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THE PHANTOM SHIP

by

CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT

LONDON

MDCCCXCVI







Contents


CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII




Prefatory Note


_THE PHANTOM SHIP_ is the most notable of the three novels constructed
by Marryat on an historic basis, and like its predecessor in the
same category, _Snarleyyow_, depends largely for its interest on the
element of _diablerie_, which is very skilfully manipulated. Here,
however, the supernatural appearances are never explained away, and
the ghostly agencies are introduced in the spirit of serious, if
somewhat melodramatic, romance. Marryat's personal experience enabled
him, with little research, to produce a life-like picture of old Dutch
seamanship, and his powers in racy narrative have transformed the
Vanderdecken legend into a stirring tale of terror. The plot cannot
be called original, but it is more carefully worked out and, from the
nature of the material at hand, more effective than most of Marryat's
own. He has put life into it, moreover, by the creation of some
genuine characters, designed for nobler ends than to move the
machinery.

Amine, indeed, as Mr Hannay points out, "is by far his nearest
approach to an acceptable heroine." Her romantic and curiously
superstitious disposition is admirably restrained by strength of will
and true courage. The scenes of the Inquisition by which she meets
her death are forcibly described. Philip Vanderdecken is a very
respectable hero; daring, impetuous, and moody, without being too
improbably capable. The hand of destiny lends him a dignity of which
he is by no means unworthy. Krantz, the faithful friend, belongs to a
familiar type, but the one-eyed pilot is quite sufficiently weird
for the part he has to play. For the rest we have the usual exciting
adventures by sea and land; the usual "humours," in this case
certainly not overdone. The miser Dr Poots; the bulky Kloots, his
bear, and his supercargo; Barentz and his crazy lady-love the _Vrow
Katerina_; and the little Portuguese Commandant provide the reader
with a variety of good-natured entertainment. It was an act of
doubtful wisdom, perhaps, to introduce a second group of spirits from
the Hartz mountains, but the story of the weir-wolves is told simply,
without any straining after effect.

The general success, however, is marred by certain obvious failures
in detail. The attempt to produce an historic flavour by making the
characters, during their calmer moments, talk in would-be old English
is more amusing than culpable; but the author's philosophy of the
unseen, as expounded by Amine or Krantz, is both weak and tiresome,
and his religious discourses, coloured by prejudice against the
Romanists, are conventional and unconvincing. The closing scene
savours of the Sunday-school.

But these faults are not obtrusive, and the novel as a whole must take
a high place among its author's second-best.

_The Phantom Ship_ appeared in _The New Monthly Magazine_, 1838, 1839.
It is here reprinted from the first edition, in three volumes. Henry
Colburn, 1839.

R.B.J.




Chapter I


About the middle of the seventeenth century, in the outskirts of the
small but fortified town of Terneuse, situated on the right bank of
the Scheldt, and nearly opposite to the island of Walcheren, there was
to be seen, in advance of a few other even more humble tenements, a
small but neat cottage, built according to the prevailing taste of the
time. The outside front had, some years back, been painted of a deep
orange, the windows and shutters of a vivid green. To about three feet
above the surface of the earth, it was faced alternately with blue and
white tiles. A small garden, of about two rods of our measure of land,
surrounded the edifice; and this little plot was flanked by a low
hedge of privet, and encircled by a moat full of water, too wide to be
leaped with ease. Over that part of the moat which was in front of
the cottage door, was a small and narrow bridge, with ornamented
iron hand-rails, for the security of the passenger. But the colours,
originally so bright, with which the cottage had been decorated, had
now faded; symptoms of rapid decay were evident in the window-sills,
the door-jambs, and other wooden parts of the tenement, and many of
the white and blue tiles had fallen down, and had not been replaced.
That much care had once been bestowed upon this little tenement, was
as evident as that latterly it had been equally neglected.

The inside of the cottage, both on the basement and the floor above,
was divided into two larger rooms in front, and two smaller behind;
the rooms in front could only be called large in comparison with the
other two, as they were little more than twelve feet square, with but
one window to each. The upper floor was, as usual, appropriated to the
bedrooms; on the lower, the two smaller rooms were now used only as a
wash-house and a lumber-room; while one of the larger was fitted up as
a kitchen, and furnished with dressers, on which the metal utensils
for cookery shone clean and polished as silver. The room itself was
scrupulously neat; but the furniture, as well as the utensils, were
scanty. The boards of the floor were of a pure white, and so clean
that you might have laid anything down without fear of soiling it. A
strong deal table, two wooden-seated chairs, and a small easy couch,
which had been removed from one of the bedrooms upstairs, were all
the movables which this room contained. The other front room had been
fitted up as a parlour; but what might be the style of its furniture
was now unknown, for no eye had beheld the contents of that room for
nearly seventeen years, during which it had been hermetically sealed,
even to the inmates of the cottage.

The kitchen, which we have described, was occupied by two persons. One
was a woman, apparently about forty years of age, but worn down by
pain and suffering. She had evidently once possessed much beauty:
there were still the regular outlines, the noble forehead, and the
large dark eye; but there was a tenuity in her features, a wasted
appearance, such as to render the flesh transparent; her brow, when
she mused, would sink into deep wrinkles, premature though they were;
and the occasional flashing of her eyes strongly impressed you
with the idea of insanity. There appeared to be some deep-seated,
irremovable, hopeless cause of anguish, never for one moment permitted
to be absent from her memory: a chronic oppression, fixed and graven
there, only to be removed by death. She was dressed in the widow's
coif of the time; but although clean and neat, her garments were faded
from long wear. She was seated upon the small couch which we have
mentioned, evidently brought down as a relief to her, in her declining
state.

On the deal table in the centre of the room sat the other person, a
stout, fair-headed, florid youth of nineteen or twenty years old. His
features were handsome and bold, and his frame powerful to excess; his
eye denoted courage and determination, and as he carelessly swung his
legs, and whistled an air in an emphatic manner, it was impossible
not to form the idea that he was a daring, adventurous, and reckless
character.

"Do not go to sea, Philip; oh, promise me _that_, my dear, dear
child," said the female, clasping her hands.

"And why not go to sea, mother?" replied Philip; "what's the use of my
staying here to starve?--for, by Heaven! it's little better. I must do
something for myself and for you. And what else can I do? My uncle Van
Brennen has offered to take me with him, and will give me good wages.
Then I shall live happily on board, and my earnings will be sufficient
for your support at home."

"Philip--Philip, hear me. I shall die if you leave me. Whom have I in
the world but you? O my child, as you love me, and I know you _do_
love me, Philip, don't leave me; but if you will, at all events do not
go to sea."

Philip gave no immediate reply; he whistled for a few seconds, while
his mother wept.

"Is it," said he at last, "because my father was drowned at sea, that
you beg so hard, mother?"

"Oh, no--no!" exclaimed the sobbing woman. "Would to God--"

"Would to God what, mother?"

"Nothing--nothing. Be merciful--be merciful, O God!" replied the
mother, sliding from her seat on the couch, and kneeling by the side
of it, in which attitude she remained for some time in fervent prayer.

At last she resumed her seat, and her face wore an aspect of more
composure.

Philip, who, during this, had remained silent and thoughtful, again
addressed his mother.

"Look ye, mother. You ask me to stay on shore with you, and
starve,--rather hard conditions:--now hear what I have to say. That
room opposite has been shut up ever since I can remember--why, you
will never tell me; but once I heard you say, when we were without
bread, and with no prospect of my uncle's return--you were then half
frantic, mother, as you know you sometimes are--"

"Well, Philip, what did you hear me say?" enquired his mother with
tremulous anxiety.

"You said, mother, that there was money in that room which would save
us; and then you screamed and raved, and said that you preferred
death. Now, mother, what is there in that chamber, and why has it been
so long shut up? Either I know that, or I go to sea."

At the commencement of this address of Philip, his mother appeared
to be transfixed, and motionless as a statue; gradually her lips
separated, and her eyes glared; she seemed to have lost the power of
reply; she put her hand to her right side, as if to compress it, then
both her hands, as if to relieve herself from excruciating torture: at
last she sank, with her head forward, and the blood poured out of her
mouth.

Philip sprang from the table to her assistance, and prevented her from
falling on the floor. He laid her on the couch, watching with alarm
the continued effusion.

"Oh! mother--mother, what is this?" cried he, at last, in great
distress.

For some time his mother could make him no reply; she turned further
on her side, that she might not be suffocated by the discharge from
the ruptured vessel, and the snow-white planks of the floor were soon
crimsoned with her blood.

"Speak, dearest mother, if you can," repeated Philip, in agony; "what
shall I do? what shall I give you? God Almighty! what is this?"

"Death, my child, death!" at length replied the poor woman, sinking
into a state of unconsciousness.

Philip, now much alarmed, flew out of the cottage, and called the
neighbours to his mother's assistance. Two or three hastened to the
call; and as soon as Philip saw them occupied in restoring his mother,
he ran as fast as he could to the house of a medical man, who lived
about a mile off--one Mynheer Poots, a little, miserable, avaricious
wretch, but known to be very skilful in his profession. Philip found
Poots at home, and insisted upon his immediate attendance.

"I will come--yes, most certainly," replied Poots, who spoke the
language but imperfectly; "but Mynheer Vanderdecken, who will pay me?"

"Pay you! my uncle will, directly that he comes home."

"Your uncle de Skipper Van Brennen: no, he owes me four guilders, and
he has owed me for a long time. Besides, his ship may sink."

"He shall pay you the four guilders, and for this attendance also,"
replied Philip, in a rage; "come directly, while you are disputing my
mother may be dead."

"But, Mr Philip, I cannot come, now I recollect; I have to see the
child of the burgomaster at Terneuse," replied Mynheer Poots.

"Look you, Mynheer Poots," exclaimed Philip, red with passion; "you
have but to choose,--will you go quietly, or must I take you there?
You'll not trifle with me."

Here Mynheer Poots was under considerable alarm, for the character of
Philip Vanderdecken was well known.

"I will come by-and-bye, Mynheer Philip, if I can."

"You'll come now, you wretched old miser," exclaimed Philip, seizing
hold of the little man by the collar, and pulling him out of his door.

"Murder! murder!" cried Poots, as he lost his legs, and was dragged
along by the impetuous young man.

Philip stopped, for he perceived that Poots was black in the face.

"Must I then choke you, to make you go quietly? for, hear me, go you
shall, alive or dead."

"Well, then," replied Poots, recovering himself, "I will go, but I'll
have you in prison to-night: and, as for your mother, I'll not--no,
that I will not--Mynheer Philip, depend upon it."

"Mark me, Mynheer Poots," replied Philip, "as sure as there is a God
in heaven, if you do not come with me, I'll choke you now; and when
you arrive, if you do not do your best for my poor mother, I'll murder
you there. You know that I always do what I say, so now take my
advice, come along quietly, and you shall certainly be paid, and well
paid--if I sell my coat."

This last observation of Philip, perhaps, had more effect than even
his threats. Poots was a miserable little atom, and like a child
in the powerful grasp of the young man. The doctor's tenement was
isolated, and he could obtain no assistance until within a hundred
yards of Vanderdecken's cottage; so Mynheer Poots decided that he
would go, first, because Philip had promised to pay him, and secondly,
because he could not help it.

This point being settled, Philip and Mynheer Poots made all haste to
the cottage; and on their arrival, they found his mother still in the
arms of two of her female neighbours, who were bathing her temples
with vinegar. She was in a state of consciousness, but she could not
speak. Poots ordered her to be carried upstairs and put to bed, and
pouring some acids down her throat, hastened away with Philip to
procure the necessary remedies.

"You will give your mother that directly, Mynheer Philip," said Poots,
putting a phial into his hand; "I will now go to the child of the
burgomaster, and will afterwards come back to your cottage."

"Don't deceive me," said Philip, with a threatening look.

"No, no, Mynheer Philip, I would not trust to your uncle Van Brennen
for payment, but you have promised, and I know that you always keep
your word. In one hour I will be with your mother; but you yourself
must now be quick."

Philip hastened home. After the potion had been administered, the
bleeding was wholly stopped; and in half an hour, his mother could
express her wishes in a whisper. When the little doctor arrived, he
carefully examined his patient, and then went downstairs with her son
into the kitchen.

"Mynheer Philip," said Poots, "by Allah! I have done my best, but I
must tell you that I have little hopes of your mother rising from her
bed again. She may live one day or two days, but not more. It is not
my fault, Mynheer Philip," continued Poots, in a deprecating tone.

"No, no; it is the will of Heaven," replied Philip, mournfully.

"And you will pay me, Mynheer Vanderdecken?" continued the doctor,
after a short pause.

"Yes," replied Philip in a voice of thunder, and starting from a
reverie. After a moment's silence, the doctor recommenced.

"Shall I come to-morrow, Mynheer Philip? You know that will be a
charge of another guilder: it is of no use to throw away money or time
either."

"Come to-morrow, come every hour, charge what you please; you shall
certainly be paid," replied Philip, curling his lip with contempt.

"Well, it is as you please. As soon as she is dead, the cottage and
the furniture will be yours, and you will sell them of course. Yes, I
will come. You will have plenty of money. Mynheer Philip, I would like
the first offer of the cottage, if it is to let."

Philip raised his arm in the air as if to crush Mynheer Poots, who
retreated to the corner.

"I did not mean until your mother was buried," said Poots, in a
coaxing tone.

"Go, wretch, go!" said Philip, covering his face with his hands, as he
sank down upon the blood-stained couch.

After a short interval, Philip Vanderdecken returned to the bedside
of his mother, whom he found much better; and the neighbours, having
their own affairs to attend to, left them alone. Exhausted with the
loss of blood, the poor woman slumbered for many hours, during which
she never let go the hand of Philip, who watched her breathing in
mournful meditation.

It was about one o'clock in the morning when the widow awoke. She had
in a great degree recovered her voice, and thus she addressed her
son:--

"My dear, my impetuous boy, and have I detained you here a prisoner so
long?"

"My own inclination detained me, mother. I leave you not to others
until you are up and well again."

"That, Philip, I shall never be. I feel that death claims me; and, O,
my son, were it not for you, how should I quit this world rejoicing!
I have long been dying, Philip,--and long, long have I prayed for
death."

"And why so, mother?" replied Philip, bluntly; "I've done my best."

"You have, my child, you have: and may God bless you for it. Often
have I seen you curb your fiery temper--restrain yourself when
justified in wrath--to spare a mother's feelings. 'Tis now some days
that even hunger has not persuaded you to disobey your mother. And,
Philip, you must have thought me mad or foolish to insist so long, and
yet to give no reason. I'll speak--again--directly."

The widow turned her head upon the pillow, and remained quiet for some
minutes; then, as if revived, she resumed:

"I believe I have been mad at times--have I not, Philip? And God knows
I have had a secret in my heart enough to drive a wife to frenzy. It
has oppressed me day and night, worn my mind, impaired my reason, and
now, at last, thank Heaven! it has overcome this mortal frame: the
blow is struck, Philip,--I'm sure it is. I wait but to tell you
all,--and yet I would not,--'twill turn your brain as it has turned
mine, Philip."

"Mother," replied Philip, earnestly, "I conjure you, let me hear this
killing secret. Be heaven or hell mixed up with it, I fear not. Heaven
will not hurt me, and Satan I defy."

"I know thy bold, proud spirit, Philip,--thy strength of mind. If
anyone could bear the load of such a dreadful tale, thou couldst. My
brain, alas! was far too weak for it; and I see it is my duty to tell
it to thee."

The widow paused as her thoughts reverted to that which she had to
confide; for a few minutes the tears rained down her hollow cheeks;
she then appeared to have summoned resolution, and to have regained
strength.

"Philip, it is of your father I would speak. It is supposed--that he
was--drowned at sea."

"And was he not, mother?" replied Philip, with surprise.

"O no!"

"But he has long been dead, mother?"

"No,--yes,--and yet--no," said the widow, covering her eyes.

Her brain wanders, thought Philip, but he spoke again:

"Then where is he, mother?"

The widow raised herself, and a tremor visibly ran through her whole
frame, as she replied--

"IN LIVING JUDGMENT."

The poor woman then sank down again upon the pillow, and covered her
head with the bedclothes, as if she would have hid herself from her
own memory. Philip was so much perplexed and astounded, that he could
make no reply. A silence of some minutes ensued, when, no longer able
to beat the agony of suspense, Philip faintly whispered--

"The secret, mother, the secret; quick, let me hear it."

"I can now tell all, Philip," replied his mother, in a solemn tone of
voice. "Hear me, my son. Your father's disposition was but too like
your own;--O may his cruel fate be a lesson to you, my dear, dear
child! He was a bold, a daring, and, they say, a first-rate seaman.
He was not born here, but in Amsterdam; but he would not live there,
because he still adhered to the Catholic religion. The Dutch, you
know, Philip, are heretics, according to our creed. It is now
seventeen years or more that he sailed for India, in his fine ship
the _Amsterdammer_, with a valuable cargo. It was his third voyage to
India, Philip, and it was to have been, if it had so pleased God,
his last, for he had purchased that good ship with only part of his
earnings, and one more voyage would have made his fortune. O! how
often did we talk over what we would do upon his return, and how these
plans for the future consoled me at the idea of his absence, for I
loved him dearly, Philip,--he was always good and kind to me; and
after he had sailed, how I hoped for his return! The lot of a sailor's
wife is not to be envied. Alone and solitary for so many months,
watching the long wick of the candle, and listening to the howling of
the wind--foreboding evil and accident--wreck and widowhood. He had
been gone about six months, Philip, and there was still a long dreary
year to wait before I could expect him back. One night, you, my
child, were fast asleep; you were my only solace--my comfort in my
loneliness. I had been watching over you in your slumbers; you smiled
and half pronounced the name of mother; and at last I kissed your
unconscious lips, and I knelt and prayed--prayed for God's blessing on
you, my child, and upon him too--little thinking, at the time, that he
was so horribly, so fearfully CURSED."

The widow paused for breath, and then resumed. Philip could not speak.
His lips were sundered, and his eyes riveted upon his mother, as he
devoured her words.

"I left you and went downstairs into that room, Philip, which since
that dreadful night has never been re-opened. I sate me down and read,
for the wind was strong, and when the gale blows, a sailor's wife can
seldom sleep. It was past midnight, and the rain poured down. I felt
unusual fear,--I knew not why. I rose from the couch and dipped my
finger in the blessed water, and I crossed myself. A violent gust
of wind roared round the house, and alarmed me still more. I had a
painful, horrible foreboding; when, of a sudden, the windows and
window-shutters were all blown in, the light was extinguished, and
I was left in utter darkness. I screamed with fright; but at last I
recovered myself, and was proceeding towards the window that I
might reclose it, when whom should I behold, slowly entering at the
casement, but--your father,--Philip!--Yes, Philip,--it was your
father!"

"Merciful God!" muttered Philip, in a low tone almost subdued into a
whisper.

"I knew not what to think,--he was in the room; and although the
darkness was intense, his form and features were as clear and as
defined as if it were noon-day. Fear would have inclined me to recoil
from,--his loved presence to fly towards him. I remained on the spot
where I was, choked with agonising sensations. When he had entered the
room, the windows and shutters closed of themselves, and the candle
was relighted--then I thought it was his apparition, and I fainted on
the floor.

"When I recovered I found myself on the couch, and perceived that
a cold (O how cold!) and dripping hand was clasped in mine. This
reassured me, and I forgot the supernatural signs which accompanied
his appearance. I imagined that he had been unfortunate, and had
returned home. I opened my eyes, and beheld my loved husband and threw
myself into his arms. His clothes were saturated with the rain: I
felt as if I had embraced ice--but nothing can check the warmth of a
woman's love, Philip. He received my caresses, but he caressed
not again: he spoke not, but looked thoughtful and unhappy.
'William--William,' cried I! 'speak, Vanderdecken, speak to your dear
Catherine.'

"'I will,' replied he, solemnly, 'for my time is short.'

"'No, no, you must not go to sea again: you have lost your vessel, but
you are safe. Have I not you again?'

"'Alas! no--be not alarmed, but listen, for my time is short. I have
not lost my vessel, Catherine, BUT I HAVE LOST!!! Make no reply, but
listen; I am not dead, nor yet am I alive. I hover between this world
and the world of Spirits. Mark me.

"'For nine weeks did I try to force my passage against the elements
round the stormy Cape, but without success; and I swore terribly.
For nine weeks more did I carry sail against the adverse winds and
currents, and yet could gain no ground; and then I blasphemed,--ay,
terribly blasphemed. Yet still I persevered. The crew, worn out
with long fatigue, would have had me return to the Table Bay; but I
refused; nay, more, I became a murderer,--unintentionally, it is true,
but still a murderer. The pilot opposed me, and persuaded the men to
bind me, and in the excess of my fury, when he took me by the collar,
I struck at him; he reeled; and, with the sudden lurch of the vessel,
he fell overboard, and sank. Even this fearful death did not restrain
me; and I swore by the fragment of the Holy Cross, preserved in that
relic now hanging round your neck, that I would gain my point in
defiance of storm and seas, of lightning, of heaven, or of hell, even
if I should beat about until the Day of Judgment.

"'My oath was registered in thunder, and in streams of sulphurous
fire. The hurricane burst upon the ship, the canvas flew away in
ribbons; mountains of seas swept over us, and in the centre of a deep
o'erhanging cloud, which shrouded all in utter darkness, were written
in letters of livid flame, these words--UNTIL THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

"'Listen to me, Catherine, my time is short. _One Hope_ alone remains,
and for this am I permitted to come here. Take this letter.' He put a
sealed paper on the table. 'Read it, Catherine, dear, and try if you
can assist me. Read it and now farewell--my time is come.'

"Again the window and window-shutters burst open--again the light was
extinguished, and the form of my husband was, as it were, wafted in
the dark expanse. I started up and followed him with outstretched arms
and frantic screams as he sailed through the window;--my glaring eyes
beheld his form borne away like lightning on the wings of the wild
gale, till it was lost as a speck of light, and then it disappeared.
Again the windows closed, the light burned, and I was left alone!

"Heaven, have mercy! My brain!--my brain!--Philip!--Philip!" shrieked
the poor woman; "don't leave me--don't--don't--pray don't!"

During these exclamations the frantic widow had raised herself from
the bed, and, at the last, had fallen into the arms of her son. She
remained there some minutes without motion. After a time Philip felt
alarmed at her long quiescence; he laid her gently down upon the bed,
and as he did so her head fell back--her eyes were turned--the widow
Vanderdecken was no more.




Chapter II


Philip Vanderdecken, strong as he was in mental courage, was almost
paralysed by the shock when he discovered that his mother's spirit had
fled; and for some time he remained by the side of the bed with his
eyes fixed upon the corpse, and his mind in a state of vacuity.
Gradually he recovered himself; he rose, smoothed down the pillow,
closed her eyelids, and then clasping his hands, the tears trickled
down his manly cheeks. He impressed a solemn kiss upon the pale white
forehead of the departed, and drew the curtains round the bed.

"Poor mother!" said he, sorrowfully, as he completed his task, "at
length thou hast found rest,--but thou hast left thy son a bitter
legacy."

And as Philip's thoughts reverted to what had passed, the dreadful
narrative whirled in his imagination and scathed his brain. He raised
his hands to his temples, compressed them with force, and tried to
collect his thoughts, that he might decide upon what measures he
should take. He felt that he had no time to indulge his grief. His
mother was in peace: but his father--where was he?

He recalled his mother's words--"One hope alone remained." Then there
was hope. His father had laid a paper on the table--could it be there
now? Yes, it must be; his mother had not had the courage to take it
up. There was hope in that paper, and it had lain unopened for more
than seventeen years.

Philip Vanderdecken resolved that he would examine the fatal
chamber--at once he would know the worst. Should he do it now, or wait
till daylight?--but the key, where was it? His eyes rested upon an old
japanned cabinet in the room: he had never seen his mother open it in
his presence: it was the only likely place of concealment that he was
aware of. Prompt in all his decisions, he took up the candle, and
proceeded to examine it. It was not locked; the doors swung open, and
drawer after drawer was examined, but Philip discovered not the object
of his search; again and again did he open the drawers, but they were
all empty. It occurred to Philip that there might be secret drawers,
and he examined for some time in vain. At last he took out all the
drawers, and laid them on the floor, and lifting the cabinet off its
stand he shook it. A rattling sound in one corner told him that in all
probability the key was there concealed. He renewed his attempts to
discover how to gain it, but in vain. Daylight now streamed through
the casements, and Philip had not desisted from his attempts: at last,
wearied out, he resolved to force the back panel of the cabinet; he
descended to the kitchen, and returned with a small chopping-knife and
hammer, and was on his knees busily employed forcing out the panel,
when a hand was placed upon his shoulder.

Philip started; he had been so occupied with his search and his wild
chasing thoughts, that he had not heard the sound of an approaching
footstep. He looked up and beheld the Father Seysen, the priest of the
little parish, with his eyes sternly fixed upon him. The good man had
been informed of the dangerous state of the widow Vanderdecken, and
had risen at daylight to visit and afford her spiritual comfort.

"How now, my son," said the priest: "fearest thou not to disturb thy
mother's rest? and wouldst thou pilfer and purloin even before she is
in her grave?"

"I fear not to disturb my mother's rest, good father," replied Philip,
rising on his feet, "for she now rests with the blessed. Neither do I
pilfer or purloin. It is not gold I seek, although if gold there were,
that gold would now be mine. I seek but a key, long hidden, I believe,
within this secret drawer, the opening of which is a mystery beyond my
art."

"Thy mother is no more, sayest thou, my son? and dead without
receiving the rites of our most holy church! Why didst thou not send
for me?"

"She died, good father, suddenly--most suddenly, in these arms, about
two hours ago. I fear not for her soul, although I can but grieve you
were not at her side."

The priest gently opened the curtains, and looked upon the corpse. He
sprinkled holy water on the bed, and for a short time his lips were
seen to move in silent prayer. He then turned round to Philip.

"Why do I see thee thus employed? and why so anxious to obtain that
key? A mother's death should call forth filial tears and prayers for
her repose. Yet are thine eyes dry, and thou art employed upon an
indifferent search while yet the tenement is warm which but now held
her spirit. This is not seemly, Philip. What is the key thou seekest?"

"Father, I have no time for tears--no time to spare for grief or
lamentation. I have much to do and more to think of than thought can
well embrace. That I loved my mother, you know well."

"But the key thou seekest, Philip?"

"Father, it is the key of a chamber which has not been unlocked for
years, which I must--will open; even if--"

"If what, my son?"

"I was about to say what I should not have said. Forgive me, Father; I
meant that I must search that chamber."

"I have long heard of that same chamber being closed; and that thy
mother would not explain wherefore, I know well, for I have asked
her, and have been denied. Nay, when, as in duty bound, I pressed the
question, I found her reason was disordered by my importunity, and
therefore I abandoned the attempt. Some heavy weight was on thy
mother's mind, my son, yet would she never confess or trust it with
me. Tell me, before she died, hadst thou this secret from her?"

"I had, most holy father."

"Wouldst thou not feel comfort if thou didst confide to me, my son? I
might advise--assist--"

"Father, I would indeed--I could confide it to thee, and ask for thy
assistance--I know 'tis not from curious feeling thou wouldst have it,
but from a better motive. But of that which has been told it is not
yet manifest--whether it is as my poor mother says, or but the phantom
of a heated brain. Should it indeed be true, fain would I share the
burthen with you--yet little you might thank me for the heavy load.
But no--at least not now--it must not, cannot be revealed. I must do
my work--enter that hated room alone."

"Fearest thou not?"

"Father, I fear nothing. I have a duty to perform--a dreadful one, I
grant; but I pray thee, ask no more; for, like my poor mother, I feel
as if the probing of the wound would half unseat my reason."

