the ball of the
carbine whizzed through his head. The last of the robbers closed with
Philip, and a desperate struggle ensued; it was, however, soon decided
by Amine stepping forward and firing one of the pistols through the
robber's body.
We must here inform our readers that Mynheer Poots, when coming home,
had heard the report of fire-arms in the direction of his own house.
The recollection of his daughter and of his money--for to do him
justice he did love her best--had lent him wings; he forgot that he
was a feeble old man and without arms; all he thought of was to gain
his habitation. On he came, reckless, frantic, and shouting, and
rushed into the arms of the two robbers, who seized and would have
despatched him, had not Philip so opportunely come to his assistance.
As soon as the last robber fell, Philip disengaged himself and went to
the assistance of Mynheer Poots, whom he raised up in his arms, and
carried into the house as if he were an infant. The old man was still
in a state of delirium from fear and previous excitement.
In a few minutes Mynheer Poots was more coherent.
"My daughter!" exclaimed he--"my daughter! where is she?"
"She is here, father, and safe," replied Amine.
"Ah! my child is safe," said he, opening his eyes and staring. "Yes,
it is even so--and my money--my money--where is my money?" continued
he, starting up.
"Quite safe, father."
"Quite safe--you say quite safe--are you sure of it?--let me see."
"There it is, father, as you may perceive, quite safe--thanks to one
whom you have not treated so well."
"Who--what do you mean?--Ah, yes, I see him now--'tis Philip
Vanderdecken--he owes me three guilders and a half, and there is a
phial--did he save you--and my money, child?"
"He did, indeed, at the risk of his life."
"Well, well, I will forgive him the whole debt--yes, the whole of it;
but--the phial is of no use to him--he must return that. Give me some
water."
It was some time before the old man could regain his perfect reason.
Philip left him with his daughter, and, taking a brace of loaded
pistols, went out to ascertain the fate of the four assailants. The
moon having climbed above the banks of clouds which had obscured her,
was now high in the heavens, shining bright, and he could distinguish
clearly. The two men lying across the threshold of the door were quite
dead. The others, who had seized upon Mynheer Poots, were still
alive, but one was expiring and the other bled fast. Philip put a few
questions to the latter, but he either would not or could not make any
reply; he removed their weapons and returned to the house, where he
found the old man attended by his daughter, in a state of comparative
composure.
"I thank you, Philip Vanderdecken--I thank you much. You have saved my
dear child, and my money--that is little, very little--for I am poor.
May you live long and happily!"
Philip mused; the letter and his vow were, for the first time since he
fell in with the robbers, recalled to his recollection, and a shade
passed over his countenance.
"Long and happily--no, no," muttered he, with an involuntary shake of
the head.
"And I must thank you," said Amine, looking inquiringly in Philip's
face. "O, how much have I to thank you for!--and indeed I am
grateful."
"Yes, yes, she is very grateful," interrupted the old man; "but we are
poor--very poor. I talked about my money because I have so little,
and I cannot afford to lose it; but you shall not pay me the three
guilders and a half--I am content to lose that, Mr Philip."
"Why should you lose even that, Mynheer Poots?--I promised to pay you,
and will keep my word. I have plenty of money--thousands of guilders,
and know not what to do with them."
"You--you--thousands of guilders!" exclaimed Poots. "Pooh, nonsense,
that won't do."
"I repeat to you, Amine," said Philip, "that I have thousands of
guilders: you know I would not tell you a falsehood."
"I believed you when you said so to my father," replied Amine.
"Then perhaps, as you have so much, and I am so very poor, Mr
Vanderdecken--"
But Amine put her hand upon her father's lips, and the sentence was
not finished.
"Father," said Amine, "it is time that we retire. You must leave us
for to-night, Philip."
"I will not," replied Philip; "nor, you may depend upon it, will I
sleep. You may both to bed in safety. It is indeed time that you
retire--good-night, Mynheer Poots. I will but ask a lamp, and then I
leave you--Amine, good-night."
"Good-night," said Amine, extending her hand, "and many, many thanks."
"Thousands of guilders!" muttered the old man, as Philip left the room
and went below.