lonely house this day, and take up his abode in mine.”
“And where do you intend to go yourself?”
“If your father will not admit me as a boarder for the short time I remain here, I will seek some shelter elsewhere; but if he will, I will indemnify him well—that is, if you raise no objection to my being for a few days in the house?”
“Why should I? Our habitation is no longer safe, and you offer us a shelter. It were, indeed, unjust and most ungrateful to turn you out from beneath your own roof.”
“Then persuade him, Amine. I will accept of nothing, but take it as a favour; for I should depart in sorrow if I saw you not in safety.—Will you promise me?”
“I do promise to use my best endeavours—nay, I may as well say at once it shall be so; for I know my influence. Here is my hand upon it. Will that content you?”
Philip took the small hand extended towards him. His feelings overcame his discretion; he raised it to his lips. He looked up to see if Amine was displeased, and found her dark eye fixed upon him, as once before when she admitted him, as if she would see his thoughts—but the hand was not withdrawn.
“Indeed, Amine,” said Philip, kissing her hand once more, “you may confide in me.”
“I hope—I think—nay, I am sure I may,” at last replied she.
Philip released her hand. Amine returned to her seat and for some time remained silent, and in a pensive attitude. Philip also had his own thoughts, and did not open his lips. At last Amine spoke.
“I think I have heard my father say that your mother was very poor—a little deranged; and that there was a chamber in the house which had been shut up for years.”
“It was shut up till yesterday.”
“And there you found your money? Did your mother not know of the money?”
“She did, for she spoke of it on her death-bed.”
“There must have been some potent reasons for not opening the chamber.”
“There were.”
“What were they, Philip?” said Amine, in a soft and low tone of voice.
“I must not tell, at least I ought not. This must satisfy you—’twas the fear of an apparition.”
“What apparition?”
“She said that my father had appeared to her.”
“And did he, think you, Philip?”
“I have no doubt that he did. But I can answer no more questions, Amine. The chamber is open now, and there is no fear of his re-appearance.”
“I fear not that,” replied Amine, musing. “But,” continued she, “is not this connected with your resolution of going to sea?”
“So far will I answer you, that it has decided me to go to sea; but I pray you ask no more. It is painful to refuse you, and my duty forbids me to speak further.”
For some minutes they were both silent, when Amine resumed—
“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;