"I will not press thee further, Philip. The time may come when I may
prove of service. Farewell, my child; but I pray thee to discontinue
thy unseemly labour, for I must send in the neighbours to perform the
duties to thy departed mother, whose soul I trust is with its God."

The priest looked at Philip; he perceived that his thoughts were
elsewhere; there was a vacancy and appearance of mental stupefaction,
and as he turned away, the good man shook his head.

"He is right," thought Philip, when once more alone; and he took up
the cabinet, and placed it upon the stand. "A few hours more can make
no difference: I will lay me down, for my head is giddy."

Philip went into the adjoining room, threw himself upon his bed, and
in a few minutes was in a sleep as sound as that permitted to the
wretch a few hours previous to his execution.

During his slumbers the neighbours had come in, and had prepared
everything for the widow's interment. They had been careful not to
wake the son, for they held as sacred the sleep of those who must
wake up to sorrow. Among others, soon after the hour of noon arrived
Mynheer Poots; he had been informed of the death of the widow, but
having a spare hour, he thought he might as well call, as it would
raise his charges by another guilder. He first went into the room
where the body lay, and from thence he proceeded to the chamber of
Philip, and shook him by the shoulder.

Philip awoke, and, sitting up, perceived the doctor standing by him.

"Well, Mynheer Vanderdecken," commenced the unfeeling little man, "so
it's all over. I knew it would be so, and recollect you owe me now
another guilder, and you promised faithfully to pay me; altogether,
with the potion, it will be three guilders and a half--that is,
provided you return my phial."

Philip, who at first waking was confused, gradually recovered his
senses during this address.

"You shall have your three guilders and a half, and your phial to
boot, Mr Poots," replied he, as he rose from off the bed.

"Yes, yes; I know you mean to pay me--if you can. But look you,
Mynheer Philip, it may be some time before you sell the cottage. You
may not find a customer. Now, I never wish to be hard upon people who
have no money, and I'll tell you what I'll do. There is a something
on your mother's neck. It is of no value, none at all, but to a good
Catholic. To help you in your strait, I will take that thing, and then
we shall be quits. You will have paid me, and there will be an end of
it."

Philip listened calmly: he knew to what the little miser had
referred,--the relic on his mother's neck--that very relic upon which
his father swore the fatal oath. He felt that millions of guilders
would not have induced him to part with it.

"Leave the house," answered he abruptly. "Leave it immediately. Your
money shall be paid."

Now, Mynheer Poots, in the first place, knew that the setting of the
relic, which was in a square frame of pure gold, was worth much more
than the sum due to him: he also knew that a large price had been paid
for the relic itself, and as at that time such a relic was considered
very valuable, he had no doubt but that it would again fetch a
considerable sum. Tempted by the sight of it when he entered the
chamber of death, he had taken it from the neck of the corpse, and it
was then actually concealed in his bosom, so he replied--

"My offer is a good one, Mynheer Philip, and you had better take it.
Of what use is such trash?"

"I tell you, no," cried Philip, in a rage.

"Well, then, you will let me have it in my possession till I am paid,
Mynheer Vanderdecken--that is but fair. I must not lose my money. When
you bring me my three guilders and a half and the phial, I will return
it to you."

Philip's indignation was now without bounds. He seized Mynheer Poots
by the collar, and threw him out of the door. "Away immediately,"
cried he, "or by--"

There was no occasion for Philip to finish the imprecation. The doctor
had hastened away with such alarm, that he fell down half the steps
of the staircase, and was limping away across the bridge. He almost
wished that the relic had not been in his possession; but his sudden
retreat had prevented him, even if so inclined, from replacing it on
the corpse.

The result of this conversation naturally turned Philip's thoughts to
the relic, and he went into his mother's room to take possession of
it. He opened the curtains--the corpse was laid out--he put forth his
hand to untie the black ribbon. It was not there. "Gone!" exclaimed
Philip. "They hardly would have removed it--never would--. It must
be that villain Poots--wretch; but I will have it, even if he has
swallowed it, though I tear him limb from limb!"

Philip darted down the stairs, rushed out of the house, cleared the
moat at one bound, and without coat or hat, flew away in the direction
of the doctor's lonely residence. The neighbours saw him as he passed
them like the wind; they wondered, and they shook their heads. Mynheer
Poots was not more than half-way to his home, for he had hurt his
ankle. Apprehensive of what might possibly take place should his theft
be discovered, he occasionally looked behind him; at length, to his
horror, he beheld Philip Vanderdecken at a distance bounding on in
pursuit of him. Frightened almost out of his senses, the wretched
pilferer hardly knew how to act; to stop and surrender up the stolen
property was his first thought, but fear of Vanderdecken's violence
prevented him; so he decided on taking to his heels, thus hoping to
gain his house, and barricade himself in, by which means he would be
in a condition to keep possession of what he had stolen, or at least
make some terms ere he restored it.

Mynheer Poots had need to run fast, and so he did; his thin legs
bearing his shrivelled form rapidly over the ground; but Philip, who,
when he witnessed the doctor's attempt to escape, was fully convinced
that he was the culprit, redoubled his exertions, and rapidly came up
with the chase. When within a hundred yards of his own door, Mynheer
Poots heard the bounding step of Philip gain upon him, and he sprang
and leaped in his agony. Nearer and nearer still the step, until at
last he heard the very breathing of his pursuer, and Poots shrieked in
his fear, like the hare in the jaws of the greyhound. Philip was not
a yard from him; his arm was outstretched, when the miscreant dropped
down paralysed with terror, and the impetus of Vanderdecken was so
great that he passed over his body, tripped, and after trying in vain
to recover his equilibrium, he fell and rolled over and over. This
saved the little doctor; it was like the double of a hare. In a second
he was again on his legs, and before Philip could rise and again exert
his speed, Poots had entered his door and bolted it within. Philip
was, however, determined to repossess the important treasure; and as
he panted, he cast his eyes around, to see if any means offered for
his forcing his entrance into the house. But as the habitation of the
doctor was lonely, every precaution had been taken by him to render
it secure against robbery; the windows below were well barricaded and
secured, and those on the upper story were too high for anyone to
obtain admittance by them.

We must here observe, that although Mynheer Poots was, from his
known abilities, in good practice, his reputation as a hard-hearted,
unfeeling miser was well established. No one was ever permitted to
enter his threshold, nor, indeed, did any one feel inclined. He was as
isolated from his fellow-creatures as was his tenement, and was only
to be seen in the chamber of disease and death. What his establishment
consisted of no one knew. When he first settled in the neighbourhood,
an old decrepit woman occasionally answered the knocks given at the
door by those who required the doctor's services; but she had been
buried some time, and, ever since, all calls at the door had been
answered by Mynheer Poots in person, if he were at home, and if not,
there was no reply to the most importunate summons. It was then
surmised that the old man lived entirely by himself, being too
niggardly to pay for any assistance. This Philip also imagined; and as
soon as he had recovered his breath, he began to devise some scheme by
which he would be enabled not only to recover the stolen property, but
also to wreak a dire revenge.

The door was strong, and not to be forced by any means which presented
themselves to the eye of Vanderdecken. For a few minutes he paused
to consider, and as he reflected, so did his anger cool down, and
he decided that it would be sufficient to recover his relic without
having recourse to violence. So he called out in a loud voice:--

"Mynheer Poots, I know that you can hear me. Give me back what you
have taken, and I will do you no hurt; but if you will not, you must
take the consequence, for your life shall pay the forfeit before I
leave this spot."

This speech was indeed very plainly heard by Mynheer Poots, but the
little miser had recovered from his fright, and, thinking himself
secure, could not make up his mind to surrender the relic without a
struggle; so the doctor answered not, hoping that the patience of
Philip would be exhausted, and that by some arrangement, such as
the sacrifice of a few guilders, no small matter to one so needy as
Philip, he would be able to secure what he was satisfied would sell at
a high price.

Vanderdecken, finding that no answer was returned, indulged in strong
invective, and then decided upon measures certainly in themselves by
no means undecided.

There was part of a small stack of dry fodder standing not far from
the house, and under the wall a pile of wood for firing. With these
Vanderdecken resolved upon setting fire to the house, and thus, if he
did not gain his relic, he would at least obtain ample revenge. He
brought several armfuls of fodder and laid them at the door of the
house, and upon that he piled the fagots and logs of wood, until the
door was quite concealed by them. He then procured a light from the
steel, flint, and tinder, which every Dutchman carries in his pocket,
and very soon he had fanned the pile into a flame. The smoke ascended
in columns up to the rafters of the roof while the fire raged below.
The door was ignited, and was adding to the fury of the flames, and
Philip shouted with joy at the success of his attempt.

"Now, miserable despoiler of the dead--now, wretched thief, now you
shall feel my vengeance," cried Philip, with a loud voice. "If you
remain within, you perish in the flames; if you attempt to come out
you shall die by my hands. Do you hear, Mynheer Poots--do you hear?"

Hardly had Philip concluded this address when the window of the upper
floor furthest from the burning door was thrown open.

"Ay,--you come now to beg and to entreat; but no--no," cried
Philip--who stopped as he beheld at the window what seemed to be an
apparition, for, instead of the wretched little miser, he beheld
one of the loveliest forms Nature ever deigned to mould--an angelic
creature, of about sixteen or seventeen, who appeared calm and
resolute in the midst of the danger by which she was threatened. Her
long black hair was braided and twined round her beautifully-formed
head; her eyes were large, intensely dark, yet soft; her forehead high
and white, her chin dimpled, her ruby lips arched and delicately
fine, her nose small and straight. A lovelier face could not be well
imagined; it reminded you of what the best of painters have sometimes,
in their more fortunate moments, succeeded in embodying, when they
would represent a beauteous saint. And as the flames wreathed and the
smoke burst out in columns and swept past the window, so might she
have reminded you in her calmness of demeanour of some martyr at the
stake.

"What wouldst thou, violent young man? Why are the inmates of this
house to suffer death by your means?" said the maiden, with composure.

For a few seconds Philip gazed, and could make no reply; then the
thought seized him that, in his vengeance, he was about to sacrifice
so much loveliness. He forgot everything but her danger, and seizing
one of the large poles which he had brought to feed the flame, he
threw off and scattered in every direction the burning masses, until
nothing was left which could hurt the building but the ignited door
itself; and this, which as yet--for it was of thick oak plank--had not
suffered very material injury, he soon reduced, by beating it, with
clods of earth, to a smoking and harmless state. During these active
measures on the part of Philip, the young maiden watched him in
silence.

"All is safe now, young lady," said Philip. "God forgive me that I
should have risked a life so precious. I thought but to wreak my
vengeance upon Mynheer Poots."

"And what cause can Mynheer Poots have given for such dreadful
vengeance?" replied the maiden calmly.

"What cause, young lady? He came to my house--despoiled the dead--took
from my mother's corpse a relic beyond price."

"Despoiled the dead!--he surely cannot--you must wrong him, young
sir."

"No, no. It is the fact, lady,--and that relic--forgive me--but that
relic I must have. You know not what depends upon it."

"Wait, young sir," replied the maiden; "I will soon return."

Philip waited several minutes, lost in thought and admiration: so fair
a creature in the house of Mynheer Poots! Who could she be? While thus
ruminating, he was accosted by the silver voice of the object of his
reveries, who, leaning out of the window, held in her hand the black
ribbon to which was attached the article so dearly coveted.

"Here is your relic, sir," said the young female; "I regret much that
my father should have done a deed which well might justify your anger:
but here it is," continued she, dropping it down on the ground by
Philip; "and now you may depart."

"Your father, maiden! can he be your _father_?" said Philip,
forgetting to take up the relic which lay at his feet.

She would have retired from the window without reply, but Philip spoke
again--

"Stop, lady, stop one moment, until I beg your forgiveness for my
wild, foolish act. I swear by this sacred relic," continued he, taking
it from the ground and raising it to his lips, "that had I known that
any unoffending person had been in this house, I would not have done
the deed, and much do I rejoice that no harm hath happened. But there
is still danger, lady; the door must be unbarred, and the jambs, which
still are glowing, be extinguished, or the house may yet be burnt.
Fear not for your father, maiden, for had he done me a thousand times
more wrong, you will protect each hair upon his head. He knows me well
enough to know I keep my word. Allow me to repair the injury I have
occasioned, and then I will depart."

"No, no; don't trust him," said Mynheer Poots, from within the
chamber.

"Yes, he may be trusted," replied the daughter; "and his services are
much needed, for what could a poor weak girl like me, and a still
weaker father, do in this strait? Open the door, and let the house be
made secure." The maiden then addressed Philip--"He shall open the
door, sir, and I will thank you for your kind service. I trust
entirely to your promise."

"I never yet was known to break my word, maiden," replied Philip; "but
let him be quick, for the flames are bursting out again."

The door was opened by the trembling hands of Mynheer Poots, who then
made a hasty retreat upstairs. The truth of what Philip had said was
then apparent. Many were the buckets of water which he was obliged to
fetch before the fire was subdued; but during his exertions neither
the daughter nor the father made their appearance.

When all was safe, Philip closed the door, and again looked up at the
window. The fair girl made her appearance, and Philip, with a low
obeisance, assured her that there was then no danger.

"I thank you, sir," replied she--"I thank you much. Your conduct,
although hasty at first, has yet been most considerate."

"Assure your father, maiden, that all animosity on my part hath
ceased, and that in a few days I will call and satisfy the demand he
hath against me."

The window closed, and Philip, more excited, but with feelings
altogether different from those with which he had set out, looked at
it for a minute, and then bent his steps to his own cottage.




Chapter III


The discovery of the beautiful daughter of Mynheer Poots had made a
strong impression upon Philip Vanderdecken, and now he had another
excitement to combine with those which already overcharged his bosom.
He arrived at his own house, went upstairs, and threw himself on the
bed from which he had been roused by Mynheer Poots. At first, he
recalled to his mind the scene we have just described, painted in his
imagination the portrait of the fair girl, her eyes, her expression,
her silver voice, and the words which she had uttered; but her
pleasing image was soon chased away by the recollection that his
mother's corpse lay in the adjoining chamber, and that his father's
secret was hidden in the room below.

The funeral was to take place the next morning, and Philip, who, since
his meeting with the daughter of Mynheer Poots, appeared even to
himself not so anxious for immediate examination of the room, resolved
that he would not open it until after the melancholy ceremony. With
this resolution he fell asleep; and exhausted with bodily and mental
excitement, he did not wake until the next morning, when he was
summoned by the priest to assist at the funeral rites. In an hour all
was over; the crowd dispersed, and Philip, returning to the cottage,
bolted the door that he might not be interrupted, and felt happy that
he was alone.

There is a feeling in our nature which will arise when we again find
ourselves in the tenement where death has been, and all traces of
it have been removed. It is a feeling of satisfaction and relief at
having rid ourselves of the memento of mortality, the silent evidence
of the futility of our pursuits and anticipations. We know that we
must one day die, but we always wish to forget it. The continual
remembrance would be too great a check upon our mundane desires and
wishes; and although we are told that we ever should have futurity in
our thoughts, we find that life is not to be enjoyed if we are not
permitted occasional forgetfulness. For who would plan what rarely
he is permitted to execute, if each moment of the day he thought of
death? We either hope that we may live longer than others, or we
forget that we may not.

If this buoyant feeling had not been planted in our nature, how little
would the world have been improved even from the deluge! Philip walked
into the room where his mother had lain one short hour before, and
unwittingly felt relief. Taking down the cabinet, he now recommenced
his task; the back panel was soon removed, and a secret drawer
discovered; he drew it out, and it contained what he presumed to be
the object of his search,--a large key with a slight coat of rust upon
it, which came off upon its being handled. Under the key was a paper,
the writing on which was somewhat discoloured; it was in his mother's
hand, and ran as follows:--

"It is now two nights since a horrible event took place which has
induced me to close the lower chamber, and my brain is still bursting
with terror. Should I not, during my lifetime, reveal what occurred,
still this key will be required, as at my death the room will be
opened. When I rushed from it I hastened upstairs, and remained that
night with my child; the next morning I summoned up sufficient courage
to go down, turn the key, and bring it up into my chamber. It is now
closed till I close my eyes in death. No privation, no suffering,
shall induce me to open it, although in the iron cupboard under the
buffet farthest from the window, there is money sufficient for all my
wants; that money will remain there for my child, to whom, if I do not
impart the fatal secret, he must be satisfied that it is one which it
were better should be concealed,--one so horrible as to induce me to
take the steps which I now do. The keys of the cupboards and buffets
were, I think, lying on the table, or in my workbox, when I quitted
the room. There is a letter on the table, at least I think so. It
is sealed. Let not the seal be broken but by my son, and not by him
unless he knows the secret. Let it be burnt by the priest,--for it
is cursed;--and even should my son know all that I do, oh! let him
pause,--let him reflect well before he breaks the seal,--for 'twere
better he should know NO MORE!"

"Not know more!" thought Philip, as his eyes were still fixed upon the
paper. "Yes, but I must and will know more! so forgive me, dearest
mother, if I waste no time in reflection. It would be but time thrown
away, when one is resolved as I am."

Philip pressed his lips to his mother's signature, folded up the
paper, and put it into his pocket; then, taking the key, he proceeded
downstairs.

It was about noon when Philip descended to open the chamber; the sun
shone bright, the sky was clear, and all without was cheerful and
joyous. The front door of the cottage being closed, there was not much
light in the passage when Philip put the key into the lock of the
long-closed door, and with some difficulty turned it round. To say
that when he pushed open the door he felt no alarm, would not be
correct; he did feel alarm, and his heart palpitated; but he felt more
than was requisite of determination to conquer that alarm, and to
conquer more, should more be created by what he should behold. He
opened the door, but did not immediately enter the room: he paused
where he stood, for he felt as if he was about to intrude into the
retreat of a disembodied spirit, and that that spirit might reappear.
He waited a minute, for the effort of opening the door had taken away
his breath, and, as he recovered himself, he looked within.

He could but imperfectly distinguish the objects in the chamber, but
through the joints of the shutters there were three brilliant beams of
sunshine forcing their way across the room, which at first induced him
to recoil as if from something supernatural; but a little reflection
reassured him. After about a minute's pause, Philip went into the
kitchen, lighted a candle, and, sighing deeply two or three times
as if to relieve his heart, he summoned his resolution, and walked
towards the fatal room. He first stopped at the threshold, and, by the
light of the candle, took a hasty survey. All was still: and the
table on which the letter had been left, being behind the door, was
concealed by its being opened. It must be done, thought Philip: and
why not at once? continued he, resuming his courage; and, with a firm
step, he walked into the room and went to unfasten the shutters. If
his hands trembled a little when he called to mind how supernaturally
they had last been opened, it is not surprising. We are but mortal,
and we shrink from contact with aught beyond this life. When the
fastenings were removed and the shutters unfolded, a stream of light
poured into the room so vivid as to dazzle his eyesight; strange to
say, this very light of a brilliant day overthrew the resolution of
Philip more than the previous gloom and darkness had done; and with
the candle in his hand, he retreated hastily into the kitchen to
re-summon his courage, and there he remained for some minutes, with
his face covered, and in deep thought.

It is singular that his reveries at last ended by reverting to the
fair daughter of Mynheer Poots, and her first appearance at the
window; and he felt as if the flood of light which had just driven
him from the one, was not more impressive and startling than her
enchanting form at the other. His mind dwelling upon the beauteous
vision appeared to restore Philip's confidence; he now rose and boldly
walked into the room. We shall not describe the objects it contained
as they chanced to meet the eyes of Philip, but attempt a more lucid
arrangement.

The room was about twelve or fourteen feet square, with but one
window; opposite to the door stood the chimney and fireplace, with a
high buffet of dark wood on each side. The floor of the room was not
dirty, although about its upper parts spiders had run their cobwebs
in every direction. In the centre of the ceiling, hung a quicksilver
globe, a common ornament in those days, but the major part of it had
lost its brilliancy, the spiders' webs enclosing it like a shroud.
Over the chimney piece were hung two or three drawings framed and
glazed, but a dusty mildew was spotted over the glass, so that little
of them could be distinguished. In the centre of the mantel-piece was
an image of the Virgin Mary, of pure silver, in a shrine of the same
metal, but it was tarnished to the colour of bronze or iron; some
Indian figures stood on each side of it. The glass doors of the
buffets on each side of the chimney-piece were also so dimmed that
little of what was within could be distinguished; the light and heat
which had been poured into the room, even for so short a time, had
already gathered up the damp of many years, and it lay as a mist and
mingled with the dust upon the panes of glass: still here and there a
glittering of silver vessels could be discerned, for the glass doors
had protected them from turning black, although much dimmed in lustre.

On the wall facing the window were other prints, in frames equally
veiled in damp and cobwebs, and also two bird-cages. The bird-cages
Philip approached, and looked into them. The occupants, of course, had
long been dead; but at the bottom of the cages was a small heap of
yellow feathers, through which the little white bones of the skeletons
were to be seen, proving that they had been brought from the Canary
Isles; and, at that period, such birds were highly valued. Philip
appeared to wish to examine everything before he sought that which
he most dreaded, yet most wished, to find. There were several chairs
round the room: on one of them was some linen; he took it up. It was
some that must have belonged to him when he was yet a child. At last,
Philip turned his eyes to the wall not yet examined (that opposite the
chimney-piece), through which the door was pierced, and behind the
door as it lay open, he was to find the table, the couch, the workbox,
and the FATAL LETTER. As he turned round, his pulse, which had
gradually recovered its regular motion, beat more quickly; but he made
the effort, and it was over. At first he examined the walls, against
which were hung swords and pistols of various sorts, but chiefly
Asiatic bows and arrows, and other implements of destruction. Philip's
eyes gradually descended upon the table, and little couch behind it,
where his mother stated herself to have been seated when his father
made his awful visit. The workbox and all its implements were on the
table, just as she had left them. The keys she mentioned were also
lying there, but Philip looked, and looked again; there was no letter.
He now advanced nearer, examined closely--there was none that he could
perceive, either on the couch or on the table--or on the floor. He
lifted up the workbox to ascertain if it was beneath--but no. He
examined among its contents, but no letter was there. He turned over
the pillows of the couch, but still there was no letter to be found.
And Philip felt as if there had been a heavy load removed from his
panting chest. "Surely, then," thought he, as he leant against the
wall, "this must have been the vision of a heated imagination. My poor
mother must have fallen asleep, and dreamt this horrid tale. I thought
it was impossible, at least I hoped so. It must have been as I
suppose; the dream was too powerful, too like a fearful reality,
partially unseated my poor mother's reason." Philip reflected again,
and was then satisfied that his suppositions were correct.

"Yes, it must have been so, poor dear mother! how much thou hast
suffered! but thou art now rewarded, and with God."

After a few minutes (during which he surveyed the room again and
again with more coolness, and perhaps some indifference, now that he
regarded the supernatural history as not true), Philip took out of his
pocket the written paper found with the key, and read it over--"The
iron cupboard under the buffet farthest from the window." "'Tis well."
He took the bunch of keys from off the table, and soon fitted one to
the outside wooden doors which concealed the iron safe. A second
key on the bunch opened the iron doors; and Philip found himself in
possession of a considerable sum of money, amounting, as near as he
could reckon, to ten thousand guilders, in little yellow sacks. "My
poor mother!" thought he; "and has a mere dream scared thee to penury
and want, with all this wealth in thy possession?" Philip replaced the
sacks, and locked up the cupboards, after having taken out of one,
already half emptied, a few pieces for his immediate wants. His
attention was next directed to the buffets above, which, with one
of the keys, he opened; he found that they contained china, silver
flagons, and cups of considerable value. The locks were again turned,
and the bunch of keys thrown upon the table.

The sudden possession of so much wealth added to the conviction, to
which Philip had now arrived, that there had been no supernatural
appearance, as supposed by his mother, naturally revived and composed
his spirits; and he felt a reaction which amounted almost to hilarity.
Seating himself on the couch, he was soon in a reverie, and as before,
reverted to the lovely daughter of Mynheer Poots, indulging in various
castle-buildings, all ending, as usual, when we choose for ourselves,
in competence and felicity. In this pleasing occupation he remained
for more than two hours, when his thoughts again reverted to his poor
mother and her fearful death.

"Dearest, kindest mother!" apostrophised Philip aloud, as he rose from
his leaning position, "here thou wert, tired with watching over my
infant slumbers, thinking of my absent father and his dangers, working
up thy mind and anticipating evil, till thy fevered sleep conjured up
this apparition. Yes, it must have been so, for see here, lying on the
floor, is the embroidery, as it fell from thy unconscious hands,
and with that labour ceased thy happiness in this life. Dear, dear
mother!" continued he, a tear rolling down his cheek as he stooped to
pick up the piece of muslin, "how much hast thou suffered when--God of
Heaven!" exclaimed Philip, as he lifted up the embroidery, starting
back with violence, and overturning the table, "God of Heaven and of
Judgment, there is--there _is_," and Philip clasped his hands, and
bowed his head in awe and anguish, as in a changed and fearful tone he
muttered forth--"the LETTER!"

It was but too true,--underneath the embroidery on the floor had lain
the fatal letter of Vanderdecken. Had Philip seen it on the table when
he first went into the room, and was prepared to find it, he would
have taken it up with some degree of composure; but to find it now,
when he had persuaded himself that it was all an illusion on the part
of his mother; when he had made up his mind that there had been no
supernatural agency; after he had been indulging in visions of future
bliss and repose, was a shock that transfixed him where he stood, and
for some time he remained in his attitude of surprise and terror. Down
at once fell the airy fabric of happiness which he had built up during
the last two hours; and as he gradually recovered from his alarm, his
heart filled with melancholy forebodings. At last he dashed forward,
seized the letter, and burst out of the fatal room.

"I cannot, dare not, read it here," exclaimed he: "no, no, it must be
under the vault of high and offended Heaven, that the message must be
received." Philip took his hat, and went out of the house; in calm
despair he locked the door, took out the key, and walked he knew not
whither.




Chapter IV


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.




Chapter V


Philip Vanderdecken sat down at the porch of the door; he swept his
hair from his forehead, which he exposed to the fanning of the breeze;
for the continued excitement of the last three days had left a fever
on his brain which made him restless and confused. He longed for
repose, but he knew that for him there was no rest. He had his
forebodings--he perceived in the vista of futurity a long-continued
chain of danger and disaster, even to death; yet he beheld it without
emotion and without dread. He felt as if it were only three days
that he had begun to exist; he was melancholy, but not unhappy. His
thoughts were constantly recurring to the fatal letter--its strange
supernatural disappearance seemed pointedly to establish its
supernatural origin, and that the mission had been intended for him
alone; and the relic in his possession more fully substantiated the
fact.

It is my fate, my duty, thought Philip. Having satisfactorily made up
his mind to these conclusions, his thoughts reverted to the beauty,
the courage, and presence of mind shown by Amine. And, thought he,
as he watched the moon soaring high in the heavens, is this fair
creature's destiny to be interwoven with mine? The events of the last
three days would almost warrant the supposition. Heaven only knows,
and Heaven's will be done. I have vowed, and my vow is registered,
that I will devote my life to the release of my unfortunate
father--but does that prevent my loving Amine?--No, no; the sailor on
the Indian seas must pass months and months on shore before he can
return to his duty. My search must be on the broad ocean, but how
often may I return? and why am I to be debarred the solace of a
smiling hearth?--and yet--do I right in winning the affections of one
who, if she loves, would, I am convinced, love so dearly, fondly,
truly--ought I to persuade her to mate herself with one whose life
will be so precarious? but is not every sailor's life precarious,
daring the angry waves, with but an inch of plank 'tween him and
death? Besides, I am chosen to fulfil a task--and if so, what can hurt
me, till in Heaven's own time it is accomplished? but then how soon,
and how is it to end? in death! I wish my blood were cooler, that I
might reason better.

Such were the meditations of Philip Vanderdecken, and long did he
revolve such chances in his mind. At last the day dawned, and as he
perceived the blush upon the horizon, less careful of his watch he
slumbered where he sat. A slight pressure on the shoulder made him
start up and draw the pistol from his bosom. He turned round and
beheld Amine.

"And that pistol was intended for me," said Amine, smiling, repeating
Philip's words of the night before.

"For you, Amine?--yes, to defend you, if 'twere necessary, once more."

"I know it would--how kind of you to watch this tedious night after so
much exertion and fatigue! but it is now broad day."

"Until I saw the dawn, Amine, I kept a faithful watch."

"But now retire and take some rest. My father is risen--you can lie
down on his bed."

"I thank you, but I feel no wish for sleep. There is much to do. We
must to the burgomaster and state the facts, and these bodies must
remain where they are until the whole is known. Will your father go,
Amine, or shall I?"

"My father surely is the more proper person, as the proprietor of the
house. You must remain; and if you will not sleep, you must take some
refreshment. I will go in and tell my father; he has already taken his
morning's meal."

Amine went in, and soon returned with her father, who had consented
to go to the burgomaster. He saluted Philip kindly as he came out;
shuddered as he passed on one side to avoid stepping over the dead
bodies, and went off at a quick pace to the adjacent town, where the
burgomaster resided.

Amine desired Philip to follow her, and they went into her father's
room, where, to his surprise, he found some coffee ready for him--at
that time a rarity, and one which Philip did not expect to find in the
house of the penurious Mynheer Poots; but it was a luxury which, from
his former life, the old man could not dispense with.

Philip, who had not tasted food for nearly twenty-four hours, was not
sorry to avail himself of what was placed before him. Amine sat down
opposite to him, and was silent during his repast.

"Amine," said Philip at last, "I have had plenty of time for
reflection during this night, as I watched at the door. May I speak
freely?"

"Why not?" replied Amine. "I feel assured that you will say nothing
that you should not say, or should not meet a maiden's ear."

"You do me justice, Amine. My thoughts have been upon you and your
father. You cannot stay in this lone habitation."

"I feel it is too lonely; that is, for his safety--perhaps for
mine--but you know my father--the very loneliness suits him, the price
paid for rent is little, and he is careful of his money."

"The man who would be careful of his money should place it in
security--here it is not secure. Now hear me, Amine. I have a cottage
surrounded, as you may have heard, by many others, which mutually
protect each other. That cottage I am about to leave--perhaps for
ever; for I intend to sail by the first ship to the Indian seas."

"The Indian seas! why so?--did you not last night talk of thousands of
guilders?"

"I did, and they are there; but, Amine, I must go--it is my duty. Ask
me no more, but listen to what I now propose. Your father must live in
my cottage; he must take care of it for me in my absence; he will do
me a favour by consenting; and you must persuade him. You will there
be safe. He must also take care of my money for me. I want it not at
present--I cannot take it with me."

"My father is not to be trusted with the money of other people."

"Why does your father hoard? He cannot take his money with him when
he is called away. It must be all for you--and is not then my money
safe?"

"Leave it then in my charge, and it will be safe; but why need you go
and risk your life upon the water, when you have such ample means?"

"Amine, ask not that question. It is my duty as a son, and more I
cannot tell, at least at present."

"If it is your duty, I ask no more. It was not womanish curiosity--no,
no--it was a better feeling, I assure you, which prompted me to put
the question."

"And what was the better feeling, Amine?"

"I hardly know--many good feelings perhaps mixed up
together--gratitude, esteem, respect, confidence, good-will. Are not
these sufficient?"

"Yes, indeed, Amine, and much to gain upon so short an acquaintance;
but still I feel them all, and more, for you. If, then, you feel so
much for me, do oblige me by persuading your father to leave this
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 the 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
reappearance."

"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 Middleburgh, 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 everyone 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 faith is true; then is it not your duty to reveal these
proofs? Tell me, are you bound by any solemn obligation 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 downstairs. 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 may be supposed, it was late that night
before they had made their arrangements, and had retired to rest.




Chapter VI


"This, then, is the chamber which has so long been closed," said
Amine, on entering it the next morning, long before Philip had
awakened from the sound sleep produced by the watching of the night
before. "Yes, indeed, it has the air of having long been closed."
Amine looked around her, and then examined the furniture. Her eyes
were attracted to the bird-cages; she looked into them:--"Poor little
things!" continued she, "and here it was his father appeared unto his
mother. Well, it may be so,--Philip saith that he hath proofs; and
why should he not appear? Were Philip dead, I should rejoice to
see his spirit,--at least it would be something. What am I
saying--unfaithful lips, thus to betray my secret?--The table thrown
over;--that looks like the work of fear; a workbox, with all its
implements scattered,--only a woman's fear: a mouse might have caused
all this; and yet there is something solemn in the simple fact that,
for so many years, not a living being has crossed these boards. Even
that a table thus overthrown could thus remain for years, seems
scarcely natural, and therefore has its power on the mind. I wonder
not that Philip feels there is so heavy a secret belonging to this
room--but it must not remain in this condition--it must be occupied at
once."

Amine, who had long been accustomed to attend upon her father, and
perform the household duties, now commenced her intended labours.

Every part of the room, and every piece of furniture in it, were
cleaned; even the cobwebs and dust were cleared away, and the sofa
and table brought from the corner to the centre of the room; the
melancholy little prisons were removed; and when Amine's work of
neatness was complete, and the sun shone brightly into the opened
window, the chamber wore the appearance of cheerfulness.

Amine had the intuitive good sense to feel that strong impressions
wear away when the objects connected with them are removed. She
resolved then to make Philip more at ease; for, with all the fire and
warmth of blood inherent in her race, she had taken his image to her
heart, and was determined to win him. Again and again did she resume
her labour, until the pictures about the room, and every other
article, looked fresh and clean.

Not only the bird-cages, but the workbox, and all the implements, were
removed; and the piece of embroidery, the taking up of which had made
Philip recoil, as if he had touched an adder, was put away with the
rest. Philip had left the keys on the floor. Amine opened the buffets,
cleaned the glazed doors, and was busy rubbing up the silver flagons
when her father came into the room.

"Mercy on me!" exclaimed Mynheer Poots; "and is all that silver?--then
it must be true, and he has thousands of guilders; but where are
they?"

"Never do you mind, father; yours are now safe, and for that you have
to thank Philip Vanderdecken."

"Yes, very true; but as he is to live here--does he eat much--what
will he pay me? He ought to pay well, as he has so much money."

Amine's lips were curled with a contemptuous smile, but she made no
reply.

"I wonder where he keeps his money; and he is going to sea as soon as
he can get a ship? Who will have charge of his money when he goes?"

"I shall take charge of it, father," replied Amine.

"Ah--yes--well--we will take charge of it; the ship may be lost."

"No, _we_ will not take charge of it, father; you will have nothing to
do with it. Look after your own."

Amine placed the silver in the buffets, locked the doors, and took the
keys with her when she went out to prepare breakfast, leaving the old
man gazing through the glazed doors at the precious metal within. His
eyes were riveted upon it, and he could not remove them. Every minute
he muttered, "Yes, all silver."

Philip came downstairs; and as he passed by the room, intending to go
into the kitchen, he perceived Mynheer Poots at the buffet, and he
walked into the room. He was surprised as well as pleased with the
alteration. He felt why and by whom it was done, and he was grateful.
Amine came in with the breakfast, and their eyes spoke more than their
lips could have done; and Philip sat down to his meal with less of
sorrow and gloom upon his brow.

"Mynheer Poots," said Philip, as soon as he had finished, "I intend
to leave you in possession of my cottage, and I trust you will find
yourself comfortable. What little arrangements are necessary, I will
confide to your daughter previous to my departure."

"Then you leave us, Mr Philip, to go to sea? It must be pleasant to go
and see strange countries--much better than staying at home. When do
you go?"

"I shall leave this evening for Amsterdam," replied Philip, "to make
my arrangements about a ship, but I shall return, I think, before I
sail."

"Ah! you will return. Yes--you have your money and your goods to see
to; you must count your money--we will take good care of it. Where is
your money, Mr Vanderdecken?"

"That I will communicate to your daughter this forenoon, before I
leave. In three weeks at the furthest you may expect me back."

"Father," said Amine, "you promised to go and see the child of the
burgomaster; it is time you went."

"Yes, yes--by-and-bye--all in good time; but I must wait the pleasure
of Mr Philip first--he has much to tell me before he goes."

Philip could not help smiling when he remembered what had passed when
he first summoned Mynheer Poots to the cottage, but the remembrance
ended in sorrow and a clouded brow.

Amine, who knew what was passing in the minds of both her father and
Philip, now brought her father's hat, and led him to the door of the
cottage; and Mynheer Poots, very much against his inclination, but
never disputing the will of his daughter, was obliged to depart.

"So soon, Philip?" said Amine, returning to the room.

"Yes, Amine, immediately. But I trust to be back once more before I
sail; if not, you must now have my instructions. Give me the keys."

Philip opened the cupboard below the buffet, and the doors of the iron
safe.

"There, Amine, is my money; we need not count it, as your father would
propose. You see that I was right when I asserted that I had thousands
of guilders. At present they are of no use to me, as I have to learn
my profession. Should I return some day, they may help me to own a
ship. I know not what my destiny may be."

"And should you not return?" replied Amine, gravely.

"Then they are yours--as well as all that is in this cottage, and the
cottage itself."

"You have relations, have you not?"

"But one, who is rich; an uncle, who helped us but little in our
distress, and who has no children. I owe him but little, and he wants
nothing. There is but one being in this world who has created an
interest in this heart, Amine, and it is you. I wish you to look upon
me as a brother--I shall always love you as a dear sister."

Amine made no reply. Philip took some more money out of the bag which
had been opened, for the expenses of his journey, and then locking up
the safe and cupboard, gave the keys to Amine. He was about to address
her, when there was a slight knock at the door, and in entered Father
Seysen, the priest.

"Save you, my son; and you, my child, whom as yet I have not seen. You
are, I suppose, the daughter of Mynheer Poots?"

Amine bowed her head.

"I perceive, Philip, that the room is now opened, and I have heard of
all that has passed. I would now talk with thee, Philip, and must beg
this maiden to leave us for awhile alone."

Amine quitted the room, and the priest, sitting down on the couch,
beckoned Philip to his side. The conversation which ensued was too
long to repeat. The priest first questioned Philip relative to his
secret, but on that point he could not obtain the information which he
wished; Philip stated as much as he did to Amine, and no more. He
also declared his intention of going to sea, and that, should he not
return, he had bequeathed his property--the extent of which he did
not make known--to the doctor and his daughter. The priest then made
inquiries relative to Mynheer Poots, asking Philip whether he knew
what his creed was, as he had never appeared at any church, and report
said that he was an infidel. To this Philip, as usual, gave his frank
answer, and intimated that the daughter, at least, was anxious to
be enlightened, begging the priest to undertake a task to which he
himself was not adequate. To this request Father Seysen, who perceived
the state of Philip's mind with regard to Amine, readily consented.
After a conversation of nearly two hours, they were interrupted by the
return of Mynheer Poots, who darted out of the room the instant he
perceived Father Seysen. Philip called Amine, and having begged her as
a favour to receive the priest's visits, the good old man blessed them
both and departed.

"You did not give him any money, Mr Philip?" said Mynheer Poots, when
Father Seysen had left the room.

"I did not," replied Philip; "I wish I had thought of it."

"No, no--it is better not--for money is better than what he can give
you; but he must not come here."

"Why not, father," replied Amine, "if Mr Philip wishes it? It is his
own house."

"O yes, if Mr Philip wishes it; but you know he is going away."

"Well, and suppose he is--why should not the Father come here? He
shall come here to see me."

"See you, my child!--what can he want with you? Well, then, if he
comes, I will not give him one stiver--and then he'll soon go away."

Philip had no opportunity of further converse with Amine; indeed he
had nothing more to say. In an hour he bade her farewell in presence
of her father, who would not leave them, hoping to obtain from Philip
some communication about the money which he was to leave behind him.

In two days Philip arrived at Amsterdam, and having made the necessary
inquiries, found that there was no chance of vessels sailing for the
East Indies for some months. The Dutch East India Company had long
been formed, and all private trading was at an end. The Company's
vessels left only at what was supposed to be the most favourable
season for rounding the Cape of Storms, as the Cape of Good Hope was
designated by the early adventurers. One of the ships which were to
sail with the next fleet was the _Ter Schilling_, a three-masted
vessel, now laid up and unrigged.

Philip found out the captain, and stated his wishes to sail with him,
to learn his profession as a seaman; the captain was pleased with his
appearance, and as Philip not only agreed to receive no wages during
the voyage, but to pay a premium as an apprentice learning his duty,
he was promised a berth on board as the second mate, to mess in the
cabin; and he was told that he should be informed whenever the vessel
was to sail. Philip having now done all that he could in obedience to
his vow, determined to return to the cottage; and once more he was in
the company of Amine.

We must now pass over two months, during which Mynheer Poots continued
to labour at his vocation, and was seldom within doors, and our two
young friends were left for hours together. Philip's love for Amine
was fully equal to hers for him. It was more than love--it was a
devotion on both sides, each day increasing. Who, indeed, could be
more charming, more attractive in all ways than the high-spirited, yet
tender Amine? Occasionally the brow of Philip would be clouded when he
reflected upon the dark prospect before him; but Amine's smile would
chase away the gloom, and, as he gazed on her, all would be forgotten.
Amine made no secret of her attachment; it was shown in every word,
every look, and every gesture. When Philip would take her hand, or
encircle her waist with his arm, or even when he pressed her coral
lips, there was no pretence of coyness on her part. She was too noble,
too confiding; she felt that her happiness was centred in his love,
and she lived but in his presence. Two months had thus passed away,
when Father Seysen, who often called, and had paid much attention
to Amine's instruction, one day came in as Amine was encircled in
Philip's arms.

"My children," said he, "I have watched you for some time: this is not
well. Philip, if you intend marriage, as I presume you do, still it is
dangerous. I must join your hands."

Philip started up.

"Surely I am not deceived in thee, my son," continued the priest, in a
severe tone.

"No, no, good Father; but I pray you leave me now: to-morrow you may
come, and all will be decided. But I must talk with Amine."

The priest quitted the room, and Amine and Philip were again alone.
The colour in Amine's cheek varied and her heart beat, for she felt
how much her happiness was at stake.

"The priest is right, Amine," said Philip, sitting down by her. "This
cannot last;--would that I could ever stay with you: how hard a fate
is mine! You know I love the very ground you tread upon, yet I dare
not ask thee to wed to misery."

"To wed with thee would not be wedding misery, Philip," replied Amine,
with downcast eyes.

"'Twere not kindness on my part, Amine. I should indeed be selfish."

"I will speak plainly, Philip," replied Amine. "You say you love
me,--I know not how men love,--but this I know, how I can love. I feel
that to leave me now were indeed unkind and selfish on your part; for,
Philip, I--I should die. You say that you must go away,--that fate
demands it,--and your fatal secret. Be it so;--but cannot I go with
you?"

"Go with me, Amine--unto death?"

"Yes, death; for what is death but a release? I fear not death,
Philip; I fear but losing thee. Nay, more; is not your life in the
hands of Him who made all? then why so sure to die? You have hinted to
me that you are chosen--selected for a task;--if chosen, there is less
chance of death; for until the end be fulfilled, if chosen, you must
live. I would I knew your secret, Philip: a woman's wit might serve
you well: and if it did not serve you, is there no comfort, no
pleasure, in sharing sorrow as well as joy with one you say you dote
upon?"

"Amine, dearest Amine; it is my love, my ardent love alone, which
makes me pause: for, O Amine, what pleasure should I feel if we were
this hour united! I hardly know what to say, or what to do. I could
not withhold my secret from you if you were my wife, nor will I wed
you till you know it. Well, Amine, I will cast my all upon the die.
You shall know this secret, learn what a doomed wretch I am, though
from no fault of mine, and then you yourself shall decide. But
remember, my oath is registered in heaven, and I must not be dissuaded
from it; keep that in mind, and hear my tale,--then if you choose to
wed with one whose prospects are so bitter, be it so,--a short-lived
happiness will then be mine, but for you, Amine--"

"At once the secret, Philip," cried Amine, impatiently.

Philip then entered into a detail of what our readers are acquainted
with. Amine listened in silence; not a change of feature was to be
observed in her countenance during the narrative. Philip wound up
with stating the oath which he had taken. "I have done," said Philip,
mournfully.

"'Tis a strange story, Philip," replied Amine: "and now hear me;--but
give me first that relic,--I wish to look upon it. And can there be
such virtue--I had nigh said, such mischief--in this little thing?
Strange; forgive me, Philip,--but I've still my doubts upon this tale
of _Eblis_. You know I am not yet strong in the new belief which
you and the good priest have lately taught me. I do not say that it
_cannot_ be true: but still, one so unsettled as I am may be allowed
to waver. But, Philip, I'll assume that all is true. Then, if it be
true, without the oath you would be doing but your duty; and think not
so meanly of Amine as to suppose she would restrain you from what is
right. No, Philip, seek your father, and, if you can, and he requires
your aid, then save him. But, Philip, do you imagine that a task like
this, so high, is to be accomplished at one trial? O! no;--if you have
been so chosen to fulfil it, you will be preserved through difficulty
and danger until you have worked out your end. You will be preserved,
and you will again and again return;--be comforted--consoled--be
cherished--and be loved by Amine as your wife. And when it pleases Him
to call you from this world, your memory, if she survive you, Philip,
will equally be cherished in her bosom. Philip, you have given me to
decide;--dearest Philip, I am thine."

Amine extended her arms, and Philip pressed her to his bosom. That
evening Philip demanded his daughter of the father, and Mynheer Poots,
as soon as Philip opened the iron safe and displayed the guilders,
gave his immediate consent.

Father Seysen called the next day and received his answer; and three
days afterwards, the bells of the little church of Terneuse were
ringing a merry peal for the union of Amine Poots and Philip
Vanderdecken.




Chapter VII


It was not until late in the autumn that Philip was roused from his
dream of love (for what, alas! is every enjoyment of this life but a
dream?) by a summons from the captain of the vessel with whom he had
engaged to sail. Strange as it may appear, from the first day which
put him in possession of his Amine, Philip had no longer brooded over
his future destiny: occasionally it was recalled to his memory, but
immediately rejected, and, for the time, forgotten. Sufficient he
thought it to fulfil his engagement when the time should come; and
although the hours flew away, and day succeeded day, week week, and
month month, with the rapidity accompanying a life of quiet and
unvarying bliss, Philip forgot his vow in the arms of Amine, who was
careful not to revert to a topic which would cloud the brow of her
adored husband. Once, indeed, or twice, had old Poots raised the
question of Philip's departure, but the indignant frown and the
imperious command of Amine (who knew too well the sordid motives which
actuated her father, and who, at such times, looked upon him with
abhorrence) made him silent, and the old man would spend his leisure
hours in walking up and down the parlour with his eyes riveted upon
the buffets, where the silver tankards now beamed in all their
pristine brightness.

One morning, in the month of October, there was a tapping with the
knuckles at the cottage door. As this precaution implied a stranger,
Amine obeyed the summons, "I would speak with Master Philip
Vanderdecken," said the stranger, in a half-whispering sort of voice.

The party who thus addressed Amine was a little meagre personage,
dressed in the garb of the Dutch seamen of the time, with a cap made
of badger-skin hanging over his brow. His features were sharp and
diminutive, his face of a deadly white, his lips pale, and his hair
of a mixture between red and white. He had very little show of
beard--indeed, it was almost difficult to say what his age might be.
He might have been a sickly youth early sinking into decrepitude, or
an old man, hale in constitution, yet carrying no flesh. But the most
important feature, and that which immediately riveted the attention of
Amine, was the eye of this peculiar personage--for he had but one; the
right eye-lid was closed, and the ball within had evidently wasted
away; but his left eye was, for the size of his face and head, of
unusual dimensions, very protuberant, clear and watery, and most
unpleasant to look upon, being relieved by no fringe of eyelash either
above or below it. So remarkable was the feature, that when you looked
at the man, you saw his eye and looked at nothing else. It was not a
man with one eye, but one eye with a man attached to it: the body was
but the tower of the lighthouse, of no further value, and commanding
no further attention, than does the structure which holds up the
beacon to the venturous mariner; and yet, upon examination, you would
have perceived that the man, although small, was neatly made; that his
hands were very different in texture and colour from those of common
seamen; that his features in general, although sharp, were regular;
and that there was an air of superiority even in the obsequious manner
of the little personage, and an indescribable something about his
whole appearance which almost impressed you with awe. Amine's dark
eyes were for a moment fixed upon the visitor, and she felt a chill at
her heart for which she could not account, as she requested that he
would walk in.

Philip was greatly surprised at the appearance of the stranger, who,
as soon as he entered the room, without saying a word, sat down on the
sofa by Philip in the place which Amine had just left. To Philip there
was something ominous in this person taking Amine's seat; all that
had passed rushed into his recollection, and he felt that there was a
summons from his short existence of enjoyment and repose to a life of
future activity, danger, and suffering. What peculiarly struck Philip
was, that when the little man sat beside him, a sensation of sudden
cold ran through his whole frame. The colour fled from Philip's
cheek, but he spoke not. For a minute or two there was a silence. The
one-eyed visitor looked round him, and turning from the buffets he
fixed his eyes on the form of Amine, who stood before him; at last the
silence was broken by a sort of giggle on the part of the stranger,
which ended in--

"Philip Vanderdecken--he! he!--Philip Vanderdecken, you don't know
me?"

"I do not," replied Philip, in a half-angry tone.

The voice of the little man was most peculiar--it was a sort of
subdued scream, the notes of which sounded in your ear long after he
had ceased to speak.

"I am Schriften, one of the pilots of the _Ter Schilling_," continued
the man; "and I'm come--he! he!"--and he looked hard at Amine--"to
take you away from love"--and looking at the buffets--"he! he! from
comfort, and from this also," cried he, stamping his foot on the floor
as he rose from the sofa--"from terra firma--he! he!--to a watery
grave perhaps. Pleasant!" continued Schriften, with a giggle; and with
a countenance full of meaning he fixed his one eye on Philip's face.

Philip's first impulse was to put his new visitor out of the door; but
Amine, who read his thoughts, folded her arms as she stood before the
little man, and eyed him with contempt, as she observed:--

"We all must meet our fate, good fellow; and, whether by land or sea,
death will have his due. If death stare him in the face, the cheek of
Philip Vanderdecken will never turn as white as yours is now."

"Indeed!" replied Schriften, evidently annoyed at this cool
determination on the part of one so young and beautiful; and
then fixing his eye upon the silver shrine of the Virgin on the
mantel-piece--"You are a Catholic, I perceive--he!"

"I am a Catholic," replied Philip; "but does that concern you? When
does the vessel sail?"

"In a week--he! he!--only a week for preparation--only seven days to
leave all--short notice!"

"More than sufficient," replied Philip, rising up from the sofa. "You
may tell your captain that I shall not fail. Come, Amine, we must lose
no time."

"No, indeed," replied Amine, "and our first duty is hospitality:
Mynheer, may we offer you refreshment after your walk?"

"This day week," said Schriften, addressing Philip, and without making
a reply to Amine. Philip nodded his head, the little man turned on his
heel and left the room, and in a short time was out of sight.

Amine sank down on the sofa. The breaking-up of her short hour of
happiness had been too sudden, too abrupt, and too cruelly brought
about for a fondly doting, although heroic, woman. There was an
evident malignity in the words and manner of the one-eyed messenger,
an appearance as if he knew more than others, which awed and confused
both Philip and herself. Amine wept not, but she covered her face with
her hands as Philip, with no steady pace, walked up and down the small
room. Again, with all the vividness of colouring, did the scenes
half forgotten recur to his memory. Again did he penetrate the fatal
chamber--again was it obscure. The embroidery lay at his feet, and
once more he started as when the letter appeared upon the floor.

They had both awakened from a dream of present bliss, and shuddered at
the awful future which presented itself. A few minutes were sufficient
for Philip to resume his natural self-possession. He sat down by the
side of his Amine, and clasped her in his arms. They remained silent.
They knew too well each other's thoughts; and, excruciating as was
the effort, they were both summoning up their courage to bear, and
steeling their hearts against the conviction that, in this world, they
must now expect to be for a time, perhaps for ever, separated.

Amine was the first to speak: removing her arms, which had been wound
round her husband, she first put his hand to her heart, as if to
compress its painful throbbings, and then observed--

"Surely that was no earthly messenger, Philip! Did you not feel
chilled to death when he sat by you? I did, as he came in."

Philip, who had the same thought as Amine, but did not wish to alarm
her, answered confusedly--

"Nay, Amine, you fancy--that is, the suddenness of his appearance and
his strange conduct have made you imagine this; but I saw in him but a
man who, from his peculiar deformity, has become an envious outcast
of society--debarred from domestic happiness, from the smiles of the
other sex; for what woman could smile upon such a creature? His
bile raised at so much beauty in the arms of another, he enjoyed a
malignant pleasure in giving a message which he felt would break upon
those pleasures from which he is cut off. Be assured, my love, that it
was nothing more."

"And even if my conjecture were correct, what does it matter?" replied
Amine. "There can be nothing more--nothing which can render your
position more awful and more desperate. As your wife, Philip, I feel
less courage than I did when I gave my willing hand. I knew not then
what would be the extent of my loss; but fear not, much as I feel
here," continued Amine, putting her hand to her heart--"I am prepared,
and proud that he who is selected for such a task is my husband."
Amine paused. "You cannot surely have been mistaken, Philip?"

"No! Amine, I have not been mistaken, either in the summons or in
my own courage, or in my selection of a wife," replied Philip,
mournfully, as he embraced her. "It is the will of Heaven."

"Then may its will be done," replied Amine, rising from her seat. "The
first pang is over. I feel better now, Philip. Your Amine knows her
duty."

Philip made no reply; when, after a few moments, Amine continued:

"But one short week, Philip--"

"I would it had been but one day;" replied he; "it would have been
long enough. He has come too soon--the one-eyed monster."

"Nay, not so, Philip. I thank him for the week--'tis but a short time
to wean myself from happiness. I grant you, that were I to tease, to
vex, to unman you with my tears, my prayers, or my upbraidings (as
some wives would do, Philip), one day would be more than sufficient
for such a scene of weakness on my part, and misery on yours. But, no,
Philip, your Amine knows her duty better. You must go like some knight
of old to perilous encounter, perhaps to death; but Amine will arm
you, and show her love by closing carefully each rivet to protect you
in your peril, and will see you depart full of hope and confidence,
anticipating your return. A week is not too long, Philip, when
employed as I trust I shall employ it--a week to interchange our
sentiments, to hear your voice, to listen to your words (each of which
will be engraven on my heart's memory), to ponder on them, and feed my
love with them in your absence and in my solitude. No! no! Philip; I
thank God that there is yet a week."

"And so do I, then, Amine; and, after all, we knew that this must
come."

"Yes! but my love was so potent, that it banished memory."

"And yet during our separation your love must feed on memory, Amine."

Amine sighed. Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance
of Mynheer Poots, who, struck with the alteration in Amine's radiant
features, exclaimed, "Holy Prophet! what is the matter now?"

"Nothing more than what we all knew before," replied Philip; "I am
about to leave you--the ship will sail in a week."

"Oh! you will sail in a week?"

There was a curious expression in the face of the old man as he
endeavoured to suppress, before Amine and her husband, the joy which
he felt at Philip's departure. Gradually he subdued his features into
gravity, and said--

"That is very bad news, indeed."

No answer was made by Amine or Philip, who quitted the room together.

We must pass over this week, which was occupied in preparations for
Philip's departure. We must pass over the heroism of Amine, who
controlled her feelings, racked as she was with intense agony at the
idea of separating from her adored husband. We cannot dwell upon the
conflicting emotions in the breast of Philip, who left competence,
happiness, and love, to encounter danger, privation, and death. Now,
at one time, he would almost resolve to remain, and then at others,
as he took the relic from his bosom and remembered his vow registered
upon it, he was nearly as anxious to depart. Amine, too, as she fell
asleep in her husband's arms, would count the few hours left them;
or she would shudder, as she lay awake and the wind howled, at the
prospect of what Philip would have to encounter. It was a long week to
both of them, and, although they thought that time flew fast, it was
almost a relief when the morning came that was to separate them; for
to their feelings, which, from regard to each other, had been pent up
and controlled, they could then give vent; their surcharged bosoms
could be relieved; certainty had driven away suspense, and hope was
still left to cheer them and brighten up the dark horizon of the
future.

"Philip," said Amine, as they sat together with their hands entwined,
"I shall not feel so much when you are gone. I do not forget that all
this was told me before we were wed, and that for my love I took the
hazard. My fond heart often tells me that you will return; but it may
deceive me--return you _may_, but not in life. In this room I shall
await you; on this sofa, removed to its former station, I shall sit;
and if you cannot appear to me alive, O refuse me not, if it be
possible, to appear to me when dead. I shall fear no storm, no
bursting open of the window. O no! I shall hail the presence even of
your spirit. Once more; let me but see you--let me be assured that you
are dead--and then I shall know that I have no more to live for in
this world, and shall hasten to join you in a world of bliss. Promise
me, Philip."

"I promise all you ask, provided Heaven will so permit; but, Amine,"
and Philip's lips trembled, "I cannot--merciful God! I am indeed
tried. Amine, I can stay no longer."

Amine's dark eyes were fixed upon her husband--she could not
speak--her features were convulsed--nature could no longer hold
up against her excess of feeling--she fell into his arms, and lay
motionless. Philip, about to impress a last kiss upon her pale lips,
perceived that she had fainted.

"She feels not now," said he, as he laid her upon the sofa; "it is
better that it should be so--too soon will she awake to misery."

Summoning to the assistance of his daughter Mynheer Poots, who was
in the adjoining room, Philip caught up his hat, imprinted one more
fervent kiss upon her forehead, burst from the house, and was out of
sight long before Amine had recovered from her swoon.




Chapter VIII


Before we follow Philip Vanderdecken in his venturous career, it
will be necessary to refresh the memory of our readers by a succinct
recapitulation of the circumstances that had directed the enterprise
of the Dutch towards the country of the East, which was now proving to
them a source of wealth which they considered as inexhaustible.

Let us begin at the beginning. Charles the Fifth, after having
possessed the major part of Europe, retired from the world, for
reasons best known to himself, and divided his kingdoms between
Ferdinand and Philip. To Ferdinand he gave Austria and its
dependencies; to Philip Spain; but to make the division more equal
and palatable to the latter, he threw the Low Countries, with the few
millions vegetating upon them, into the bargain. Having thus disposed
of his fellow-mortals much to his own satisfaction, he went into a
convent, reserving for himself a small income, twelve men, and a pony.
Whether he afterwards repented his hobby, or mounted his pony, is not
recorded; but this is certain--that in two years he died.

Philip thought (as many have thought before and since) that he had a
right to do what he pleased with his own. He therefore took away from
the Hollanders most of their liberties: to make amends, however, he
gave them the Inquisition; but the Dutch grumbled, and Philip, to stop
their grumbling, burnt a few of them. Upon which, the Dutch, who are
aquatic in their propensities, protested against a religion which was
much too warm for their constitutions. In short, heresy made great
progress; and the Duke of Alva was despatched with a large army, to
prove to the Hollanders that the Inquisition was the very best of all
possible arrangements, and that it was infinitely better that a man
should be burnt for half-an-hour in this world than for eternity in
the next.

This slight difference of opinion was the occasion of a war, which
lasted about eight years, and which, after having saved some hundreds
of thousands the trouble of dying in their beds, at length ended in
the Seven United Provinces being declared independent. Now we must go
back again.

For a century after Vasco de Gama had discovered the passage round the
Cape of Good Hope, the Portuguese were not interfered with by other
nations. At last the adventurous spirit of the English nation was
roused. The passage to India by the Cape had been claimed by the
Portuguese as their sole right, and they defended it by force. For a
long time no private company ventured to oppose them, and the trade
was not of that apparent value to induce any government to embark in
a war upon the question. The English adventurers, therefore, turned
their attention to the discovery of a north-west passage to India,
with which the Portuguese could have no right to interfere, and in
vain attempts to discover that passage, the best part of the fifteenth
century was employed. At last they abandoned their endeavours, and
resolved no longer to be deterred by the Portuguese pretensions.

After one or two unsuccessful expeditions, an armament was fitted out
and put under the orders of Drake. This courageous and successful
navigator accomplished more than the most sanguine had anticipated. He
returned to England in the month of May, 1580, after a voyage which
occupied him nearly three years; bringing home with him great riches,
and having made most favourable arrangements with the king of the
Molucca Islands.

His success was followed up by Cavendish and others in 1600. The
English East India Company, in the meanwhile, received their first
charter from the government, and had now been with various success
carrying on the trade for upwards of fifty years.

During the time that the Dutch were vassals to the crown of Spain, it
was their custom to repair to Lisbon for the productions of the East,
and afterwards to distribute them through Europe; but when they
quarrelled with Philip, they were no longer admitted as retailers of
his Indian produce: the consequence was, that, while asserting, and
fighting for, their independence, they had also fitted out expeditions
to India. They were successful; and in 1602 the various speculators
were, by the government, formed into a company, upon the same
principles and arrangement as those which had been chartered in
England.

At the time, therefore, to which we are reverting, the English and
Dutch had been trading in the Indian seas for more than fifty years;
and the Portuguese had lost nearly all their power, from the alliances
and friendships which their rivals had formed with the potentates of
the East, who had suffered from the Portuguese avarice and cruelty.

Whatever may have been the sum of obligation which the Dutch owed to
the English for the assistance they received from them during their
struggle for independence, it does not appear that their gratitude
extended beyond the Cape; for, on the other side of it, the
Portuguese, English, and Dutch fought and captured each other's
vessels without ceremony; and there was no law but that of main force.
The mother countries were occasionally called upon to interfere, but
the interference up to the above time had produced nothing more than a
paper war; it being very evident that all parties were in the wrong.

In 1650, Cromwell usurped the throne of England, and the year
afterwards, having, among other points, vainly demanded of the Dutch
satisfaction for the murder of his regicide ambassador, which took
place in this year, and some compensation for the cruelties exercised
on the English at Amboyne some thirty years before he declared war
with Holland. To prove that he was in earnest, he seized more than two
hundred Dutch vessels, and the Dutch then (very unwillingly) prepared
for war. Blake and Van Tromp met, and the naval combats were most
obstinate. In the "History of England" the victory is almost
invariably given to the English, but in that of Holland to the Dutch.
By all accounts, these engagements were so obstinate, that in each
case they were both well beaten. However, in 1654, peace was signed;
the Dutchman promising "to take his hat off" whenever he should meet
an Englishman on the high seas--a mere act of politeness which Mynheer
did not object to, as it _cost nothing_. And now, having detailed
the state of things up to the time of Philip's embarkation, we shall
proceed with our story.

As soon as Philip was clear of his own threshold, he hastened away as
though he were attempting to escape from his own painful thoughts.
In two days he arrived at Amsterdam, where his first object was to
procure a small, but strong, steel chain to replace the ribbon by
which the relic had hitherto been secured round his neck. Having done
this, he hastened to embark with his effects on board of the _Ter
Schilling_. Philip had not forgotten to bring with him the money which
he had agreed to pay the captain, in consideration of being received
on board as an apprentice rather than a sailor. He had also furnished
himself with a further sum for his own exigencies. It was late in the
evening when he arrived on board of the _Ter Schilling_, which lay at
single anchor, surrounded by the other vessels composing the Indian
fleet. The captain, whose name was Kloots, received him with kindness,
showed him his berth, and then went below in the hold to decide a
question relative to the cargo, leaving Philip on deck to his own
reflections.

And this, then, thought Philip, as he leaned against the taffrail and
looked forward--this, then, is the vessel in which my first attempt is
to be made. First and--perhaps, last. How little do those with whom I
am about to sail imagine the purport of my embarkation? How different
are my views from those of others? Do _I_ seek a fortune? No! Is it to
satisfy curiosity and a truant spirit? No! I seek communion with the
dead. Can I meet the dead without danger to myself and those who sail
with me? I should think not, for I cannot join it but in death. Did
they surmise my wishes and intentions, would they permit me to remain
one hour on board? Superstitious as seamen are said to be, they might
find a good excuse, if they knew my mission, not only for their
superstition, but for ridding themselves of one on such an awful
errand. Awful indeed! and how to be accomplished? Heaven alone, with
perseverance on my part, can solve the mystery. And Philip's
thoughts reverted to his Amine. He folded his arms and, entranced in
meditation, with his eyes raised to the firmament, he appeared to
watch the flying scud.

"Had you not better go below?" said a mild voice, which made Philip
start from his reverie.

It was that of the first mate, whose name was Hillebrant, a short,
well-set man of about thirty years of age. His hair was flaxen, and
fell in long flakes upon his shoulders, his complexion fair, and his
eyes of a soft blue; although there was little of the sailor in his
appearance, few knew or did their duty better.

"I thank you," replied Philip; "I had, indeed, forgotten myself, and
where I was: my thoughts were far away. Good-night, and many thanks."

The _Ter Schilling_, like most of the vessels of that period, was very
different in her build and fitting from those of the present day. She
was ship-rigged, and of about four hundred tons burden. Her bottom was
nearly flat, and her sides fell in (as she rose above the water), so
that her upper decks were not half the width of the hold.

All the vessels employed by the Company being armed, she had her main
deck clear of goods, and carried six nine-pounders on each broadside;
her ports were small and oval. There was a great spring in all her
decks,--that is to say, she ran with a curve forward and aft. On her
forecastle another small deck ran from the knight-heads, which was
called the top-gallant forecastle. Her quarter-deck was broken with a
poop, which rose high out of the water. The bowsprit staved very much,
and was to appearance almost as a fourth mast: the more so, as she
carried a square spritsail and sprit-topsail. On her quarter-deck and
poop-bulwarks were fixed in sockets implements of warfare now long
in disuse, but what were then known by the names of cohorns and
patteraroes; they turned round on a swivel, and were pointed by
an iron handle fixed to the breech. The sail abaft the mizen-mast
(corresponding to the driver or spanker of the present day) was
fixed upon a lateen-yard. It is hardly necessary to add (after this
description) that the dangers of a long voyage were not a little
increased by the peculiar structure of the vessels, which (although
with such top hamper, and so much wood above water, they could make
good way before a favourable breeze) could hold no wind, and had but
little chance if caught upon a lee-shore.

The crew of the _Ter Schilling_ were composed of the captain, two
mates, two pilots, and forty-five men. The supercargo had not yet
come on board. The cabin (under the poop) was appropriated to the
supercargo; but the main-deck cabin to the captain and mates, who
composed the whole of the cabin mess.

When Philip awoke the next morning he found that the topsails were
hoisted, and the anchor short-stay apeak. Some of the other vessels of
the fleet were under weigh and standing out. The weather was fine
and the water smooth, and the bustle and novelty of the scene were
cheering to his spirits. The captain, Mynheer Kloots, was standing
on the poop with a small telescope, made of pasteboard, to his eye,
anxiously looking towards the town. Mynheer Kloots, as usual, had his
pipe in his mouth, and the smoke which he puffed from it for a time
obscured the lenses of his telescope. Philip went up the poop ladder
and saluted him.

Mynheer Kloots was a person of no moderate dimensions, and the
quantity of garments which he wore added no little to his apparent
bulk. The outer garments exposed to view were, a rough fox-skin cap
upon his head, from under which appeared the edge of a red worsted
nightcap; a red plush waistcoat, with large metal buttons; a jacket of
green cloth, over which he wore another of larger dimensions of coarse
blue cloth, which came down as low as what would be called a spencer.
Below he had black plush breeches, light blue worsted stockings,
shoes, and broad silver buckles; round his waist was girded, with a
broad belt, a canvas apron which descended in thick folds nearly to
his knee. In his belt was a large broad-bladed knife in a sheath of
shark's skin. Such was the attire of Mynheer Kloots, captain of the
_Ter Schilling_.

He was as tall as he was corpulent. His face was oval, and his
features small in proportion to the size of his frame. His grizzly
hair fluttered in the breeze, and his nose (although quite straight)
was, at the tip, fiery red from frequent application to his bottle of
schnapps, and the heat of a small pipe which seldom left his lips,
except for _him_ to give an order, or for _it_ to be replenished.

"Good morning, my son," said the captain, taking his pipe out of his
mouth for a moment. "We are detained by the supercargo, who appears
not over-willing to come on board; the boat has been on shore this
hour waiting for him, and we shall be last of the fleet under weigh. I
wish the Company would let us sail without these _gentlemen_, who
are (_in my opinion)_ a great hindrance to business; but they think
otherwise on shore."

"What is their duty on board?" replied Philip.

"Their duty is to look after the cargo and the traffic, and if
they kept to that, it would not be so bad; but they interfere with
everything else and everybody, studying little except their own
comforts; in fact, they play the king on board, knowing that we dare
not affront them, as a word from them would prejudice the vessel when
again to be chartered. The Company insist upon their being received
with all honours. We salute them with five guns on their arrival on
board."

"Do you know anything of this one whom you expect?"

"Nothing, but from report. A brother captain of mine (with whom he has
sailed) told me that he is most fearful of the dangers of the sea, and
much taken up with his own importance."

"I wish he would come," replied Philip; "I am most anxious that we
should sail."

"You must be of a wandering disposition, my son: I hear that you leave
a comfortable home, and a pretty wife to boot."

"I am most anxious to see the world," replied Philip; "and I must
learn to sail a ship before I purchase one, and try to make the
fortune that I covet." (Alas! how different from my real wishes,
thought Philip, as he made this reply.)

"Fortunes are made, and fortunes are swallowed up too, by the ocean,"
replied the captain. "If I could turn this good ship into a good
house, with plenty of guilders to keep the house warm, you would not
find me standing on this poop. I have doubled the Cape twice, which is
often enough for any man; the third time may not be so lucky."

"Is it so dangerous, then?" said Philip.

"As dangerous as tides and currents, rocks and sand-banks, hard gales
and heavy seas, can make it,--no more! Even when you anchor in the
bay, on this side of the Cape, you ride in fear and trembling, for you
may be blown away from your anchor to sea, or be driven on shore among
the savages, before the men can well put on their clothing. But when
once you're well on the other side of the Cape, then the water dances
to the beams of the sun as if it were merry, and you may sail for
weeks with a cloudless sky and a flowing breeze, without starting tack
or sheet, or having to take your pipe out of your mouth."

"What port shall we go into, Mynheer?"

"Of that I can say but little. Gambroon, in the Gulf of Persia, will
probably be the first rendezvous of the whole fleet. Then we shall
separate: some will sail direct for Bantam, in the island of Java;
others will have orders to trade down the Straits for camphor, gum,
benzoin, and wax; they have also gold and the teeth of the elephant to
barter with us: there (should we be sent thither) you must be
careful with the natives, Mynheer Vanderdecken. They are fierce and
treacherous, and their curved knives (or creeses, as they, call them)
are sharp and deadly poisoned. I have had hard fighting in those
Straits both with Portuguese and English."

"But we are all at peace now."

"True, my son; but when round the Cape, we must not trust to papers
signed at home: and the English press us hard, and tread upon our
heels wherever we go. They must be checked; and I suspect our fleet is
so large and well appointed in expectation of hostilities."

"How long do you expect your voyage may occupy us?"

"That's as may be: but I should say about two years;--nay, if not
detained by the factors, as I expect we shall be, for some hostile
service, it may be less."

Two years, thought Philip, two years from Amine! and he sighed deeply,
for he felt that their separation might be for ever.

"Nay, my son, two years is not so long," said Mynheer Kloots, who
observed the passing cloud on Philip's brow. "I was once five years
away, and was unfortunate, for I brought home nothing, not even my
ship. I was sent to Chittagong, on the east side of the great Bay of
Bengala, and lay for three months in the river. The chiefs of the
country would detain me by force; they would not barter for my cargo,
or permit me to seek another market. My powder had been landed, and
I could make no resistance. The worms ate through the bottom of my
vessel, and she sank at her anchors. They knew it would take place,
and that then they would have my cargo at their own price. Another
vessel brought us home. Had I not been so treacherously served, I
should have had no need to sail this time; and now my gains are small,
the Company forbidding all private trading. But here he comes at last;
they have hoisted the ensign on the staff in the boat; there--they
have shoved off. Mynheer Hillebrant, see the gunners ready with their
linstocks to salvo the supercargo."

"What duty do you wish me to perform?" observed Philip. "In what can I
be useful?"

"At present you can be of little use, except in those heavy gales in
which every pair of hands is valuable. You must look and learn for
some time yet; but you can make a fair copy of the journal kept for
the inspection of the Company, and may assist me in various ways, as
soon as the unpleasant nausea, felt by those who first embark, has
subsided. As a remedy, I should propose that you gird a handkerchief
tight round your body so as to compress the stomach, and make frequent
application of my bottle of schnapps, which you will find always at
your service. But now to receive the factor of the most puissant
Company. Mynheer Hillebrant, let them discharge the cannon."

The guns were fired, and soon after the smoke had cleared away,
the boat, with its long ensign trailing on the water, was pulled
alongside. Philip watched the appearance of the supercargo, but he
remained in the boat until several of the boxes with the initials
and arms of the Company were first handed on the deck; at last the
supercargo appeared.

He was a small, spare, wizen-faced man, with a three-cornered cocked
hat, bound with broad gold lace, upon his head, under which appeared a
full-bottomed flowing wig, the curls of which descended low upon his
shoulders. His coat was of crimson velvet, with broad flaps: his
waistcoat of white silk, worked in coloured flowers, and descending
half-way down to his knees. His breeches were of black satin, and his
legs were covered with white silk stockings. Add to this, gold buckles
at his knees and in his shoes, lace ruffles to his wrists, and a
silver-mounted cane in his hand, and the reader has the entire dress
of Mynheer Jacob Janz Von Stroom, the supercargo of the Hon. Company,
appointed to the good ship _Ter Schilling_.

As he looked round him, surrounded at a respectful distance by the
captain, officers, and men of the ship, with their caps in their
hands, the reader might be reminded of the picture of the "Monkey who
had seen the World" surrounded by his tribe. There was not, however,
the least inclination on the part of the seamen to laugh, even at his
flowing, full-bottomed wig: respect was at that period paid to dress;
and although Mynheer Von Stroom could not be mistaken for a sailor, he
was known to be the supercargo of the Company, and a very great man.
He therefore received all the respect due to so important a personage.

Mynheer Von Stroom did not, however, appear very anxious to remain
on deck. He requested to be shown into his cabin, and followed the
captain aft, picking his way among the coils of ropes with which
his path was encumbered. The door was opened, and the supercargo
disappeared. The ship was then got under weigh, the men had left the
windlass, the sails had been trimmed, and they were securing the
anchor on board, when the bell of the poop-cabin (appropriated to the
supercargo) was pulled with great violence.

"What can that be?" said Mynheer Kloots (who was forward), taking the
pipe out of his mouth. "Mynheer Vanderdecken, will you see what is the
matter?"

Philip went aft, as the pealing of the bell continued, and opening
the cabin door, discovered the supercargo perched upon the table and
pulling the bell-rope, which hung over its centre, with every mark of
fear in his countenance. His wig was off, and his bare skull gave him
an appearance peculiarly ridiculous.

"What is the matter, sir?" inquired Philip.

"Matter!" spluttered Mynheer Von Stroom; "call the troops in with
their firelocks. Quick, sir. Am I to be murdered, torn to pieces, and
devoured? For mercy's sake, sir, don't stare, but do something--look,
it's coming to the table! O dear! O dear!" continued the supercargo,
evidently terrified out of his wits.

Philip, whose eyes had been fixed on Mynheer Von Stroom, turned them
in the direction pointed out, and, much to his astonishment perceived
a small bear upon the deck who was amusing himself with the
supercargo's flowing wig, which he held in his paws, tossing it about,
and now and then burying his muzzle in it. The unexpected sight of the
animal was at first a shock to Philip, but a moment's consideration
assured him that the animal must be harmless, or it never would have
been permitted to remain loose in the vessel.

Nevertheless, Philip had no wish to approach the animal, whose
disposition he was unacquainted with, when the appearance of Mynheer
Kloots put an end to his difficulty.

"What is the matter, Mynheer?" said the captain. "O! I see: it is
Johannes," continued the captain, going up to the bear, and saluting
him with a kick, as he recovered the supercargo's wig. "Out of the
cabin, Johannes! Out, sir!" cried Mynheer Kloots, kicking the breech
of the bear till the animal had escaped through the door. "Mynheer
Von Stroom, I am very sorry--here is your wig. Shut the door, Mynheer
Vanderdecken, or the beast may come back, for he is very fond of me."

As the door was shut between Mynheer Von Stroom and the object of his
terror, the little man slid off the table to the high-backed chair
near it, shook out the damaged curls of his wig, and replaced it on
his head; pulled out his ruffles, and, assuming an air of magisterial
importance, struck his cane on the deck, and then spoke.

"Mynheer Kloots, what is the meaning of this disrespect to the
supercargo of the puissant Company?"

"God in Heaven! no disrespect, Mynheer;--the animal is a bear, as you
see; he is very tame, even with strangers. He belongs to me. I have
had him since he was three months old. It was all a mistake. The mate,
Mynheer Hillebrant, put him in the cabin, that he might be out of the
way while the duty was carrying on, and he quite forgot that he was
here. I am very sorry, Mynheer Von Stroom; but he will not come here
again, unless you wish to play with him."

"Play with him! I! supercargo to the Company, play with a bear!
Mynheer Kloots, the animal must be thrown overboard immediately."

"Nay, nay; I cannot throw overboard an animal that I hold in much
affection, Mynheer Von Stroom; but he shall not trouble you."

"Then, Captain Kloots, you will have to deal with the Company, to whom
I shall represent the affair. Your charter will be cancelled, and your
freight-money will be forfeited."

Kloots was, like most Dutchmen, not a little obstinate, and this
imperative behaviour on the part of the supercargo raised his bile.
"There is nothing in the charter that prevents my having an animal on
board," replied Kloots.

"By the regulations of the Company," replied Von Stroom, falling back
in his chair with an important air, and crossing his thin legs, "you
are required to receive on board strange and curious animals,
sent home by the governors and factors to be presented to crowned
heads,--such as lions, tigers, elephants, and other productions of
the East;--but in no instance is it permitted to the commanders of
chartered ships to receive on board, on their own account, animals of
any description, which must be considered under the offence of private
trading."

"My bear is not for sale, Mynheer Von Stroom."

"It must immediately be sent out of the ship, Mynheer Kloots; I order
you to send it away,--on your peril to refuse."

"Then we will drop the anchor again, Mynheer Von Stroom, and send on
shore to head-quarters to decide the point. If the Company insists
that the brute be put on shore, be it so; but recollect, Mynheer Von
Stroom, we shall lose the protection of the fleet, and have to sail
alone. Shall I drop the anchor, Mynheer?"

This observation softened down the pertinacity of the supercargo; he
had no wish to sail alone, and the fear of this contingency was more
powerful than the fear of the bear.

"Mynheer Kloots, I will not be too severe; if the animal is chained,
so that it does not approach me, I will consent to its remaining on
board."

"I will keep it out of your way as much as I can; but as for chaining
up the poor animal, it will howl all day and night, and you will have
no sleep, Mynheer Von Stroom," replied Kloots.

The supercargo, who perceived that the captain was positive, and that
his threats were disregarded, did all that a man could do who could
not help himself. He vowed vengeance in his own mind, and then, with
an air of condescension, observed: "Upon those conditions, Mynheer
Kloots, your animal may remain on board."

Mynheer Kloots and Philip then left the cabin; the former, who was in
no very good humour, muttering as he walked away--"If the Company send
their _monkeys_ on board, I think I may well have my _bear_" And,
pleased with his joke, Mynheer Kloots recovered his good humour.




Chapter IX


We must allow the Indian fleet to pursue its way to the Cape with
every variety of wind and weather. Some had parted company; but
the rendezvous was Table Bay, from which they were again to start
together.

Philip Vanderdecken was soon able to render some service on board.
He studied his duty diligently, for employment prevented him from
dwelling too much upon the cause of his embarkation, and he worked
hard at the duties of the ship, for the exercise procured for him that
sleep which otherwise would have been denied.

He was soon a favourite of the captain, and intimate with Hillebrant,
the first mate; the second mate, Struys, was a morose young man, with
whom he had little intercourse. As for the supercargo, Mynheer Jacob
Janz Von Stroom, he seldom ventured out of his cabin. The bear
Johannes was not confined, and therefore Mynheer Von Stroom confined
himself; hardly a day passed that he did not look over a letter which
he had framed upon the subject, all ready to forward to the Company;
and each time that he perused it he made some alteration, which he
considered would give additional force to his complaint, and would
prove still more injurious to the interests of Captain Kloots.

In the meantime, in happy ignorance of all that was passing in the
poop-cabin, Mynheer Kloots smoked his pipe, drank his schnapps, and
played with Johannes. The animal had also contracted a great affection
for Philip, and used to walk the watch with him.

There was another party in the ship whom we must not lose sight
of--the one-eyed pilot, Schriften, who appeared to have imbibed a
great animosity towards our hero, as well as to his dumb favourite
the bear. As Philip held the rank of an officer, Schriften dared not
openly affront, though he took every opportunity of annoying him, and
was constantly inveighing against him before the ship's company. To
the bear he was more openly inveterate, and seldom passed it without
bestowing upon it a severe kick, accompanied with a horrid curse.
Although no one on board appeared to be fond of this man, everybody
appeared to be afraid of him, and he had obtained a control over the
seamen which appeared unaccountable.

Such was the state of affairs on board the good ship _Ter Schilling_,
when, in company with two others, she lay becalmed about two days'
sail to the Cape. The weather was intensely hot, for it was the summer
in those southern latitudes, and Philip, who had been lying down under
the awning spread over the poop, was so overcome with the heat that he
had fallen asleep. He awoke with a shivering sensation of cold over
his whole body, particularly at his chest, and half-opening his eyes,
he perceived the pilot, Schriften, leaning over him, and holding
between his finger and his thumb a portion of the chain which had not
been concealed, and to which was attached the sacred relic. Philip
closed them again, to ascertain what were the man's intentions: he
found that he gradually dragged out the chain, and, when the relic was
clear, attempted to pass the whole over his head, evidently to gain
possession of it. Upon his attempt Philip started up and seized him by
the waist.

"Indeed!" cried Philip, with an indignant look, as he released the
chain from the pilot's hand.

But Schriften appeared not in the least confused at being detected
in his attempt: looking with his malicious one eye at Philip, he
mockingly observed:

"Does that chain hold her picture?--he! he!"

Vanderdecken rose, pushed him away, and folded his arms.

"I advise you not to be quite so curious, Master Pilot, or you may
repent it."

"Or perhaps," continued the pilot, quite regardless of Philip's wrath,
"it may be a child's caul, a sovereign remedy against drowning."

"Go forward to your duty, sir," cried Philip.

"Or, as you are a Catholic, the finger-nail of a saint; or, yes, I
have it--a piece of the holy cross."

Philip started.

"That's it! that's it!" cried Schriften, who now went forward to where
the seamen were standing at the gangway. "News for you, my lads!" said
he; "we've a bit of the holy cross aboard, and so we may defy the
devil!"

Philip, hardly knowing why, had followed Schriften as he descended the
poop-ladder, and was forward on the quarter-deck, when the pilot made
this remark to the seamen.

"Ay! ay!" replied an old seaman to the pilot; "not only the devil, but
the _Flying Dutchman_ to boot."

"The _Flying Dutchman_" thought Philip, "can that refer to--?" and
Philip walked a step or two forward, so as to conceal himself behind
the mainmast, hoping to obtain some information, should they continue
the conversation. In this he was not disappointed.

"They say that to meet with him is worse than meeting with the devil,"
observed another of the crew.

"Who ever saw him?" said another.

"He has been seen, that's sartain, and just as sartain that ill-luck
follows the vessel that falls in with him."

"And where is he to be fallen in with?"

"O! they say that's not so sartain--but he cruises off the Cape."

"I should like to know the whole long and short of the story," said a
third.

"I can only tell what I've heard. It's a doomed vessel; they were
pirates, and cut the captain's throat, I believe."

"No! no!" cried Schriften, "the captain is in her now--and a villain
he was. They say that, like somebody else on board of us now, he left
a very pretty wife, and that he was very fond of her."

"How do they know that, pilot?"

"Because he always wants to send letters home when he boards vessels
that he falls in with. But, woe to the vessel that takes charge of
them!--she is sure to be lost, with every soul on board!"

"I wonder where you heard all this," said one of the men. "Did you
ever see the vessel?"

"Yes, I did!" screamed Schriften; but, as if recovering himself, his
scream subsided into his usual giggle, and he added, "but we need not
fear her, boys; we've a bit of the true cross on board." Schriften
then walked aft as if to avoid being questioned, when he perceived
Philip by the mainmast.

"So, I'm not the only one curious?--he! he! Pray did you bring that on
board, in case we should fall in with the _Flying Dutchman?_"

"I fear no _Flying Dutchman_," replied Philip, confused.

"Now I think of it, you are of the same name; at least they say that
his name was Vanderdecken--eh?"

"There are many Vanderdeckens in the world besides me," replied
Philip, who had recovered his composure; and having made this reply,
he walked away to the poop of the vessel.

"One would almost imagine this malignant one-eyed wretch was aware of
the cause of my embarkation," mused Philip; "but no! that cannot be.
Why do I feel such a chill whenever he approaches me? I wonder if
others do; or whether it is a mere fancy on the part of Amine and
myself. I dare ask no questions.--Strange, too, that the man should
feel such malice towards me. I never injured him. What I have just
overheard confirms all; but there needed no confirmation. Oh, Amine!
Amine! but for thee, and I would rejoice to solve this riddle at the
expense of life. God in mercy check the current of my brain," muttered
Philip, "or my reason cannot hold its seat!"

In three days the _Ter Schilling_ and her consorts arrived at Table
Bay, where they found the remainder of the fleet at anchor waiting for
them. Just at that period the Dutch had formed a settlement at the
Cape of Good Hope, where the Indian fleets used to water and obtain
cattle from the Hottentot tribes who lived on the coast, and who for
a brass button or a large nail would willingly offer a fat bullock. A
few days were occupied in completing the water of the squadron, and
then the ships, having received from the Admiral their instructions
as to the rendezvous in case of parting company, and made every
preparation for the bad weather which they anticipated, again weighed
their anchors, and proceeded on their voyage.

For three days they beat against light and baffling winds, making but
little progress; on the third, the breeze sprang up strong from the
southward, until it increased to a gale, and the fleet were blown down
to the northward of the bay. On the seventh day the _Ter Schilling_
found herself alone, but the weather had moderated. Sail was again
made upon the vessel, and her head put to the eastward, that she might
run in for the land.

"We are unfortunate in thus parting with all our consorts," observed
Mynheer Kloots to Philip, as they were standing at the gangway; "but
it must be near meridian, and the sun will enable me to discover our
latitude. It is difficult to say how far we may have been swept by the
gale and the currents to the northward. Boy, bring up my cross-staff,
and be mindful that you do not strike it against anything as you come
up."

The cross-staff at that time was the simple instrument used to
discover the latitude, which it would give to a nice observer to
within five or ten miles. Quadrants and sextants were the invention
of a much later period. Indeed, considering that they had so little
knowledge of navigation and the variation of the compass, and that
their easting and westing could only be computed by dead reckoning,
it is wonderful how our ancestors traversed the ocean in the way they
did, with comparatively so few accidents.

"We are full three degrees to the northward of the Cape," observed
Mynheer Kloots, after he had computed his latitude. "The currents must
be running strong; the wind is going down fast, and we shall have a
change, if I mistake not."

Towards the evening it fell calm, with a heavy swell setting towards
the shore; shoals of seals appeared on the surface, following the
vessel as she drove before the swell; the fish darted and leaped in
every direction, and the ocean around them appeared to be full of life
as the sun slowly descended to the horizon.

"What is that noise we hear?" observed Philip; "it sounds like distant
thunder."

"I hear it," replied Mynheer Kloots. "Aloft there; do you see the
land?"

"Yes," replied the man, after a pause in ascending the topmast
shrouds. "It is right ahead--low sand-hills, and the sea breaking
high."

"Then that must be the noise we hear. We sweep in fast with this heavy
ground-swell. I wish the breeze would spring up."

The sun was dipping under the horizon, and the calm still continued:
the swell had driven the _Ter Schilling_ so rapidly on the shore that
now they could see the breakers, which fell over with the noise of
thunder.

"Do you know the coast, pilot?" observed the captain to Schriften, who
stood by.

"Know it well," replied Schriften; "the sea breaks in twelve
fathoms at least. In half an hour the good ship will be beaten into
toothpicks, without a breeze to help us." And the little man giggled
as if pleased at the idea.

The anxiety of Mynheer Kloots was not to be concealed; his pipe was
every moment in and out of his mouth. The crew remained in groups
on the forecastle and gangway, listening with dismay to the fearful
roaring of the breakers. The sun had sunk down below the horizon, and
the gloom of night was gradually adding to the alarm of the crew of
the _Ter Schilling_.

"We must lower down the boats," said Mynheer Kloots to the first mate,
"and try to tow her off. We cannot do much good, I'm afraid; but at
all events the boats will be ready for the men to get into before she
drives on shore. Get the tow ropes out and lower down the boats, while
I go in to acquaint the supercargo."

Mynheer Von Stroom was sitting in all the dignity of his office, and
it being Sunday had put on his very best wig. He was once more reading
over the letter to the Company, relative to the bear, when Mynheer
Kloots made his appearance, and informed him in a few words that they
were in a situation of peculiar danger, and that in all probability
the ship would be in pieces in less than half an hour. At this
alarming intelligence, Mynheer Von Stroom jumped up from his chair,
and in his hurry and fear knocked down the candle which had just been
lighted.

"In danger! Mynheer Kloots!--why, the water is smooth and the wind
down! My hat--where is my hat and my cane? I will go on deck. Quick! A
light--Mynheer Kloots, if you please to order a light to be brought; I
can find nothing in the dark. Mynheer Kloots, why do you not answer?
Mercy on me! he is gone and has left me."

Mynheer Kloots had gone to fetch a light, and now returned with it.
Mynheer Von Stroom put on his hat, and walked out of the cabin. The
boats were down and the ship's head had been turned round from the
land; but it was now quite dark, and nothing was to be seen but the
white line of foam created by the breakers as they dashed with an
awful noise against the shore.

"Mynheer Kloots, if you please, I'll leave the ship directly. Let my
boat come alongside--I must have the largest boat for the Honourable
Company's service--for the papers and myself."

"I'm afraid not, Mynheer Von Stroom," replied Kloots; "our boats will
hardly hold the men as it is, and every man's life is as valuable to
himself as yours is to you."

"But, Mynheer, I am the Company's supercargo. I order you--I will have
one--refuse if you dare."

"I dare, and do refuse," replied the captain, taking his pipe out of
his mouth.

"Well, well," replied Mynheer Von Stroom, who now lost all presence of
mind--"we will, sir as soon as we arrive--Lord help us!--we are lost.
O Lord! O Lord!" And here Mynheer Von Stroom, not knowing why, hurried
down to the cabin, and in his haste tumbled over the bear Johannes,
who crossed his path, and in his fall his hat and flowing wig parted
company with his head.

"O mercy! where am I? Help--help here! for the Company's honourable
supercargo!"

"Cast off there in the boats, and come on board," cried Mynheer
Kloots; "we have no time to spare. Quick now, Philip, put in the
compass, the water, and the biscuit; we must leave her in five
minutes."

So appalling was the roar of the breakers, that it was with difficulty
that the orders could be heard. In the meantime Mynheer Von Stroom lay
upon the deck, kicking, sprawling, and crying for help.

"There is a light breeze off the shore," cried Philip, holding up his
hand.

"There is, but I'm afraid it is too late. Hand the things into the
boats, and be cool, my men. We have yet a chance of saving her, if the
wind freshens."

They were now so near to the breakers that they felt the swell in
which the vessel lay becalmed turned over here and there on its long
line, but the breeze freshened, and the vessel was stationary! the
men were all in the boats, with the exception of Mynheer Kloots, the
mates, and Mynheer Von Stroom.

"She goes through the water now," said Philip.

"Yes, I think we shall save her," replied the captain: "steady as you
go, Hillebrant," continued he to the first mate, who was at the helm.
"We leave the breakers now--only let the breeze hold ten minutes."

The breeze was steady, the _Ter Schilling_ stood off from the land,
again it fell calm, and again she was swept towards the breakers; at
last the breeze came off strong, and the vessel cleaved through the
water. The men were called out of the boats; Mynheer Von Stroom was
picked up along with his hat and wig, carried into the cabin, and in
less than an hour the _Ter Schilling_ was out of danger.

"Now we will hoist up the boats," said Mynheer Kloots, "and let us
all, before we lie down to sleep, thank God for our deliverance."

During that night the _Ter Schilling_ made an offing of twenty miles,
and then stood to the southward; towards the morning the wind again
fell, and it was nearly calm.

Mynheer Kloots had been on deck about an hour, and had been talking
with Hillebrant upon the danger of the evening, and the selfishness
and pusillanimity of Mynheer Von Stroom, when a loud noise was heard
in the poop-cabin.

"What can that be?" said the captain; "has the good man lost his
senses from the fright? Why, he is knocking the cabin to pieces."

At this moment the servant of the supercargo ran out of the cabin.

"Mynheer Kloots, hasten in--help my master--he will be killed--the
bear!--the bear!"

"The bear! what; Johannes?" cried Mynheer Kloots. "Why, the animal is
as tame as a dog. I will go and see."

But before Mynheer Kloots could walk into the cabin, out flew in
his shirt the affrighted supercargo. "My God! my God! am I to be
murdered?--eaten alive?" cried he, running forward, and attempting to
climb the fore-rigging.

Mynheer Kloots followed the motions of Mynheer Von Stroom with
surprise, and when he found him attempting to mount the rigging, he
turned aft and walked into the cabin, when he found to his surprise
that Johannes was indeed doing mischief.

The panelling of the state cabin of the supercargo had been beaten
down, the wig boxes lay in fragments on the floor, the two spare wigs
were lying by them, and upon them were strewed fragments of broken
pots and masses of honey, which Johannes was licking up with peculiar
gusto.

The fact was, that when the ship anchored at Table Bay, Mynheer Von
Stroom, who was very partial to honey, had obtained some from the
Hottentots. The honey his careful servant had stowed away in jars,
which he had placed at the bottom of the two long boxes, ready for his
master's use during the remainder of the voyage. That morning, the
servant fancying that the wig of the previous night had suffered when
his master tumbled over the bear, opened one of the boxes to take out
another. Johannes happened to come near the door, and scented the
honey. Now, partial as Mynheer Von Stroom was to honey, all bears are
still more so, and will venture everything to obtain it. Johannes had
yielded to the impulse of his species, and, following the scent, had
come into the cabin, and was about to enter the sleeping-berth of
Mynheer Stroom, when the servant slammed the door in his face;
whereupon Johannes beat in the panels, and found an entrance. He then
attacked the wig-boxes, and, by showing a most formidable set of
teeth, proved to the servant, who attempted to drive him off, that he
would not be trifled with. In the meanwhile, Mynheer Von Stroom was in
the utmost terror: not aware of the purport of the bear's visit, he
imagined that the animal's object was to attack him. His servant took
to his heels after a vain effort to save the last box, and Mynheer
Von Stroom, then finding himself alone, at length sprang out of his
bed-place, and escaped as we have mentioned to the forecastle, leaving
Johannes master of the field, and luxuriating upon the _spolia opima_.
Mynheer Kloots immediately perceived how the case stood. He went up
to the bear and spoke to him, then kicked him, but the bear would not
leave the honey, and growled furiously at the interruption. "This is
a bad job for you, Johannes," observed Mynheer Kloots; "now you will
leave the ship, for the supercargo has just grounds of complaint. Oh,
well! you must eat the honey, because you will." So saying, Mynheer
Kloots left the cabin, and went to look after the supercargo, who
remained on the forecastle, with his bald head and meagre body,
haranguing the men in his shirt, which fluttered in the breeze.

"I am very sorry, Mynheer Von Stroom," said Kloots, "but the bear
shall be sent out of the vessel."

"Yes, yes, Mynheer Kloots, but this is an affair for the most puissant
Company--the lives of their servants are not to be sacrificed to the
folly of a sea-captain. I have nearly been torn to pieces."

"The animal did not want you; all he wanted was the honey," replied
Kloots. "He has got it, and I myself cannot take it from him. There is
no altering the nature of an animal. Will you be pleased to walk down
into my cabin until the beast can be secured? He shall not go loose
again."

Mynheer Von Stroom, who considered his dignity at variance with his
appearance, and who perhaps was aware that majesty deprived of its
externals was only a jest, thought it advisable to accept the offer.
After some trouble, with the assistance of the seamen, the bear was
secured and dragged away from the cabin, much against his will, for he
had still some honey to lick off the curls of the full-bottomed wigs.
He was put into durance vile, having been caught in the flagrant act
of burglary on the high seas. This new adventure was the topic of the
day, for it was again a dead calm, and the ship lay motionless on the
glassy wave.

"The sun looks red as he sinks," observed Hillebrant to the captain,
who with Philip was standing on the poop; "we shall have wind before
to-morrow, if I mistake not."

"I am of your opinion," replied Mynheer Kloots. "It is strange that
we do not fall in with any of the vessels of the fleet. They must all
have been driven down here."

"Perhaps they have kept a wider offing."

"It had been as well if we had done the same," said Kloots. "That was
a narrow escape last night. There is such a thing as having too little
as well as having too much wind."

A confused noise was heard among the seamen who were collected
together, and looking in the direction of the vessel's quarter, "A
ship! No--Yes, it is!" was repeated more than once.

"They think they see a ship," said Schriften, coming on the poop. "He!
he!"

"Where?"

"There in the gloom!" said the pilot, pointing to the darkest quarter
in the horizon, for the sun had set.

The captain, Hillebrant, and Philip directed their eyes to the quarter
pointed out, and thought they could perceive something like a vessel.
Gradually the gloom seemed to clear away, and a lambent pale blaze to
light up that part of the horizon. Not a breath of wind was on the
water--the sea was like a mirror--more and more distinct did the
vessel appear, till her hull, masts and yards were clearly visible.
They looked and rubbed their eyes to help their vision, for scarcely
could they believe that which they did see. In the centre of the pale
light, which extended about fifteen degrees above the horizon, there
was indeed a large ship about three miles distant; but, although it
was a perfect calm, she was to all appearance buffeting in a violent
gale, plunging and lifting over a surface that was smooth as glass,
now careening to her bearing, then recovering herself. Her topsails
and mainsail were furled, and the yards pointed to the wind; she had
no sail set, but a close-reefed fore-sail, a storm stay-sail, and
trysail abaft. She made little way through the water, but apparently
neared them fast, driven down by the force of the gale. Each minute
she was plainer to the view. At last, she was seen to wear, and in so
doing, before she was brought to the wind on the other tack, she was
so close to them that they could distinguish the men on board: they
could see the foaming water as it was hurled from her bows; hear the
shrill whistle of the boatswain's pipes, the creaking of the ship's
timbers, and the complaining of her masts; and then the gloom
gradually rose, and in a few seconds she had totally disappeared.

"God in heaven!" exclaimed Mynheer Kloots.

Philip felt a hand upon his shoulder, and the cold darted through his
whole frame. He turned round and met the one eye of Schriften,
who screamed in his ear--"PHILIP VANDERDECKEN--That's the _Flying
Dutchman!_"




Chapter X


The sudden gloom which had succeeded to the pale light had the effect
of rendering every object still more indistinct to the astonished crew
of the _Ter Schilling_. For a moment or more not a word was uttered by
a soul on board. Some remained with their eyes still strained towards
the point where the apparition had been seen, others turned away full
of gloomy and foreboding thoughts. Hillebrant was the first who spoke:
turning round to the eastern quarter, and observing a light on the
horizon, he started, and seizing Philip by the arm, cried out, "What's
that?"

"That is only the moon rising from the bank of clouds," replied
Philip, mournfully.

"Well!" observed Mynheer Kloots, wiping his forehead, which was damp
with perspiration, "I _have_ been told of this before, but I have
mocked at the narration."

Philip made no reply. Aware of the reality of the vision, and how
deeply it interested him, he felt as if he were a guilty person.

The moon had now risen above the clouds, and was pouring her mild pale
light over the slumbering ocean. With a simultaneous impulse, everyone
directed his eyes to the spot where the strange vision had last been
seen; and all was a dead, dead calm.

Since the apparition, the pilot, Schriften, had remained on the poop;
he now gradually approached Mynheer Kloots, and looking round, said--

"Mynheer Kloots, as pilot of this vessel, I tell you that you must
prepare for very bad weather."

"Bad weather!" said Kloots, rousing himself from a deep reverie.

"Yes, bad weather, Mynheer Kloots. There never was a vessel which
fell in with--what we have just seen, but met with disaster soon
afterwards. The very name of Vanderdecken is unlucky--He! he!"

Philip would have replied to the sarcasm, but he could not, his tongue
was tied.

"What has the name of Vanderdecken to do with it?" observed Kloots.

"Have you not heard, then? The captain of that vessel we have just
seen is a Mynheer Vanderdecken--he is the Flying Dutchman!"

"How know you that, pilot?" inquired Hillebrant.

"I know that, and much more, if I chose to tell," replied Schriften;
"but never mind, I have warned you of bad weather, as is my duty;"
and, with these words, Schriften went down the poop-ladder.

"God in heaven! I never was so puzzled and so frightened in my life,"
observed Kloots. "I don't know what to think or say.--What think you,
Philip? was it not supernatural?"

"Yes," replied Philip, mournfully. "I have no doubt of it."

"I thought the days of miracles had passed," said the captain, "and
that we were now left to our own exertions, and had no other warnings
but those the appearance of the heavens gave us."

"And they warn us now," observed Hillebrant. "See how that bank of
clouds has risen within these five minutes--the moon has escaped from
it, but it will soon catch her again--and see, there is a flash of
lightning in the north-west."

"Well, my sons, I can brave the elements as well as any man, and do my
best. I have cared little for gales or stress of weather; but I like
not such a warning as we have had to-night. My heart's as heavy as
lead, and that's the truth. Philip, send down for the bottle of
schnapps, if it is only to clear my brain a little."

Philip was glad of an opportunity to quit the poop; he wished to have
a few minutes to recover himself and collect his own thoughts. The
appearance of the Phantom Ship had been to him a dreadful shock--not
that he had not fully believed in its existence; but still, to have
beheld, to have been so near that vessel--that vessel in which his
father was fulfilling his awful doom--that vessel on board of which he
felt sure that his own destiny was to be worked out--had given a whirl
to his brain. When he had heard the sound of the boatswain's whistle
on board of her, eagerly had he stretched his hearing to catch the
order given--and given, he was convinced, in his father's voice. Nor
had his eyes been less called to aid in his attempt to discover the
features and dress of those moving on her decks. As soon, then, as he
had sent the boy up to Mynheer Kloots, Philip hastened to his
cabin and buried his face in the coverlet of his bed, and then he
prayed--prayed until he had recovered his usual energy and courage,
and had brought his mind to that state of composure which could enable
him to look forward calmly to danger and difficulty, and feel prepared
to meet it with the heroism of a martyr.

Philip remained below not more than half an hour. On his return to the
deck, what a change had taken place! He had left the vessel floating
motionless on the still waters, with her lofty sails hanging down
listlessly from the yards. The moon then soared aloft in her beauty,
reflecting the masts and sails of the ship in extended lines upon the
smooth sea. Now all was dark: the water rippled short and broke in
foam; the smaller and lofty sails had been taken in, and the vessel
was cleaving through the water; and the wind, in fitful gusts and
angry moanings, proclaimed too surely that it had been awakened up to
wrath, and was gathering its strength for destruction. The men
were still busy reducing the sails, but they worked gloomily and
discontentedly. What Schriften, the pilot, had said to them, Philip
knew not, but that they avoided him and appeared to look upon him with
feelings of ill-will, was evident. And each minute the gale increased.

"The wind is not steady," observed Hillebrant; "there is no saying
from which quarter the storm may blow: it has already veered round
five points. Philip, I don't much like the appearance of things, and I
may say with the captain that my heart is heavy."

"And, indeed, so is mine," replied Philip; "but we are in the hands of
a merciful Providence."

"Hard a-port! flatten in forward! brail up the trysail, my men!
Be smart!" cried Kloots, as from the wind's chopping round to the
northward and westward, the ship was taken aback, and careened low
before it. The rain now came down in torrents, and it was so dark that
it was with difficulty they could perceive each other on the deck.

"We must clew up the topsails, while the men can get upon the yards.
See to it forward, Mr Hillebrant."

The lightning now darted athwart the firmament, and the thunder
pealed.

"Quick! quick, my men, let's furl all!"

The sailors shook the water from their streaming clothes, some worked,
others took advantage of the night to hide themselves away, and
commune with their own fears.

All canvas was now taken off the ship, except the fore-staysail, and
she flew to the southward with the wind on her quarter. The sea had
now risen, and roared as it curled in foam, the rain fell in torrents,
the night was dark as Erebus, and the wet and frightened sailors
sheltered themselves under the bulwarks. Although many had deserted
from their duty, there was not one who ventured below that night. They
did not collect together as usual--every man preferred solitude and
his own thoughts. The Phantom Ship dwelt on their imaginations, and
oppressed their brains.

It was an interminably long and terrible night--they thought the day
would never come. At last the darkness gradually changed to a settled
sullen grey gloom--which was day. They looked at each other, but found
no comfort in meeting each other's eyes. There was no one countenance
in which a beam of hope could be found lurking. They were all
doomed--they remained crouched where they had sheltered themselves
during the night, and said nothing.

The sea had now risen mountains high, and more than once had struck
the ship abaft. Kloots was at the binnacle, Hillebrant and Philip at
the helm, when a wave curled high over the quarter, and poured itself
in resistless force upon the deck. The captain and his two mates were
swept away, and dashed almost senseless against the bulwarks--the
binnacle and compass were broken into fragments--no one ran to the
helm--the vessel broached to--the seas broke clear over her, and the
mainmast went by the board.

All was confusion. Captain Kloots was stunned, and it was with
difficulty that Philip could persuade two of the men to assist him
down below. Hillebrant had been more unfortunate--his right arm was
broken, and he was otherwise severely bruised; Philip assisted him to
his berth, and then went on deck again to try and restore order.

Philip Vanderdecken was not yet much of a seaman, but, at all events,
he exercised that moral influence over the men which is ever possessed
by resolution and courage. Obey willingly they did not, but they did
obey, and in half an hour the vessel was clear of the wreck. Eased by
the loss of her heavy mast, and steered by two of her best seamen, she
again flew before the gale.

Where was Mynheer Von Stroom during all this work of destruction? In
his bed-place, covered up with the clothes, trembling in every limb,
and vowing that if ever again he put his foot on shore, not all the
companies in the world should induce him to trust to salt-water again.
It certainly was the best plan for the poor man.

But although for a time the men obeyed the orders of Philip, they
were soon seen talking earnestly with the one-eyed pilot, and after a
consultation of a quarter of an hour, they all left the deck, with the
exception of the two at the helm. Their reasons for so doing were soon
apparent--several returned with cans full of liquor, which they had
obtained by forcing the hatches of the spirit-room. For about an
hour Philip remained on deck, persuading the men not to intoxicate
themselves, but in vain; the cans of grog offered to the men at the
wheel were not refused, and, in a short time, the yawing of the vessel
proved that the liquor had taken its effect. Philip then hastened down
below to ascertain if Mynheer Kloots was sufficiently recovered to
come on deck. He found him sunk into a deep sleep, and with difficulty
it was that he roused him, and made him acquainted with the
distressing intelligence. Mynheer Kloots followed Philip on deck, but
he still suffered from his fall: his head was confused, and he reeled
as he walked, as if he also had been making free with the liquor. When
he had been on deck a few minutes, he sank down on one of the guns in
a state of perfect helplessness; he had, in fact, received a severe
concussion of the brain. Hillebrant was too severely injured to
be able to move from his bed, and Philip was now aware of the
helplessness of their situation. Daylight gradually disappeared, and,
as darkness came upon them, so did the scene become more appalling.
The vessel still ran before the gale, but the men at the helm had
evidently changed her course, as the wind that was on the starboard
was now on the larboard quarter. But compass there was none on deck,
and, even if there had been, the men in their drunken state would have
refused to listen to Philip's orders or expostulations. "He," they
said, "was no sailor, and was not to teach them how to steer the ship"
The gale was now at its height. The rain had ceased, but the wind had
increased, and it roared as it urged on the vessel, which, steered so
wide by the drunken sailors, shipped seas over each gunnel; but the
men laughed and joined the chorus of their songs to the howling of the
gale.

Schriften, the pilot, appeared to be the leader of the ship's company.
With the can of liquor in his hand, he danced and sang, snapped his
fingers, and, like a demon, peered with his one eye upon Philip; and
then would he fall and roll with screams of laughter in the scuppers.
More liquor was handed up as fast as it was called for. Oaths,
shrieks, laughter, were mingled together; the men at the helm lashed
it amidships, and hastened to join their companions, and the _Ter
Schilling_ flew before the gale; the fore-staysail being the only
sail set, checking her as she yawed to starboard or to port. Philip
remained on deck by the poop-ladder. "Strange," thought he, "that I
should stand here, the only one left now capable of acting,--that
I should be fated to look by myself upon this scene of horror and
disgust--should here wait the severing of this vessel's timbers,--the
loss of life which must accompany it,--the only one calm and
collected, or aware of what must soon take place. God forgive me, but
I appear, useless and impotent as I am, to stand here like the master
of the storm,--separated as it were from my brother mortals by my
own peculiar destiny. It must be so. This wreck then must not be for
me,--I feel that it is not,--that I have a charmed life, or rather a
protracted one, to fulfil the oath I registered in heaven. But the
wind is not so loud, surely the water is not so rough: my forebodings
may be wrong, and all may yet be saved. Heaven grant it! For how
melancholy, how lamentable is it, to behold men created in God's own
image, leaving the world, disgraced below the brute creation!"

Philip was right in supposing that the wind was not so strong, nor
the sea so high. The vessel, after running to the southward till past
Table Bay, had, by the alteration made in her course, entered into
False Bay, where, to a certain degree, she was sheltered from the
violence of the winds and waves. But, although the water was smoother,
the waves were still more than sufficient to beat to pieces any vessel
that might be driven on shore at the bottom of the bay, to which point
the _Ter Schilling_ was now running. The bay so far offered a fair
chance of escape, as, instead of the rocky coast outside (against
which, had the vessel run, a few seconds would have insured her
destruction), there was a shelving beach of loose sand. But of this
Philip could, of course, have no knowledge, for the land at the
entrance of the Bay had been passed unperceived in the darkness of the
night. About twenty minutes more had elapsed, when Philip observed
that the whole sea around them was one continued foam. He had hardly
time for conjecture before the ship struck heavily on the sands, and
the remaining masts fell by the board.

The crash of the falling masts, the heavy beating of the ship on the
sands, which caused many of her timbers to part, with a whole sea
which swept clean over the fated vessel, checked the songs and drunken
revelry of the crew. Another minute, and the vessel was swung round on
her broadside to the sea, and lay on her beam ends. Philip, who was
to windward, clung to the bulwark, while the intoxicated seamen
floundered in the water to leeward, and attempted to gain the other
side of the ship. Much to Philip's horror, he perceived the body of
Mynheer Kloots sink down in the water (which now was several feet deep
on the lee side of the deck) without any apparent effort on the part
of the captain to save himself. He was then gone, and there were no
hopes for him. Philip thought of Hillebrant, and hastened down below;
he found him still in his bed-place, lying against the side. He lifted
him out, and with difficulty climbed with him on deck, and laid him in
the long-boat on the booms, as the best chance of saving his life. To
this boat, the only one which could be made available, the crew had
also repaired; but they repulsed Philip, who would have got into her;
and, as the sea made clean breakers over them, they cast loose the
lashings which confined her. With the assistance of another heavy sea
which lifted her from the chocks, she was borne clear of the booms
and dashed over the gunnel into the water, to leeward, which was
comparatively smooth--not, however, without being filled nearly up to
the thwarts. But this was little cared for by the intoxicated seamen,
who, as soon as they were afloat, again raised their shouts and songs
of revelry as they were borne away by the wind and sea towards the
beach. Philip, who held on by the stump of the mainmast, watched them
with an anxious eye, now perceiving them borne aloft on the foaming
surf, now disappearing in the trough. More and more distant were the
sounds of their mad voices, till, at last, he could hear them no
more,--he beheld the boat balanced on an enormous rolling sea, and
then he saw it not again.

Philip knew that now his only chance was to remain with the vessel,
and attempt to save himself upon some fragment of the wreck. That the
ship would long hold together he felt was impossible; already she had
parted her upper decks, and each shock of the waves divided her more
and more. At last, as he clung to the mast, he heard a noise abaft,
and he then recollected that Mynheer Von Stroom was still in his
cabin. Philip crawled aft, and found that the poop-ladder had been
thrown against the cabin door, so as to prevent its being opened. He
removed it and entered the cabin, where he found Mynheer Von Stroom
clinging to windward with the grasp of death,--but it was not death,
but the paralysis of fear. He spoke to him, but could obtain no reply;
he attempted to move him, but it was impossible to make him let go the
part of the bulk-head that he grasped. A loud noise and the rush of a
mass of water told Philip that the vessel had parted amidships, and he
unwillingly abandoned the poor supercargo to his fate, and went out
of the cabin door. At the after-hatchway he observed something
struggling,--it was Johannes the bear, who was swimming, but still
fastened by a cord which prevented his escape. Philip took out his
knife, and released the poor animal, and hardly had he done this act
of kindness when a heavy sea turned over the after part of the vessel,
which separated in many pieces, and Philip found himself struggling in
the waves. He seized upon a part of the deck which supported him, and
was borne away by the surf towards the beach. In a few minutes he was
near to the land, and shortly afterwards the piece of planking to
which he was clinging struck on the sand, and then, being turned over
by the force of the running wave, Philip lost his hold, and was left
to his own exertions. He struggled long, but, although so near to the
shore, could not gain a footing; the returning wave dragged him back,
and thus was he hurled to and fro until his strength was gone. He was
sinking under the wave to rise no more, when he felt something touch
his hand. He seized it with the grasp of death. It was the shaggy
hide of the bear Johannes, who was making for the shore, and who soon
dragged him clear of the surf, so that he could gain a footing. Philip
crawled up the beach above the reach of the waves, and, exhausted with
fatigue, sank down in a swoon.

When Philip was recalled from his state of lethargy, his first feeling
was intense pain in his still closed eyes, arising from having been
many hours exposed to the rays of an ardent sun. He opened them, but
was obliged to close them immediately, for the light entered into them
like the point of a knife. He turned over on his side, and covering
them with his hand, remained some time in that position, until, by
degrees, he found that his eyesight was restored. He then rose, and,
after a few seconds could distinguish the scene around him. The sea
was still rough, and tossed about in the surf fragments of the vessel;
the whole sand was strewed with her cargo and contents. Near him was
the body of Hillebrant, and the other bodies who were scattered on the
beach told him that those who had taken to the boat had all perished.

It was, by the height of the sun, about three o'clock in the
afternoon, as near as he could estimate; but Philip suffered such an
oppression of mind, he felt so wearied, and in such pain, that he took
but a slight survey. His brain was whirling, and all he demanded was
repose. He walked away from the scene of destruction, and having found
a sandhill, behind which he was defended from the burning rays of the
sun, he again lay down, and sank into a deep sleep, from which he did
not wake until the ensuing morning.

Philip was roused a second time by the sensation of something pricking
him on the chest. He started up, and beheld a figure standing over
him. His eyes were still feeble, and his vision indistinct; he rubbed
them for a time, for he first thought it was the bear Johannes, and
again that it was the supercargo Von Stroom who had appeared before
him; he looked again, and found that he was mistaken, although he had
warrant for supposing it to be either or both. A tall Hottentot, with
an assagai in his hand, stood by his side; over his shoulder he had
thrown the fresh-severed skin of the poor bear, and on his head,
with the curls descending to his waist, was one of the wigs of the
supercargo Von Stroom. Such was the gravity of the black's appearance
in this strange costume (for in every other respect he was naked),
that, at any other time, Philip would have been induced to laugh
heartily, but his feelings were now too acute. He rose upon his feet
and stood by the side of the Hottentot, who still continued immovable,
but certainly without the slightest appearance of hostile intentions.

A sensation of overpowering thirst now seized upon Philip, and he
made signs that he wished to drink. The Hottentot motioned to him
to follow, and led over the sand-hills to the beach, where Philip
discovered upwards of fifty men, who were busy selecting various
articles from the scattered stores of the vessel. It was evident by
the respect paid to Philip's conductor, that he was the chief of
the kraal. A few words, uttered with the greatest solemnity, were
sufficient to produce, though not exactly what Philip required, a
small quantity of dirty water from a calabash, which, however, was, to
him, delicious. His conductor then waved to him to take a seat on the
sand.

It was a novel and appalling, and nevertheless a ludicrous scene:
there was the white sand, rendered still more white by the strong
glare of the sun, strewed with the fragments of the vessel, with casks
and bales of merchandise; there was the running surge with its foam,
throwing about particles of the wreck; there were the bones of whales
which had been driven on shore in some former gale, and which now,
half-buried in the sand, showed portions of huge skeletons; there were
the mangled bodies of Philip's late companions, whose clothes, it
appeared, had been untouched by the savages, with the exception of
the buttons, which had been eagerly sought after; there were naked
Hottentots (for it was summer time, and they wore not their sheepskin
krosses) gravely stepping up and down the sand, picking up everything
that was of no value, and leaving all that civilised people most
coveted;--to crown all, there was the chief, sitting in the still
bloody skin of Johannes and the broad-bottomed wig of Mynheer Stroom,
with all the gravity of a vice-chancellor in his countenance, and
without the slightest idea that he was in any way ridiculous. The
whole presented, perhaps, one of the most strange and chaotic tableaux
that ever was witnessed.

Although, at that time, the Dutch had not very long formed their
settlement at the Cape, a considerable traffic had been, for many
years, carried on with the natives for skins and other African
productions. The Hottentots were therefore no strangers to vessels,
and, as hitherto they had been treated with kindness, were
well-disposed towards Europeans. After a time, the Hottentots began
to collect all the wood which appeared to have iron in it, made it up
into several piles, and set them on fire. The chief then made a
sign to Philip, to ask him if he was hungry; Philip replied in the
affirmative, when his new acquaintance put his hand into a bag made
of goat-skin, and pulled out a handful of very large beetles, and
presented them to him. Philip refused them with marks of disgust,
upon which the chief very sedately cracked and ate them; and having
finished the whole handful, rose, and made a sign to Philip to follow
him. As Philip rose, he perceived floating on the surf his own chest;
he hastened to it, and made signs that it was his, took the key out of
his pocket, and opened it, and then made up a bundle of articles
most useful, not forgetting a bag of guilders. His conductor made no
objection, but calling to one of the men near, pointed out the lock
and hinges to him, and then set off, followed by Philip, across the
sand-hills. In about an hour they arrived at the kraal, consisting of
low huts covered with skins, and were met by the women and children,
who appeared to be in high admiration at their chief's new attire:
they showed every kindness to Philip, bringing him milk, which he
drank eagerly. Philip surveyed these daughters of Eve, and, as he
turned from their offensive, greasy attire, their strange forms, and
hideous features, he sighed and thought of his charming Amine.

The sun was now setting, and Philip still felt fatigued. He made
signs that he wished to repose. They led him into a hut, and, though
surrounded as he was with filth, and his nose assailed by every
variety of bad smell, attacked moreover by insects, he laid his head
on his bundle, and uttering a short prayer of thanksgiving, was soon
in a sound sleep.

The next morning he was awakened by the chief of the kraal,
accompanied by another man who spoke a little Dutch. He stated his
wish to be taken to the settlement where the ships came and anchored,
and was fully understood; but the man said that there were no ships in
the bay at the time. Philip nevertheless requested he might be taken
there, as he felt that his best chance of getting on board of any
vessel would be by remaining at the settlement, and, at all events,
he would be in the company of Europeans until a vessel arrived. The
distance he discovered was but one day's march, or less. After some
little conversation with the chief, the man who spoke Dutch desired
Philip to follow him, and he would take him there. Philip drank
plentifully from a bowl of milk brought him by one of the women, and
again refusing a handful of beetles offered by the chief, he took up
his bundle, and followed his new acquaintance.

Towards evening they arrived at the hills, from which Philip had a
view of Table Bay, and the few houses erected by the Dutch. To his
delight, he perceived that there was a vessel under sail in the
offing. On his arrival at the beach, to which he hastened, he found
that she had sent a boat on shore for fresh provisions. He accosted
the people, told them who he was, told them also of the fatal wreck of
the _Ter Schilling_, and of his wish to embark.

The officer in charge of the boat willingly consented to take him on
board, and informed Philip that they were homeward bound. Philip's
heart leaped at the intelligence. Had she been outward bound, he would
have joined her; but now he had a prospect of again seeing his dear
Amine, before he re-embarked to follow out his peculiar destiny. He
felt that there was still some happiness in store for him, that his
life was to be chequered with alternate privation and repose, and that
his future prospect was not to be one continued chain of suffering
until death.

He was kindly received by the captain of the vessel, who freely gave
him a passage home; and in three months, without any events worth
narrating, Philip Vanderdecken found himself once more at anchor
before the town of Amsterdam.




Chapter XI


It need hardly be observed, that Philip made all possible haste to his
own little cottage, which contained all that he valued in this world.
He promised to himself some months of happiness, for he had done his
duty; and he felt that, however desirous of fulfilling his vow, he
could not again leave home till the autumn, when the next fleet
sailed, and it was now but the commencement of April. Much, too, as he
regretted the loss of Mynheer Kloots and Hillebrant, as well as the
deaths of the unfortunate crew, still there was some solace in the
remembrance that he was for ever rid of the wretch Schriften, who had
shared their fate; and besides, he almost blessed the wreck, so fatal
to others, which enabled him so soon to return to the arms of his
Amine.

It was late in the evening when Philip took a boat from Flushing, and
went over to his cottage at Terneuse. It was a rough evening for the
season of the year. The wind blew fresh, and the sky was covered with
flaky clouds, fringed here and there with broad white edges, for the
light of the moon was high in the heavens, and she was at her full. At
times her light would be almost obscured by a dark cloud passing over
her disc; at others, she would burst out in all her brightness. Philip
landed, and wrapping his cloak round him, hastened up to his cottage.
As with a beating heart he approached, he perceived that the window of
the parlour was open, and that there was a female figure leaning
out. He knew that it could be no other than his Amine, and, after he
crossed the little bridge, he proceeded to the window, instead of
going to the door. Amine (for it was she who stood at the window) was
so absorbed in contemplation of the heavens above her, and so deep in
communion with her own thoughts, that she neither saw nor heard the
approach of her husband. Philip perceived her abstraction, and paused
when within four or five yards of her. He wished to gain the door
without being observed, as he was afraid of alarming her by his too
sudden appearance, for he remembered his promise, "that if dead he
would, if permitted, visit her as his father had visited his mother."
But while he thus stood in suspense, Amine's eyes were turned upon
him: she beheld him, but a thick cloud now obscured the moon's disc,
and the dim light gave to his form, indistinctly seen, an unearthly
and shadowy appearance. She recognised her husband; but having no
reason to expect his return, she recognised him as an inhabitant of
the world of spirits. She started, parted the hair away from her
forehead with both hands, and again earnestly gazed on him.

"It is I, Amine, do not be afraid," cried Philip, hastily.

"I am not afraid," replied Amine, pressing her hand to her heart. "It
is over now: spirit of my dear husband--for such I think thou art, I
thank thee! Welcome, even in death, Philip, welcome!" and Amine waved
her hand mournfully, inviting Philip to enter, as she retired from the
window.

"My God! she thinks me dead," thought Philip, and hardly knowing how
to act, he entered in at the window, and found her sitting on the
sofa. Philip would have spoken; but Amine, whose eyes were fixed upon
him as he entered, and who was fully convinced that he was but a
supernatural appearance, exclaimed--

"So soon--so soon! O God! thy will be done: but it is hard to bear.
Philip, beloved Philip! I feel that I soon shall follow you."

Philip was now more alarmed: he was fearful of any sudden reaction
when Amine should discover that he was still alive.

"Amine, dear, hear me. I have appeared unexpectedly, and at an unusual
hour; but throw yourself into my arms, and you will find that your
Philip is not dead."

"Not dead!" cried Amine, starting up.

"No, no, still warm in flesh and blood, Amine--still your fond and
doting husband," replied Philip, catching her in his arms, and
pressing her to his heart.

Amine sank from his embrace down upon the sofa, and fortunately was
relieved by a burst of tears, while Philip, kneeling by her, supported
her.

"O God! O God! I thank thee," replied Amine, at last. "I thought it
was your spirit, Philip. O I was glad to see even that," continued
she, weeping on his shoulder.

"Can you listen to me, dearest?" said Philip, after a silence of a few
moments.

"O speak, speak, love; I can listen for ever."

In a few words Philip then recounted what had taken place, and the
occasion of his unexpected return, and felt himself more than repaid
for all that he had suffered by the fond endearments of his still
agitated Amine.

"And your father, Amine?"

"He is well--we will talk of him to-morrow."

"Yes," thought Philip, as he awoke next morning, and dwelt upon the
lovely features of his still slumbering wife: "yes, God is merciful.
I feel that there is still happiness in store for me; nay more, that
that happiness also depends upon my due performance of my task, and
that I should be punished if I were to forget my solemn vow. Be it
so,--through danger and to death will I perform my duty, trusting to
his mercy for a reward both here below and in heaven above. Am I not
repaid for all that I have suffered? O yes, more than repaid," thought
Philip, as, with a kiss, he disturbed the slumber of his wife, and met
her full dark eyes fixed upon him, beaming with love and joy.

Before Philip Went downstairs, he inquired about Mynheer Poots.

"My father has indeed troubled me much," replied Amine. "I am obliged
to lock the parlour when I leave it, for more than once I have found
him attempting to force the locks of the buffets. His love of gold is
insatiable: he dreams of nothing else. He has caused me much pain,
insisting that I never should see you again, and that I should
surrender to him all your wealth. But he fears me, and he fears your
return much more."

"Is he well in health?"

"Not ill, but still evidently wasting away,--like a candle burnt down
to the socket, flitting and flaring alternately; at one time almost
imbecile, at others, talking and planning as if he were in the vigour
of his youth. O what a curse it must be--that love of money! I
believe--I'm shocked to say so, Philip,--that that poor old man,
now on the brink of a grave into which he can take nothing, would
sacrifice your life and mine to have possession of those guilders, the
whole of which I would barter for one kiss from thee."

"Indeed, Amine, has he then attempted anything in my absence?"

"I dare not speak my thoughts, Philip, nor will I venture
upon surmises, which it were difficult to prove. I watch him
carefully;--but talk no more about him. You will see him soon, and do
not expect a hearty welcome, or believe that, if given, it is sincere.
I will not tell him of your return, as I wish to mark the effect."

Amine then descended to prepare breakfast, and Philip walked out for
a few minutes. On his return, he found Mynheer Poots sitting at the
table with his daughter.

"Merciful Allah! am I right?" cried the old man: "is it you, Mynheer
Vanderdecken?"

"Even so," replied Philip, "I returned last night."

"And you did not tell me, Amine."

"I wished that you should be surprised," replied Amine.

"I am surprised! When do you sail again, Mynheer Philip? very soon, I
suppose? perhaps to-morrow?" said Mynheer Poots.

"Not for many months, I trust," replied Philip.

"Not for many months!--that is a long while to be idle. You must make
money. Tell me, have you brought back plenty this time?"

"No," replied Philip; "I have been wrecked, and very nearly lost my
life."

"But you will go again?"

"Yes, in good time I shall go again."

"Very well, we will take care of your house and your guilders."

"I shall perhaps save you the trouble of taking care of my guilders,"
replied Philip, to annoy the old man, "for I mean to take them with
me."

"To take them with you! for what, pray?" replied Poots, in alarm.

"To purchase goods where I go, and make more money."

"But you may be wrecked again, and then the money will be all lost.
No, no; go yourself, Mynheer Philip; but you must not take your
guilders."

"Indeed I will," replied Philip; "when I leave this, I shall take all
my money with me."

During this conversation it occurred to Philip that, if Mynheer Poots
could only be led to suppose that he took away his money with him,
there would be more quiet for Amine, who was now obliged, as she had
informed him, to be constantly on the watch. He determined, therefore,
when he next departed, to make the doctor believe that he had taken
his wealth with him.

Mynheer Poots did not renew the conversation, but sank into gloomy
thought. In a few minutes he left the parlour, and went up to his own
room, when Philip stated to his wife what had induced him to make the
old man believe that he should embark his property.

"It was thoughtful of you, Philip, and I thank you for your kind
feeling towards me; but I wish you had said nothing on the subject.
You do not know my father; I must now watch him as an enemy."

"We have little to fear from an infirm old man," replied Philip,
laughing. But Amine thought otherwise, and was ever on her guard.

The spring and summer passed rapidly away, for they were happy. Many
were the conversations between Philip and Amine, relative to what had
passed--the supernatural appearance of his father's ship, and the
fatal wreck.

Amine felt that more dangers and difficulties were preparing for her
husband, but she never once attempted to dissuade him from renewing
his attempts in fulfilment of his vow. Like him, she looked forward
with hope and confidence, aware that, at some time, his fate must be
accomplished, and trusting only that that hour would be long delayed.

At the close of the summer, Philip again went to Amsterdam, to procure
for himself a berth in one of the vessels which were to sail at the
approach of winter.

The wreck of the _Ter Schilling_ was well known; and the circumstances
attending it, with the exception of the appearance of the Phantom
Ship, had been drawn up by Philip on his passage home, and
communicated to the Court of Directors. Not only on account of the
very creditable manner in which that report had been prepared, but
in consideration of his peculiar sufferings and escape, he had been
promised by the Company a berth, as second mate, on board of one of
their vessels, should he be again inclined to sail to the East Indies.

Having called upon the Directors, he received his appointment to the
_Batavia_, a fine vessel of about 400 tons burden. Having effected his
purpose, Philip hastened back to Terneuse, and, in the presence of
Mynheer Poots, informed Amine of what he had done.

"So you go to sea again?" observed Mynheer Poots.

"Yes, but not for two months, I expect," replied Philip.

"Ah!" replied Poots, "in two months!" and the old man muttered to
himself.

How true it is that we can more easily bear up against a real evil
than against suspense! Let it not be supposed that Amine fretted
at the thought of her approaching separation from her husband; she
lamented it, but feeling his departure to be an imperious duty, and
having it ever in her mind, she bore up against her feelings, and
submitted, without repining, to what could not be averted. There was,
however, one circumstance, which caused her much uneasiness--that was
the temper and conduct of her father. Amine, who knew his character
well, perceived that he already secretly hated Philip, whom he
regarded as an obstacle to his obtaining possession of the money in
the house; for the old man was well aware that, if Philip were dead,
his daughter would care little who had possession of, or what became
of it. The thought that Philip was about to take that money with him
had almost turned the brain of the avaricious old man. He had been
watched by Amine, and she had seen him walk for hours muttering to
himself, and not, as usual, attending to his profession.

A few evenings after his return from Amsterdam, Philip, who had taken
cold, complained of not being well.

"Not well!" cried the old man, starting up; "let me see--yes, your
pulse is very quick. Amine, your poor husband is very ill. He must go
to bed, and I will give him something which will do him good. I shall
charge you nothing, Philip--nothing at all."

"I do not feel so very unwell, Mynheer Poots," replied Philip; I have
had a bad headache certainly."

"Yes, and you have fever also, Philip, and prevention is better than
cure; so go to bed, and take what I send you, and you will be well
to-morrow."

Philip went upstairs, accompanied by Amine; and Mynheer Poots went
into his own room to prepare the medicine. So soon as Philip was in
bed, Amine went downstairs, and was met by her father, who put a
powder into her hands to give to her husband, and then left the
parlour.

"God forgive me if I wrong my father," thought Amine; "but I have my
doubts. Philip is ill, more so than he will acknowledge; and if he
does not take some remedies, he may be worse--but my heart misgives
me--I have a foreboding. Yet surely he cannot be so diabolically
wicked."

Amine examined the contents of the paper: it was a very small quantity
of dark brown powder, and, by the directions of Mynheer Poots, to be
given in a tumbler of warm wine. Mynheer Poots had offered to heat the
wine. His return from the kitchen broke Amine's meditations.

"Here is the wine, my child; now give him a whole tumbler of wine, and
the powder, and let him be covered up warm, for the perspiration will
soon burst out, and it must not be checked. Watch him, Amine, and keep
the clothes on, and he will be well to-morrow morning." And Mynheer
Poots quitted the room, saying, "Good-night, my child."

Amine poured out the powder into one of the silver mugs upon the
table, and then proceeded to mix it up with the wine. Her suspicions
had, for the time, been removed by the kind tone of her father's
voice. To do him justice as a medical practitioner, he appeared always
to be most careful of his patients. When Amine mixed the powder, she
examined and perceived that there was no sediment, and the wine was as
clear as before. This was unusual, and her suspicions revived.

"I like it not," said she; "I fear my father--God help me!--I hardly
know what to do--I will not give it to Philip. The warm wine may
produce perspiration sufficient."

Amine paused, and again reflected. She had mixed the powder with so
small a portion of wine that it did not fill a quarter of the cup; she
put it on one side, filled another up to the brim with the warm wine,
and then went up to the bedroom.

On the landing-place she was met by her father, whom she supposed to
have retired to rest.

"Take care you do not spill it, Amine. That is right, let him have a
whole cupful. Stop, give it to me; I will take it to him myself."

Mynheer Poots took the cup from Amine's hands, and went into Philip's
room.

"Here, my son, drink this off, and you will be well," said Mynheer
Poots, whose hand trembled so that he spilt the wine on the coverlet.
Amine, who watched her father, was more than ever pleased that she had
not put the powder into the cup. Philip rose on his elbow, drank off
the wine, and Mynheer Poots then wished him good-night.

"Do not leave him, Amine, I will see all right," said Mynheer Poots,
as he left the room. And Amine, who had intended to go down for the
candle left in the parlour, remained with her husband, to whom she
confided her feelings, and also the fact that she had not given him
the powder.

"I trust that you are mistaken, Amine," replied Philip, "indeed I
feel sure that you must be. No man can be so bad as you suppose your
father."

"You have not lived with him as I have; you have not seen what I have
seen," replied Amine. "You know not what gold will tempt people to do
in this world--but, however, I may be wrong. At all events, you must
go to sleep, and I shall watch you, dearest. Pray do not speak--I feel
I cannot sleep just now--I wish to read a little--I will lie down
by-and-bye."

Philip made no further objections, and was soon in a sound sleep, and
Amine watched him in silence till midnight long had passed.

"He breathes heavily," thought Amine; "but had I given him that
powder, who knows if he had ever awoke again? My father is so deeply
skilled in the Eastern knowledge, that I fear him. Too often has he,
I well know, for a purse well filled with gold, prepared the sleep of
death. Another would shudder at the thought; but he, who has dealt out
death at the will of his employers, would scruple little to do so even
to the husband of his own daughter; and I have watched him in his
moods, and know his thoughts and wishes. What a foreboding of mishap
has come over me this evening!--what a fear of evil! Philip is ill,
'tis true, but not so very ill. No! no! besides, his time is not yet
come; he has his dreadful task to finish. I would it were morning. How
soundly he sleeps! and the dew is on his brow. I must cover him
up warm, and watch that he remains so. Some one knocks at the
entrance-door. Now will they wake him. 'Tis a summons for my father."

Amine left the room, and hastened downstairs. It was, as she supposed,
a summons for Mynheer Poots to a woman taken in labour.

"He shall follow you directly," said Amine; "I will now call him up."
Amine went upstairs to the room where her father slept, and knocked;
hearing no answer, as usual, she knocked again.

"My father is not used to sleep in this way," thought Amine, when she
found no answer to her second call. She opened the door and went in.
To her surprise, her father was not in bed. "Strange," thought she;
"but I do not recollect having heard his footsteps coming up after he
went down to take away the lights." And Amine hastened to the parlour,
where, stretched on the sofa, she discovered her father apparently
fast asleep; but to her call he gave no answer. "Merciful Heaven! is
he dead?" thought she, approaching the light to her father's face.
Yes, it was so! his eyes were fixed and glazed--his lower jaw had
fallen.

For some minutes, Amine leant against the wall in a state of
bewilderment; her brain whirled; at last she recovered herself.

"'Tis to be proved at once," thought she, as she went up to the table,
and looked into the silver cup in which she had mixed the powder--it
was empty! "The God of Righteousness hath punished him!" exclaimed
Amine; "but, O! that this man should have been my father! Yes! it is
plain. Frightened at his own wicked, damned intentions, he poured out
more wine from the flagon, to blunt his feelings of remorse; and not
knowing that the powder was still in the cup, he filled it up, and
drank himself--the death he meant for another! For another!--and for
whom? one wedded to his own daughter!--Philip! my husband! Wert thou
not my father," continued Amine, looking at the dead body, "I would
spit upon thee, and curse thee! but thou art punished, and may God
forgive thee! thou poor, weak, wicked creature!"

Amine then left the room, and went upstairs, where she found Philip
still fast asleep, and in a profuse perspiration. Most women would
have awakened their husbands, but Amine thought not of herself; Philip
was ill, and Amine would not arouse him to agitate him. She sat down
by the side of the bed, and with her hands pressed upon her forehead,
and her elbows resting on her knees, she remained in deep thought
until the sun had risen and poured his bright beams through the
casement.

She was roused from her reflections by another summons at the door of
the cottage. She hastened down to the entrance, but did not open the
door.

"Mynheer Poots is required immediately," said the girl, who was the
messenger.

"My good Therese," replied Amine, "my father has more need of
assistance than the poor woman; for his travail in this world, I fear,
is well over. I found him very ill when I went to call him, and he
has not been able to quit his bed. I must now entreat you to do my
message, and desire Father Seysen to come hither; for my poor father
is, I fear, in extremity."

"Mercy on me!" replied Therese. "Is it so? Fear not but I will do your
bidding, Mistress Amine."

The second knocking had awakened Philip, who felt that he was much
better, and his headache had left him. He perceived that Amine had not
taken any rest that night, and he was about to expostulate with her,
when she at once told him what had occurred.

"You must dress yourself, Philip," continued she, "and must assist me
to carry up his body, and place it in his bed, before the arrival of
the priest. God of mercy! had I given you that powder, my dearest
Philip--but let us not talk about it. Be quick, for Father Seysen will
be here soon."

Philip was soon dressed, and followed Amine down into the parlour. The
sun shone bright, and his rays were darted upon the haggard face of
the old man, whose fists were clenched, and his tongue fixed between
the teeth on one side of his mouth.

"Alas! this room appears to be fatal. How many more scenes of horror
are to pass within it?"

"None, I trust," replied Amine; "this is not, to my mind, the scene of
horror. It was when that old man (now called away--and a victim of his
own treachery) stood by your bedside, and with every mark of interest
and kindness, offered you the cup--_that_ was the scene of horror,"
said Amine, shuddering--"one which long will haunt me."

"God forgive him! as I do," replied Philip, lifting up the body, and
carrying it up the stairs to the room which had been occupied by
Mynheer Poots.

"Let it at least be supposed that he died in his bed, and that his
death was natural," said Amine. "My pride cannot bear that this
should be known, or that I should be pointed at as the daughter of a
murderer! O Philip!"

Amine sat down, and burst into tears.

Her husband was attempting to console her, when Father Seysen knocked
at the door. Philip hastened down to open it.

"Good morning, my son. How is the sufferer?"

"He has ceased to suffer, father."

"Indeed!" replied the good priest, with sorrow in his countenance; "am
I then too late? yet have I not tarried."

"He went off suddenly, father, in a convulsion," replied Philip,
leading the way upstairs.

Father Seysen looked at the body and perceived that his offices were
needless, and then turned to Amine, who had not yet checked her tears.

"Weep, my child, weep! for you have cause," said the priest. "The
loss of a father's love must be a severe trial to a dutiful and
affectionate child. But yield not too much to your grief, Amine; you
have other duties, other ties, my child--you have your husband."

"I know it, father," replied Amine; "still must I weep, for I was
_his_ daughter."

"Did he not go to bed last night, then, that his clothes are still
upon him? When did he first complain?"

"The last time that I saw him, father," replied Philip, "he came into
my room, and gave me some medicine, and then he wished me good-night.
Upon a summons to attend a sick-bed, my wife went to call him, and
found him speechless."

"It has been sudden," replied the priest; "but he was an old man, and
old men sink at once. Were you with him when he died?"

"I was not, sir," replied Philip; "before my wife had summoned me and
I had dressed myself, he had left this world."

"I trust, my children, for a better." Amine shuddered. "Tell me,
Amine," continued the priest, "did he show signs of grace before
he died? for you know full well that he has long been looked on as
doubtful in his creed, and little attentive to the rites of our holy
church."

"There are times, holy father," replied Amine, "when even a sincere
Christian can be excused, even if he give no sign. Look at his
clenched hands, witness the agony of death on his face, and could you,
in that state, expect a sign?"

"Alas! 'tis but too true, my child; we must then hope for the best.
Kneel with me, my children, and let us offer up a prayer for the soul
of the departed."

Philip and Amine knelt with the priest, who prayed fervently; and
as they rose, they exchanged a glance which fully revealed what was
passing in the mind of each.

"I will send the people to do their offices for the dead, and prepare
the body for interment," said Father Seysen; "but it were as well not
to say that he was dead before I arrived, or to let it be supposed
that he was called away without receiving the consolations of our holy
creed."

Philip motioned his head in assent as he stood at the foot of the
bed, and the priest departed. There had always been a strong feeling
against Mynheer Poots in the village;--his neglect of all religious
duties--the doubt whether he was even a member of the church--his
avarice and extortion--had created for him a host of enemies; but, at
the same time, his great medical skill, which was fully acknowledged,
rendered him of importance. Had it been known that his creed (if he
had any) was Mahometan, and that he had died in attempting to poison
his son-in-law, it is certain that Christian burial would have been
refused him, and the finger of scorn would have been pointed at his
daughter. But as Father Seysen, when questioned, said, in a mild
voice, that "he had departed in peace," it was presumed that Mynheer
Poots had died a good Christian, although he had acted little up to
the tenets of Christianity during his life. The next day the remains
of the old man were consigned to the earth with the usual rites;
and Philip and Amine were not a little relieved in their minds at
everything having passed off so quietly.

It was not until after the funeral had taken place that Philip, in
company with Amine, examined the chamber of his father-in-law. The
key of the iron chest was found in his pocket; but Philip had not yet
looked into this darling repository of the old man. The room was full
of bottles and boxes of drugs, all of which were either thrown away,
or, if the utility of them was known to Amine, removed to a spare
room. His table contained many drawers, which were now examined,
and among the heterogeneous contents were many writings in
Arabic--probably prescriptions. Boxes and papers were also found, with
Arabic characters written upon them; and in the box which they first
took up was a powder similar to that which Mynheer Poots had given to
Amine. There were many articles and writings which made it appear that
the old man had dabbled in the occult sciences, as they were practised
at that period, and those they hastened to commit to the flames.

"Had all these been seen by Father Seysen!" observed Amine,
mournfully. "But here are some printed papers, Philip!"

Philip examined them, and found that they were acknowledgments of
shares in the Dutch East India Company.

"No, Amine, these are money, or what is as good--these are eight
shares in the Company's capital, which will yield us a handsome income
every year. I had no idea that the old man made such use of his money.
I had some intention of doing the same with a part of mine before I
went away, instead of allowing it to remain idle."

The iron chest was now to be examined. When Philip first opened it, he
imagined that it contained but little; for it was large and deep, and
appeared to be almost empty; but when he put his hands down to the
bottom, he pulled out thirty or forty small bags, the contents of
which, instead of being silver guilders, were all coins of gold; there
was only one large bag of silver money. But this was not all: several
small boxes and packets were also discovered, which, when opened, were
found to contain diamonds and other precious stones. When everything
was collected, the treasure appeared to be of great value.

"Amine, my love, you have indeed brought me an unexpected dower," said
Philip.

"You may well say _unexpected_" replied Amine. "These diamonds and
jewels my father must have brought with him from Egypt. And yet how
penuriously we were living until we came to this cottage! And with all
this treasure he would have poisoned my Philip for more! God forgive
him!"

Having counted the gold, which amounted to nearly fifty thousand
guilders, the whole was replaced, and they left the room.

"I am a rich man," thought Philip, after Amine had left him; "but
of what use are riches to me? I might purchase a ship and be my own
captain, but would not the ship be lost? That certainly does not
follow; but the chances are against the vessel; therefore I will have
no ship. But is it right to sail in the vessels of others with this
feeling?--I know not; this, however, I know, that I have a duty to
perform, and that all our lives are in the hands of a kind Providence,
which calls us away when he thinks fit. I will place most of my money
in the shares of the Company, and if I sail in their vessels, and they
come to misfortune by meeting with my poor father, at least I shall
be a common sufferer with the rest. And now to make my Amine more
comfortable."

Philip immediately made a great alteration in their style of living.
Two female servants were hired: the rooms were more comfortably
furnished; and in everything in which his wife's comfort and
convenience were concerned, he spared no expense. He wrote to
Amsterdam and purchased several shares in the Company's stock. The
diamonds and his own money he still left in the hands of Amine. In
making these arrangements the two months passed rapidly away, and
everything was complete when Philip again received his summons, by
letter, to desire that he would join his vessel. Amine would have
wished Philip to go out as a passenger instead of going as an officer,
but Philip preferred the latter, as otherwise he could give no reason
for his voyage to India.

"I know not why," observed Philip, the evening before his departure,
"but I do not feel as I did when I last went away; I have no
foreboding of evil this time."

"Nor have I," replied Amine; "but I feel as if you would be long away
from me, Philip; and is not that an evil to a fond and anxious wife?"

"Yes, love, it is; but--"

"O yes, I know it is your duty, and you must go," replied Amine,
burying her face in his bosom.

The next day Philip parted from his wife, who behaved with more
fortitude than on their first separation. "_All_ were lost, but _he_
was saved," thought Amine. "I feel that he will return to me. God of
Heaven, thy will be done!"

Philip soon arrived at Amsterdam; and having purchased many things
which he thought might be advantageous to him in case of accident, to
which he now looked forward as almost certain, he embarked on board
the _Batavia_, which was lying at single anchor, and ready for sea.




Chapter XII


Philip had not been long on board, ere he found that they were not
likely to have a very comfortable passage; for the _Batavia_ was
chartered to convey a large detachment of troops to Ceylon and Java,
for the purpose of recruiting and strengthening the Company's forces
at those places. She was to quit the fleet off Madagascar, and run
direct for the Island of Java; the number of soldiers on board being
presumed sufficient to insure the ship against any attack or accidents
from pirates or enemies' cruisers. The _Batavia_, moreover, mounted
thirty guns, and had a crew of seventy-five men. Besides military
stores, which formed the principal part of her cargo, she had on board
a large quantity of specie for the Indian market. The detachment of
soldiers was embarking when Philip went on board, and in a few minutes
the decks were so crowded that it was hardly possible to move. Philip,
who had not yet spoken to the captain, found out the first mate,
and immediately entered upon his duty, with which, from his close
application to it during his former voyage and passage home, he was
much better acquainted than might have been imagined.

In a short time all traces of hurry and confusion began to disappear,
the baggage of the troops was stowed away, and the soldiers having
been told off in parties, and stationed with their messing utensils
between the guns of the main deck, room was thus afforded for working
the ship. Philip showed great activity as well as method in the
arrangements proposed, and the captain, during a pause in his own
arduous duties, said to him--

"I thought you were taking it very easy, Mr Vanderdecken, in not
joining the ship before, but, now you are on board, you are making up
for lost time. You have done more during the forenoon than I could
have expected. I am glad that you are come, though very sorry you were
not here when we were stowing the hold, which, I am afraid, is not
arranged quite so well as it might be. Mynheer Struys, the first mate,
has had more to do than he could well give attention to."

"I am sorry that I should not have been here, sir," replied Philip;
"but I came as soon as the Company sent me word."

"Yes, and as they know that you are a married man, and do not forget
that you are a great shareholder, they would not trouble you too soon.
I presume you will have the command of a vessel next voyage. In fact,
you are certain of it, with the capital you have invested in their
funds. I had a conversation with one of the senior accountants on the
subject this very morning."

Philip was not very sorry that his money had been put out to such
good interest, as to be the captain of a ship was what he earnestly
desired. He replied, that, "he certainly did hope to command a ship
after the next voyage, when he trusted that he should feel himself
quite competent to the charge."

"No doubt, no doubt, Mr Vanderdecken. I can see that clearly. You must
be very fond of the sea."

"I am," replied Philip; "I doubt whether I shall ever give it up."

"_Never_ give it up! You think so now. You are young, active, and full
of hope: but you will tire of it by-and-bye, and be glad to lay by for
the rest of your days."

"How many troops do we embark?" inquired Philip.

"Two hundred and forty-five rank and file, and six officers. Poor
fellows! there are but few of them will ever return: nay, more than
one-half will not see another birthday. It is a dreadful climate. I
have landed three hundred men at that horrid hole, and in six months,
even before I had sailed, there were not one hundred left alive."

"It is almost murder to send them there," observed Philip.

"Psha! they must die somewhere, and if they die a little sooner, what
matter? Life is a commodity to be bought and sold like any other. We
send so much manufactured goods and so much money to barter for Indian
commodities. We also send out so much life, and it gives a good return
to the Company."

"But not to the poor soldiers, I am afraid."

"No; the Company buy it cheap and sell it dear," replied the captain,
who walked forward.

True, thought Philip, they do purchase human life cheap, and make a
rare profit of it, for without these poor fellows how could they hold
their possessions in spite of native and foreign enemies? For what a
paltry and cheap annuity do these men sell their lives? For what a
miserable pittance do they dare all the horrors of a most deadly
climate, without a chance, a hope of return to their native land,
where they might haply repair their exhausted energies, and take a
new lease of life! Good God! if these men may be thus heartlessly
sacrificed to Mammon, why should I feel remorse if, in the fulfilment
of a sacred duty imposed on me by Him who deals with us as He thinks
meet, a few mortals perish? Not a sparrow falls to the ground without
His knowledge, and it is for Him to sacrifice or save. I am but the
creature of His will, and I but follow my duty,--but obey the commands
of One whose ways are inscrutable. Still, if for my sake this ship
be also doomed, I cannot but wish that I had been appointed to some
other, in which the waste of human life might have been less.

It was not until a week after Philip arrived on board that the
_Batavia_ and the remainder of the fleet were ready for sea.

It would be difficult to analyse the feelings of Philip Vanderdecken
on this his second embarkation. His mind was so continually directed
to the object of his voyage, that although he attended to his
religious duty, yet the business of life passed before him as a dream.
Assured of again meeting with the Phantom Ship, and almost equally
assured that the meeting would be followed by some untoward event, in
all probability by the sacrifice of those who sailed with him, his
thoughts preyed upon him, and wore him down to a shadow. He hardly
ever spoke, except in the execution of his duty. He felt like a
criminal; as one who, by embarking with them, had doomed all around
him to death, disaster, and peril; and when _one_ talked of his
wife, and _another_ of his children--when they would indulge in
anticipations, and canvass happy projects, Philip would feel sick at
heart, and would rise from the table and hasten to the solitude of the
deck. At one time he would try to persuade himself that his senses had
been worked upon in some moment of excitement, that he was the victim
of an illusion; at another he would call to mind all the past--he
would feel its terrible reality--and then the thought would suggest
itself that with this supernatural vision Heaven had nothing to do;
that it was but the work and jugglery of Satan. But then the relic--by
such means the devil would not have worked. A few days after he had
sailed, he bitterly repented that he had not stated the whole of
his circumstances to Father Seysen, and taken his advice upon the
propriety of following up his search; but it was now too late; already
was the good ship _Batavia_ more than a thousand miles from the port
of Amsterdam, and his duty, whatever it might be, _must_ be fulfilled.

As the fleet approached the Cape, his anxiety increased to such a
degree that it was remarked by all who were on board. The captain and
officers commanding the troops embarked, who all felt interested in
him, vainly attempted to learn the cause of his anxiety. Philip would
plead ill-health; and his haggard countenance and sunken eyes silently
proved that he was under acute suffering. The major part of the night
he passed on deck, straining his eyes in every quarter, and watching
each change in the horizon, in anticipation of the appearance of the
Phantom Ship; and it was not till the day dawned that he sought a
perturbed repose in his cabin. After a favourable passage, the fleet
anchored to refresh at Table Bay, and Philip felt some small relief,
that up to the present time the supernatural visitation had not again
occurred.

As soon as the fleet had watered, they again made sail, and again
did Philip's agitation become perceptible. With a favouring breeze,
however, they rounded the Cape, passed by Madagascar, and arrived in
the Indian Seas, when the _Batavia_ parted company with the rest of
the fleet, which steered to Cambroon and Ceylon. "And now," thought
Philip, "will the Phantom Ship make her appearance. It has only waited
till we should be left without a consort to assist us in distress." But
the _Batavia_ sailed in a smooth sea and under a cloudless sky, and
nothing was seen. In a few weeks she arrived off Java, and, previous
to entering the splendid roads of Batavia, hove-to for the night. This
was the last night they would be under sail, and Philip stirred not
from the deck, but walked to and fro, anxiously waiting for the
morning. The morning broke--the sun rose in splendour, and the
_Batavia_ steered into the roads. Before noon she was at anchor, and
Philip, with his mind relieved, hastened down to his cabin, and took
that repose which he so much required.

He awoke refreshed, for a great weight had been taken off his mind.
"It does not follow, then," thought he, "that because I am on board
the vessel therefore the crew are doomed to perish; it does not follow
that the Phantom Ship is to appear because I seek her. If so, I have
no further weight upon my conscience. I seek her, it is true, and wish
to meet with her; I stand, however, but the same chance as others; and
it is no way certain that because I seek, I am sure to find. That she
brings disaster upon all she meets, may be true, but not that I bring
with me the disaster of meeting her. Heaven I thank thee! Now I can
prosecute my search without remorse."

Philip, restored to composure by these reflections, went on deck. The
debarkation of the troops was already taking place, for they were as
anxious to be relieved from their long confinement as the seamen were
to regain a little space and comfort. He surveyed the scene. The town
of Batavia lay about one mile from them, low on the beach; from behind
it rose a lofty chain of mountains, brilliant with verdure, and, here
and there, peopled with country seats, belonging to the residents,
delightfully embosomed in forests of trees. The panorama was
beautiful; the vegetation was luxuriant, and, from its vivid green,
refreshing to the eye. Near to the town lay large and small vessels,
a forest of masts; the water in the bay was of a bright blue, and
rippled to a soft breeze; here and there small islets (like tufts of
fresh verdure) broke the uniformity of the water-line; even the town
itself was pleasing to the eye, the white colour of the houses being
opposed to the dark foliage of the trees, which grew in the gardens,
and lined the streets.

"Can it be possible," observed Philip to the captain of the _Batavia_,
who stood by him, "that this beautiful spot can be so unhealthy? I
should form a very different opinion from its appearance."

"Even," replied the captain, "as the venomous snakes of the country
start up from among its flowers, so does death stalk about in this
beautiful and luxuriant landscape. Do you feel better, Mynheer
Vanderdecken?"

"Much better," replied Philip.

"Still, in your enfeebled state, I should recommend you to go on
shore."

"I shall avail myself of your permission, with thanks. How long shall
we stay here?"

"Not long, as we are ordered to run back. Our cargo is all ready for
us, and will be on board soon after we have discharged."

Philip took the advice of his captain; he had no difficulty in finding
himself received by a hospitable merchant, who had a house at some
distance from the town, and in a healthy situation. There he remained
two months, during which he re-established his health, and then
re-embarked a few days previous to the ship being ready for sea. The
return voyage was fortunate, and in four months from the date of their
quitting Batavia, they found themselves abreast of St Helena; for
vessels, at that period, generally made what is called the eastern
passage, running down the coast of Africa, instead of keeping towards
the American shores. Again they had passed the Cape without meeting
with the Phantom Ship; and Philip was not only in excellent health,
but in good spirits. As they lay becalmed, with the island in sight,
they observed a boat pulling towards them, and in the course of three
hours she arrived on board. The crew were much exhausted from having
been two days in the boat, during which time they had never ceased
pulling to gain the island. They stated themselves to be the crew of a
small Dutch Indiaman, which had foundered at sea two days before; she
had started one of her planks, and filled so rapidly that the men had
hardly time to save themselves. They consisted of the captain, mates,
and twenty men belonging to the ship, and an old Portuguese Catholic
priest, who had been sent home by the Dutch governor, for having
opposed the Dutch interests in the Island of Japan. He had lived with
the natives, and been secreted by them for some time, as the Japanese
government was equally desirous of capturing him, with the intention
of taking away his life. Eventually he found himself obliged to throw
himself into the arms of the Dutch, as being the less cruel of his
enemies.

The Dutch government decided that he should be sent away from the
country; and he had, in consequence, been put on board of the Indiaman
for a passage home. By the report of the captain and crew, one person
only had been lost; but he was a person of consequence, having for
many years held the situation of president in the Dutch factory at
Japan. He was returning to Holland with the riches which he had
amassed. By the evidence of the captain and crew, he had insisted,
after he was put into the boat, upon going back to the ship to secure
a casket of immense value, containing diamonds and other precious
stones, which he had forgotten; they added, that while they were
waiting for him the ship suddenly plunged her bowsprit under, and
went down head foremost, and that it was with difficulty they had
themselves escaped. They had waited for some time to ascertain if he
would rise again to the surface, but he appeared no more.

"I knew that something would happen," observed the captain of the
sunken vessel, after he had been sitting a short time in the cabin
with Philip and the captain of the _Batavia_; "we saw the Fiend or
Devil's Ship, as they call her, but three days before."

"What! the _Flying Dutchman_, as they name her?" asked Philip.

"Yes; that, I believe, is the name they give her," replied the
captain. "I have often heard of her; but it never was my fate to fall
in with her before, and I hope it never will be again; for I am a
ruined man, and must begin the world afresh."

"I have heard of that vessel," observed the captain of the _Batavia_.
"Pray, how did she appear to you?"

"Why, the fact is, I did not see anything but the loom of her hull,"
replied the other. "It was very strange; the night was fine, and the
heavens clear; we were under top-gallant sails, for I do not carry on
during the night, or else we might have put the royals on her; she
would have carried them with the breeze. I had turned in, when about
two o'clock in the morning the mate called me to come on deck. I
demanded what was the matter, and he replied he could hardly tell, but
that the men were much frightened, and that there was a Ghost Ship, as
the sailors termed it, in sight. I went on deck; all the horizon was
clear, but on our quarter was a sort of fog, round as a ball, and not
more than two cables' length from us. We were going about four knots
and a half free, and yet we could not escape from this mist. 'Look
there,' said the mate. 'Why, what the devil can it be?' said I,
rubbing my eyes. 'No banks up to windward, and yet a fog in the middle
of a clear sky, with a fresh breeze, and with water all around it;'
for you see the fog did not cover more than a dozen cables' length, as
we could perceive by the horizon on each side of it. 'Hark, sir!'
said the mate--'they are speaking again.' 'Speaking!' said I, and I
listened; and from out this ball of fog I heard voices. At last, one
cried out, 'Keep a sharp look-out forward, d'ye hear?' 'Ay, ay, sir!'
replied another voice. 'Ship on the starboard bow, sir.' 'Very well;
strike the bell there forward.' And then we heard the bell toll. 'It
must be a vessel,' said I to the mate. 'Not of this world, sir,'
replied he. 'Hark!' 'A gun ready forward.' 'Ay, ay, sir!' was now
heard out of the fog, which appeared to near us; 'all ready, sir.'
'Fire!' The report of the gun sounded on our ears like thunder, and
then--"

"Well, and then?" said the captain of the _Batavia_, breathless.

"And then," replied the other captain, solemnly, "the fog and all
disappeared as if by magic, the whole horizon was clear, and there was
nothing to be seen."

"Is it possible?"

"There are twenty men on deck to tell the story," replied the captain.
"And the old Catholic priest to boot, for he stood by me the whole
time I was on deck. The men said that some accident would happen; and
in the morning watch, on sounding the well, we found four feet water.
We took to the pumps, but it gained upon us, and we went down, as I
have told you. The mate says that the vessel is well known--it is
called the _Flying Dutchman_."

Philip made no remarks at the time, but he was much pleased at what
he had heard. "If," thought he, "the Phantom Ship of my poor father
appears to others as well as to me, and they are sufferers, my being
on board can make no difference. I do but take my chance of falling
in with her, and do not risk the lives of those who sail in the same
vessel with me. Now my mind is relieved, and I can prosecute my search
with a quiet conscience."

The next day Philip took an opportunity of making the acquaintance of
the Catholic priest, who spoke Dutch and other languages as well as
he did Portuguese. He was a venerable old man, apparently about sixty
years of age, with a white flowing beard, mild in his demeanour, and
very pleasing in his conversation.

When Philip kept his watch that night, the old man walked with him,
and it was then, after a long conversation, that Philip confided to
him that he was of the Catholic persuasion.

"Indeed, my son, that is unusual in a Hollander."

"It is so," replied Philip; "nor is it known on board--not that I am
ashamed of my religion, but I wish to avoid discussion."

"You are prudent, my son. Alas! if the reformed religion produces no
better fruit than what I have witnessed in the East, it is little
better than idolatry."

"Tell me, father," said Philip--"they talk of a miraculous vision--of
a ship not manned by mortal men. Did you see it?"

"I saw what others saw," replied the priest; "and certainly, as far as
my senses would enable me to judge, the appearance was most unusual--I
may say supernatural; but I had heard of this Phantom Ship before, and
moreover that its appearance was the precursor of disaster. So did it
prove in our case, although, indeed, we had one on board, now no more,
whose weight of guilt was more than sufficient to sink any vessel;
one, the swallowing up of whom, with all that wealth from which he
anticipated such enjoyment in his own country, has manifested that
the Almighty will, even in this world, sometimes wreak just and awful
retribution on those who have merited His vengeance."

"You refer to the Dutch President who went down with the ship when it
sank."

"I do; but the tale of that man's crime is long; to-morrow night I
will walk with you, and narrate the whole. Peace be with you, my son,
and good-night."

The weather continued fine, and the _Batavia_ hove-to in the evening
with the intention of anchoring the next morning in the roadstead of
St Helena. Philip, when he went on deck to keep the middle watch,
found the old priest at the gangway waiting for him. In the ship all
was quiet; the men slumbered between the guns, and Philip, with his
new acquaintance, went aft, and seating themselves on a hencoop, the
priest commenced as follows:--

"You are not, perhaps, aware that the Portuguese, although anxious to
secure for themselves a country discovered by their enterprise and
courage, and the possession of which, I fear, has cost them many
crimes, have still never lost sight of one point dear to all good
Catholics--that of spreading wide the true faith, and planting the
banner of Christ in the regions of idolatry. Some of our countrymen
having been wrecked on the coast, we were made acquainted with the
islands of Japan; and seven years afterwards, our holy and blessed St
Francis, now with God, landed on the Island of Ximo, where he remained
for two years and five months, during which he preached our religion
and made many converts. He afterwards embarked for China, his original
destination, but was not permitted to arrive there; he died on his
passage, and thus closed his pure and holy life. After his death,
notwithstanding the many obstacles thrown in our way by the priests of
idolatry, and the persecutions with which they occasionally visited
the members of our faith, the converts to our holy religion increased
greatly in the Japanese islands. The religion spread fast, and many
thousands worshipped the true God.

"After a time, the Dutch formed a settlement at Japan, and when they
found that the Japanese Christians around the factories would deal
only with the Portuguese, in whom they had confidence, they became our
enemies; and the man of whom we have spoken, and who at that period
was the head of the Dutch Factory, determined, in his lust for gold,
to make the Christian religion a source of suspicion to the emperor
of the country, and thus to ruin the Portuguese and their adherents.
Such, my son, was the conduct of one who professed to have embraced
the reformed religion as being of greater purity than our own.

"There was a Japanese lord of great wealth and influence who lived
near us, and who, with two of his sons, had embraced Christianity, and
had been baptised. He had two other sons, who lived at the emperor's
court. This lord had made us a present of a house for a college and
school of instruction: on his death, however, his two sons at court,
who were idolaters, insisted upon our quitting this property. We
refused, and thus afforded the Dutch principal an opportunity of
inflaming these young noblemen against us: by this means he persuaded
the Japanese emperor that the Portuguese and Christians had formed a
conspiracy against his life and throne; for, be it observed, that when
a Dutchman was asked if he was a Christian, he would reply, 'No; I am
a Hollander.'

"The emperor, believing in this conspiracy, gave an immediate order
for the extirpation of the Portuguese, and then of all the Japanese
who had embraced the Christian faith. He raised an army for this
purpose, and gave the command of it to the young noblemen I have
mentioned, the sons of the lord who had given us the college. The
Christians, aware that resistance was their only chance, flew to arms,
and chose as their generals the other two sons of the Japanese lord,
who, with their father, had embraced Christianity. Thus were the two
armies commanded by four brothers, two on the one side and two on the
other.

"The Christian army amounted to more than 40,000 men, but of this the
emperor was not aware, and he sent a force of about 25,000 to conquer
and exterminate them. The armies met, and after an obstinate combat
(for the Japanese are very brave) the victory was on the part of the
Christians, and, with the exception of a few who saved themselves in
the boats, the army of the emperor was cut to pieces.

"This victory was the occasion of making more converts, and our army
was soon increased to upwards of 50,000 men. On the other hand, the
emperor, perceiving that his troops had been destroyed, ordered new
levies and raised a force of 150,000 men, giving directions to his
generals to give no quarter to the Christians, with the exception
of the two young lords who commanded them, whom he wished to secure
alive, that he might put them to death by slow torture. All offers of
accommodation were refused, and the emperor took the field in person.
The armies again met, and on the first day's battle the victory was on
the part of the Christians; still they had to lament the loss of one
of their generals, who was wounded and taken prisoner, and, no quarter
having been given, their loss was severe.

"The second day's combat was fatal to the Christians. Their general
was killed; they were overpowered by numbers, and fell to a man. The
emperor then attacked the camp in the rear, and put to the sword every
old man, woman, and child. On the field of battle, in the camp, and by
subsequent torture, more than 60,000 Christians perished. But this
was not all; a rigorous search for Christians was made throughout the
islands for many years; and they were, when found, put to death by
the most cruel torture. It was not until fifteen years ago that
Christianity was entirely rooted out of the Japanese empire, and
during a persecution of somewhat more than sixteen years, it is
supposed that upwards of 400,000 Christians were destroyed; and all
this slaughter, my son, was occasioned by the falsehood and avarice
of that man who met his just punishment but a few days ago. The Dutch
company, pleased with his conduct, which procured for them such
advantages, continued him for many years as the president of their
factory at Japan. He was a young man when he first went there, but his
hair was grey when he thought of returning to his own country. He had
amassed immense wealth,--immense, indeed, must it have been to have
satisfied avarice such as his! All has now perished with him, and he
has been summoned to his account. Reflect a little, my son. Is it
not better to follow up our path of duty, to eschew the riches and
pleasures of this world, and, at our summons hence, to feel that we
have hopes of bliss hereafter?"

"Most true, holy father," replied Philip, musing.

"I have but a few years to live," continued the old man, "and God
knows I shall quit this world without reluctance."

"And so could I," replied Philip.

"_You_, my son!--no. You are young, and should be full of hopes. You
have still to do your duty in that station to which it shall please
God to call you."

"I know that I have a duty to perform," replied Philip. "Father, the
night air is too keen for one so aged as you. Retire to your bed, and
leave me to my watch and my own thoughts."

"I will, my son! may Heaven guard you! Take an old man's blessing.
Good-night."

"Good-night," replied Philip, glad to be alone. "Shall I confess all
to him?" thought Philip. "I feel I could confess to him.--But no. I
would not to Father Seysen,--why to him? I should put myself in his
power, and he might order me--No, no! my secret is my own. I need no
advisers." And Philip pulled out the relic from his bosom, and put it
reverently to his lips.

The _Batavia_ waited a few days at St Helena, and then continued her
voyage. In six weeks Philip again found himself at anchor in the
Zuyder Zee, and having the captain's permission, he immediately set
off for his own home, taking with him the old Portuguese priest
Mathias, with whom he had formed a great intimacy, and to whom he had
offered his protection for the time he might wish to remain in the Low
Countries.




Chapter XIII


"Far be it from me to wish to annoy you, my son," said Father Mathias,
as with difficulty he kept pace with the rapid strides of Philip, who
was now within a quarter of a mile of his home; "but still recollect
that this is but a transitory world, and that much time has elapsed
since you quitted this spot. For that reason I would fain desire you,
if possible, to check these bounding aspirations after happiness,
these joyful anticipations in which you have indulged since we quitted
the vessel. I hope and trust in the mercy of God, that all will be
right, and that in a few minutes you will be in the arms of your
much-loved wife: but still, in proportion as you allow your hopes
to be raised, so will you inevitably have them crushed should
disappointment cross your path. At Flushing we were told that there
has been a dreadful visitation in this land, and death may not have
spared even one so young and fair."

"Let us haste on, father," replied Philip. "What you say is true, and
suspense becomes most dreadful."

Philip increased his speed, leaving the old man to follow him: he
arrived at the bridge with its wooden gate. It was then about seven
o'clock in the morning, for they had crossed the Scheldt at the dawn
of day.

Philip observed that the lower shutters were still closed.

"They might have been up and stirring before this," thought he, as he
put his hand to the latch of the door. It was not fastened. Philip
entered! there was a light burning in the kitchen; he pushed open
the door, and beheld a maid-servant leaning back in her chair in a
profound sleep. Before he had time to go in and awaken her, he heard a
voice at the top of the stairs, saying, "Marie, is that the doctor?"

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."

"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.

In a quarter of an hour he had the delight of perceiving that Amine
was in a profuse perspiration; gradually her breathing became less
heavy, and instead of the passive state in which she had remained, she
moved, and became restless. Philip watched, and replaced the clothes
as she threw them off, until she at last appeared to have fallen into
a profound and sweet sleep. Shortly after, Father Seysen and the
physician made their appearance. Philip stated, in few words, what
had occurred. The doctor went to the bedside, and in half a minute
returned.

"Your wife is spared to you, Mynheer, but it is not advisable that she
should see you so unexpectedly; the shock may be too great in her
weak state; she must be allowed to sleep as long as possible; on her
awaking she will have returned to reason. You must leave her then to
Father Seysen."

"May I not remain in the room until she wakes? I will then hasten away
unobserved."

"That will be useless; the disease is contagious, and you have been
here too long already. Remain below; you must change your clothes, and
see that they prepare a bed for her in another room, to which she must
be transported as soon as you think she can bear it; and then
let these windows be thrown open, that the room may be properly
ventilated. It will not do to have a wife just rescued from the
jaws of death run the risk of falling a sacrifice to the attentions
necessary to a sick husband."

Philip perceived the prudence of this advice, and quitting the room
with the medical man, he went and changed his clothes, and then joined
Father Mathias, whom he found in the parlour below.

"You were right, father," said Philip, throwing himself on the sofa.

"I am old and suspicious, you are young and buoyant, Philip; but I
trust all may yet be well."

"I trust so too," replied Philip. He then remained silent and absorbed
in thought, for now that the imminent danger was over, he was
reflecting upon what Father Seysen had communicated to him relative
to Amine's having revealed the secret whilst in a state of mental
aberration. The priest perceiving that his mind was occupied, did not
interrupt him. An hour had thus passed, when Father Seysen entered the
room.

"Return thanks to Heaven, my son. Amine has awakened, and is perfectly
sensible and collected. There is now little doubt of her recovery. She
has taken the restorative ordered by the doctor, though she was so
anxious to repose once more, that she could hardly be persuaded to
swallow it. She is now again fast asleep, and watched by one of the
maidens, and in all probability will not move for many hours; but
every moment of such sleep is precious, and she must not be disturbed.
I will now see to some refreshment, which must be needful to us all.
Philip, you have not introduced me to your companion, who, I perceive,
is of my own calling."

"Forgive me, sir," replied Philip; "you will have great pleasure in
making acquaintance with Father Mathias, who has promised to reside
with me, I trust, for some time. I will leave you together, and see to
the breakfast being prepared, for the delay of which I trust Father
Mathias will accept my apology."

Philip then left the room, and went into the kitchen. Having ordered
what was requisite, to be taken into the parlour, he put on his hat
and walked out of the house. He could not eat; his mind was in a state
of confusion; the events of the morning had been too harassing and
exciting, and he felt as if the fresh air was necessary to his
existence.

As he proceeded, careless in which direction, he met many with whom he
had been acquainted, and from whom he had received condolence at his
supposed bereavement, and congratulations when they learnt from him
that the danger was over; and from them he also learnt how fatal had
been the pestilence.

Not one-third of the inhabitants of Terneuse and the surrounding
country remained alive, and those who had recovered were in a state
of exhaustion which prevented them from returning to their accustomed
occupations. They had combated disease, but remained the prey of
misery and want; and Philip mentally vowed that he would appropriate
all his savings to the relief of those around him. It was not until
more than two hours had passed away that Philip returned to the
cottage.

On his arrival he found that Amine still slumbered, and the two
priests were in conversation below.

"My son," said Father Seysen, "let us now have a little explanation.
I have had a long conference with this good Father, who hath much
interested me with his account of the extension of our holy religion
among the Pagans. He hath communicated to me much to rejoice at and
much to grieve for; but, among other questions put to him, I have (in
consequence of what I have learnt during the mental alienation of your
wife) interrogated him upon the point of a supernatural appearance of
a vessel in the eastern seas. You observe, Philip, that your secret is
known to me, or I could not have put that question. To my surprise, he
hath stated a visitation of the kind to which he was eye-witness,
and which cannot reasonably be accounted for, except by supernatural
interposition. A strange and certainly most awful visitation! Philip,
would it not be better (instead of leaving me in a maze of doubt) that
you now confided to us both all the facts connected with this strange
history, so that we may ponder on them, and give you the benefit of
the advice of those who are older than yourself, and who, by their
calling may be able to decide more correctly whether this supernatural
power has been exercised by a good or evil intelligence?"

"The holy Father speaks well, Philip Vanderdecken," observed Mathias.

"If it be the work of the Almighty, to whom should you confide and by
whom should you be guided, but by those who do His service on this
earth? If of the Evil One, to whom but to those whose duty and wish it
is to counteract his baneful influence? And reflect, Philip, that this
secret may sit heavily on the mind of your cherished wife, and may bow
her to the grave, as it did your (I trust) sainted mother. With you,
and supported by your presence, she may bear it well; but, recollect
how many are the lonely days and nights that she must pass during your
absence, and how much she must require the consolation and help of
others. A secret like this must be as a gnawing worm, and, strong as
she may be in courage, must shorten her existence, but for the support
and the balm she may receive from the ministers of our faith. It was
cruel and selfish of you, Philip, to leave her, a lone woman, to bear
up against your absence, and at the same time oppressed with so fatal
a knowledge."

"You have convinced me, holy Father," replied Philip. "I feel that
I should, before this, have made you acquainted with this strange
history. I will now state the whole of the circumstances which have
occurred, but with little hope your advice can help me, in a case so
difficult, and in a duty so peremptory, yet so perplexing."

Philip then entered into a minute detail of all that had passed from
the few days previous to his mother's death, until the present time,
and when he had concluded, he observed--

"You see, Father, that I have bound myself by a solemn vow--that that
vow has been recorded and accepted; and it appears to me that I have
nothing now to do but to follow my peculiar destiny."

"My son, you have told us strange and startling things--things not of
this world--if you are not deceived. Leave us now. Father Mathias and
I will consult upon this serious matter, and when we are agreed, you
shall know our decision."

Philip went upstairs to see Amine; she was still in a deep sleep: he
dismissed the servant, and watched by the bedside. For nearly two
hours did he remain there, when he was summoned down to meet the two
priests.

"We have had a long conversation, my son," said Father Seysen, "upon
this strange, and perhaps supernatural occurrence. I say _perhaps_,
for I would have rejected the frenzied communications of your mother,
as the imaginings of a heated brain; and for the same reason I
should have been equally inclined to suppose that the high state
of excitement that you were in at the time of her death may have
disordered your intellect; but, as Father Mathias positively asserts,
that a strange, if not supernatural, appearance of a vessel did take
place, on his passage home, and which appearance tallies with and
corroborates the legend, if so I may call it, to which you have
given evidence; I say that it is not impossible but that it is
supernatural."

"Recollect that the same appearance of the Phantom Ship has been
permitted to me and to many others," replied Philip.

"Yes," replied Father Seysen; "but who is there alive of those who saw
it but yourself? But that is of little importance. We will admit
that the whole affair is not the work of man, but of a superior
intelligence."

"Superior, indeed!" replied Philip. "It is the work of Heaven!"

"That is a point not so easily admitted; there is another power as
well as that which is divine--that of the devil!--the arch-enemy of
mankind! But as that power, inferior to the power of God, cannot act
without His permission, we may indirectly admit that it is the will of
Heaven that such signs and portents should be allowed to be given on
certain occasions."

"Then our opinions are the same, good Father."

"Nay, not exactly, my son. Elymas, the sorcerer, was permitted to
practise his arts--gained from the devil--that it might be proved, by
his overthrow and blindness, how inferior was his master to the Divine
Ruler; but it does not therefore follow that sorcery generally was
permitted. In this instance it may be true that the Evil One has been
permitted to exercise his power over the captain and crew of that
ship, and, as a warning against such heavy offences, the supernatural
appearance of the vessel may be permitted. So far we are justifiable
in believing. But the great questions are, first, whether it be your
father who is thus doomed? and, secondly, how far you are necessitated
to follow up this mad pursuit, which, it appears to me--although it
may end in your destruction--cannot possibly be the means of rescuing
your father from his state of unhallowed abeyance? Do you understand
me, Philip?"

"I certainly understand what you would say, Father; but--"

"Answer me not yet. It is the opinion of this holy father as well
as of myself, that, allowing the facts to be as you suppose, the
revelations made to you are not from on high, but the suggestions of
the devil, to lead you into danger and ultimately to death; for if it
were your task, as you suppose, why did not the vessel appear on this
last voyage, and how can you (allowing that you met her fifty times)
have communication with that, or with those which are but phantoms and
shadows, things not of this world? Now what we propose is, that you
should spend a proportion of the money left by your father, in masses
for the repose of his soul, which your mother, in other circumstances,
would certainly have done; and that having so done, you should remain
quietly on shore until some new sign should be given to you which may
warrant our supposing that you are really chosen for this strange
pursuit?"

"But my oath, Father--my recorded vow?"

"From that, my son, the holy Church hath power to absolve you; and
that absolution you shall receive. You have put yourself into our
hands, and by our decision you must be guided. If there be wrong, it
is we, and not you, who are responsible; but, at present, let us say
no more. I will now go up, and so soon as your wife awakens, prepare
her for your meeting."

When Father Seysen had quitted the room, Father Mathias debated
the matter with Philip. A long discussion ensued, in which similar
arguments were made use of by the priest; and Philip, although not
convinced, was, at least, doubtful and perplexed. He left the cottage.

"A new sign--a corroborative sign," thought Philip; "surely there have
been signs and wonders enough. Still it may be true that masses for
my father's soul may relieve him from his state of torture. At all
events, if they decide for me, I am not to blame. Well then, let us
wait for a new sign of the Divine will--if so it must be;" and Philip
walked on, occasionally thinking on the arguments of Father Seysen,
and oftener thinking of Amine.

It was now evening, and the sun was fast descending. Philip wandered
on, until at last he arrived at the very spot where he had knelt down
and pronounced his solemn vow. He recognised it; he looked at the
distant hills. The sun was just at the same height; the whole scene,
the place, and the time were before him. Again Philip knelt down, took
the relic from his bosom and kissed it. He watched the sun; he bowed
himself to the earth. He waited for a sign; but the sun sank down and
the veil of night spread over the landscape. There was no sign; and
Philip rose and walked home towards the cottage, more inclined than
before to follow the suggestions of Father Seysen.

On his return, Philip went softly upstairs and entered the room of
Amine, whom he found awake and in conversation with the priests. The
curtain was closed, and he was not perceived. With a beating heart he
remained near the wall at the head of the bed.

"Reason to believe that my husband has arrived!" said Amine, in a
faint voice. "Oh tell me, why so?"

"His ship is arrived, we know; and one who had seen her said that all
were well."

"And why is he not here, then? Who should bring the news of his return
but himself? Father Seysen, either he has not arrived or he is here--I
know he must be, if he is safe and well. I know my Philip too well.
Say! is he not here? Fear not, if you say yes; but if you say no, you
kill me!"

"He is here, Amine," replied Father Seysen--"here and well."

"O God! I thank you; but where is he? If he is here, he must be in
this room, or else you deceive me. Oh, this suspense is death!"

"I am here," cried Philip, opening the curtains.

Amine rose with a shriek, held out her arms, and then fell senseless
back. In a few seconds, however, she was restored, and proved the
truth of the good Father's assertion, "that joy does not kill."

We must now pass over the few days during which Philip watched the
couch of his Amine, who rapidly regained her strength. As soon as she
was well enough to enter upon the subject, Philip narrated all that
had passed since his departure; the confession which he had made to
Father Seysen, and the result. Amine, too glad that Philip should
remain with her, added her persuasions to those of the priests, and,
for some little time, Philip talked no more of going to sea.




Chapter XIV


Six weeks had flown away, and Amine, restored to health, wandered over
the country, hanging on the arm of her adored Philip, or nestled by
his side in their comfortable home. Father Mathias still remained
their guest; the masses for the repose of the soul of Vanderdecken had
been paid for, and more money had been confided to the care of Father
Seysen to relieve the sufferings of the afflicted poor. It may be
easily supposed that one of the chief topics of conversation between
Philip and Amine was the decision of the two priests relative to the
conduct of Philip. He had been absolved from his oath, but, at the
same time that he submitted to his clerical advisers, he was by no
means satisfied. His love for Amine, her wishes for his remaining
at home, certainly added weight to the fiat of Father Seysen; but,
although he in consequence obeyed it more willingly, his doubts of the
propriety of his conduct remained the same. The arguments of Amine,
who, now that she was supported by the opinion of the priests, had
become opposed to Philip's departure; even her caresses, with which
those arguments were mingled, were effective but for the moment. No
sooner was Philip left to himself, no sooner was the question, for
a time, dismissed, than he felt an inward accusation that he was
neglecting a sacred duty. Amine perceived how often the cloud was
upon his brow; she knew too well the cause, and constantly did she
recommence her arguments and caresses, until Philip forgot that there
was aught but Amine in the world.

One morning, as they were seated upon a green bank picking the flowers
that blossomed round them, and tossing them away in pure listlessness,
Amine took the opportunity that she had often waited for, to enter
upon a subject hitherto unmentioned.

"Philip," said she, "do you believe in dreams? think you that we may
have supernatural communications by such means?"

"Of course we may," replied Philip; "we have proof abundant of it in
the holy writings."

"Why, then, do you not satisfy your scruples by a dream?"

"My dearest Amine, dreams come unbidden; we cannot command or prevent
them--"

"We can command them, Philip; say that you would dream upon the
subject nearest to your heart, and you _shall_!"

"I shall?"

"Yes! I have that power, Philip, although I have not spoken of it.
I had it from my mother, with much more that of late I have never
thought of. You know, Philip, I never say that which is not. I tell
you, that, if you choose, you shall dream upon it."

"And to what good, Amine? If you have power to make me dream, that
power must be from somewhere."

"It is, of course: there are agencies you little think of, which, in
my country, are still called into use. I have a charm, Philip, which
never fails."

"A charm, Amine! do you, then, deal in sorcery? for such powers cannot
be from Heaven."

"I cannot tell. I only know the power is given."

"It must be from the devil, Amine."

"And why so, Philip? May I not use the argument of your own priests,
who say, 'that the power of the devil is only permitted to be used
by Divine intelligence, and that it cannot be used without that
permission?' Allow it then to be sorcery, or what you please, unless
by Heaven permitted, it would fail. But I cannot see why we should
suppose that it is from an evil source. We ask for a warning in a
dream to guide our conduct in doubtful circumstances. Surely the evil
one would rather lead us wrong than right!"

"Amine, we may be warned in a dream, as the patriarchs were of old;
but to use mystic or unholy charms to procure a vision, is making a
compact with the devil."

"Which compact the devil could not fulfil if not permitted by a higher
power. Philip, your reasoning is false. We are told that, by certain
means, duly observed, we may procure the dreams we wish. Our
observance of these means is certainly the least we can attend to, to
prove our sincerity. Forgive me, Philip, but are not observances as
necessary in your religion--which I have embraced? Are we not told
that the omission of the mere ceremony of water to the infant will
turn all future chance of happiness to misery eternal?"

Philip answered not for some time. "I am afraid, Amine," said he, at
last, in a low tone; "I--"

"I fear nothing, Philip, when my intentions are good," replied Amine.
"I follow certain means to obtain an end. What is that end? It is
to find out (if possible) what may be the will of Heaven in this
perplexing case. If it should be through the agency of the devil--what
then? He becomes my servant, and not my master; he is permitted by
Heaven to act against himself;" and Amine's eyes darted fire, as she
thus boldly expressed herself.

"Did your mother often exercise her art?" inquired Philip, after a
pause.

"Not to my knowledge; but it was said that she was most expert. She
died young (as you know), or I should have known much more. Think
you, Philip, that this world is solely peopled by such dross as
we are?--things of clay--perishable and corruptible? Lords over
beasts--and ourselves but little better. Have you not, from your
own sacred writings, repeated acknowledgments and proofs of higher
intelligences mixing up with mankind, and acting here below? Why
should what was then, not be now! and what more harm is there to apply
for their aid now, than a few thousand years ago? Why should you
suppose that they were permitted on the earth then--and not permitted
now? What has become of them? Have they perished? have they been
ordered back--to where--to heaven? If to heaven--the world and mankind
have been left to the mercy of the devil and his agents. Do you
suppose that we, poor mortals, have been thus abandoned? I tell you
plainly, I think not. We no longer have the communications with
those intelligences that we once had, because, as we become more
enlightened, we become more proud, and seek them not; but that they
still exist--a host of good against a host of evil, invisibly opposing
each other--is my conviction. But, tell me, Philip, do you in your
conscience believe that all that has been revealed to you is a mere
dream of the imagination?"

"I do not believe so, Amine: you know well I wish I could."

"Then is my reasoning proved: for if such communications can be made
to you, why cannot others? You cannot tell by what agency; your
priests say it is that of the evil one; you think it is from on high.
By the same rule, who is to decide from whence the dream shall come?"

"'Tis true, Amine; but are you certain of your power?"

"Certain of this: that if it pleases superior intelligence to
communicate with you, _that_ communication may be relied upon. Either
you will not dream, but pass away the hours in deep sleep, or what you
dream will be connected with the question at issue."

"Then, Amine, I have made up my mind--I will dream: for at present
my mind is racked by contending and perplexing doubts. I would know
whether I am right or wrong. This night your art shall be employed."

"Not this night, nor yet to-morrow night, Philip. Think you one moment
that, in proposing this, I serve you against my own wishes? I feel as
if the dream will decide against me, and that you will be commanded
to return to your duty; for I tell you honestly, I think not with the
priests; but I am your wife, Philip, and it is my duty that you should
not be deceived. Having the means, as I suppose, to decide your
conduct, I offer them. Promise me that, if I do this, you will grant
me a favour which I shall ask as my reward."

"It is promised, Amine, without its being known," replied Philip,
rising from the turf; "and now let us go home."

We observed that Philip, previous to his sailing in the _Batavia_, had
invested a large proportion of his funds in Dutch East India stock:
the interest of the money was more than sufficient for the wants of
Amine, and, on his return, he found that the funds left in her charge
had accumulated. After paying to Father Seysen the sums for the
masses, and for the relief of the poor, there was a considerable
residue, and Philip had employed this in the purchase of more shares
in the India stock.

The subject of their conversation was not renewed. Philip was rather
averse to Amine practising those mystical arts, which, if known to the
priests, would have obtained for her, in all probability, the anathema
of the Church. He could not but admire the boldness and power of
Amine's reasonings, but still he was averse to reduce them into
practice. The third day had passed away, and no more had been said
upon the subject.

Philip retired to bed, and was soon fast asleep; but Amine slept not.
So soon as she was convinced that Philip would not be awakened, she
slipped from the bed and dressed herself. She left the room, and in a
quarter of an hour returned, bringing in her hand a small brazier of
lighted charcoal, and two small pieces of parchment, rolled up and
fixed by a knot to the centre of a narrow fillet. They exactly
resembled the philacteries that were once worn by the Jewish nation,
and were similarly applied. One of them she gently bound upon the
forehead of her husband, and the other upon his left arm. She threw
perfumes into the brazier, and as the form of her husband was becoming
indistinct from the smoke which filled the room, she muttered a few
sentences, waved over him a small sprig of some shrub which she held
in her white hand, and then closing the curtains, and removing the
brazier she sat down by the side of the bed.

"If there be harm," thought Amine, "at least the deed is not his--'tis
mine; they cannot say that he has practised arts that are unlawful
and forbidden by his priests. On my head be it!" And there was a
contemptuous curl on Amine's beautiful arched lip, which did not say
much for her devotion to her new creed.

Morning dawned, and Philip still slumbered. "'Tis enough," said Amine,
who had been watching the rising of the sun, as she beheld his upper
limb appear above the horizon. Again she waved her arm over Philip,
holding the sprig in her hand; and cried, "Philip, awake!"

Philip started up, opened his eyes, and shut them again to avoid the
glare of the broad daylight, rested upon his elbow, and appeared to be
collecting his thoughts.

"Where am I?" exclaimed he. "In my own bed? Yes!" He passed his hand
across his forehead, and felt the scroll. "What is this?" continued
he, pulling it off, and examining it. "And Amine, where is she? Good
Heavens, what a dream! Another?" cried he, perceiving the scroll tied
to his arm. "I see it now. Amine, this is your doing." And Philip
threw himself down, and buried his face in the pillow.

Amine, in the meantime, had slipped into bed, and had taken her place
by Philip's side. "Sleep, Philip, dear! sleep!" said she, putting her
arms round him; "we will talk when we wake again."

"Are you there, Amine?" replied Philip, confused. "I thought I was
alone; I have dreamed--" And Philip again was fast asleep before
he could complete his sentence. Amine, too, tired with watching,
slumbered and was happy.

Father Mathias had to wait a long while for his breakfast that
morning; it was not till two hours later than usual that Philip and
Amine made their appearance.

"Welcome, my children," said he; "you are late."

"We are, Father," replied Amine; "for Philip slept, and I watched till
break of day."

"He hath not been ill, I trust," replied the priest.

"No, not ill; but I could not sleep," replied Amine.

"Then didst thou do well to pass the night--as I doubt not thou hast
done, my child--in holy watchings."

Philip shuddered; he knew that the watching, had its cause been known,
would have been, in the priest's opinion, anything but holy. Amine
quickly replied--

"I have, indeed, communed with higher powers, as far as my poor
intellect hath been able."

"The blessing of our holy Church upon thee, my child!" said the old
man, putting his hand upon her head; "and on thee too, Philip."

Philip, confused, sat down to the table; Amine was collected as ever.
She spoke little, it is true, and appeared to commune with her own
thoughts.

As soon as the repast was finished, the old priest took up his
breviary, and Amine beckoning to Philip, they went out together. They
walked in silence until they arrived at the green spot where Amine had
first proposed to him that she should use her mystic power. She sat
down, and Philip, fully aware of her purpose, took his seat by her in
silence.

"Philip," said Amine, taking his hand, and looking earnestly in his
face, "last night you dreamed."

"I did, indeed, Amine," replied Philip, gravely.

"Tell me your dream; for it will be for me to expound it."

"I fear it needs but little exposition, Amine. All I would know is,
from what intelligence the dream has been received?"

"Tell me your dream," replied Amine, calmly.

"I thought," replied Philip, mournfully, "that I was sailing as
captain of a vessel round the Cape: the sea was calm and the breeze
light; I was abaft; the sun went down, and the stars were more than
usually brilliant; the weather was warm, and I lay down on my cloak,
with my face to the heavens, watching the gems twinkling in the sky
and the occasionally falling meteors. I thought that I fell asleep,
and awoke with a sensation as if sinking down. I looked around me; the
masts, the rigging, the hull of the vessel--_all_ had disappeared, and
I was floating by myself upon a large, beautifully shaped shell on the
wide waste of waters. I was alarmed, and afraid to move, lest I should
overturn my frail bark and perish. At last, I perceived the fore-part
of the shell pressed down, as if a weight were hanging to it; and
soon afterwards a small white hand, which grasped it. I remained
motionless, and would have called out that my little bark would sink,
but I could not. Gradually a figure raised itself from the waters, and
leaned with both arms over the fore-part of the shell, where I first
had seen but the hand. It was a female, in form beautiful to excess;
the skin was white as driven snow; her long loose hair covered her,
and the ends floated in the water; her arms were rounded and like
ivory: she said, in a soft sweet voice--

"'Philip Vanderdecken, what do you fear? Have you not a charmed life?'

"'I know not,' replied I, 'whether my life be charmed or not; but this
I know, that it is in danger.'

"'In danger!' replied she; 'it might have been in danger when you were
trusting to the frail works of men, which the waves love to rend to
fragments--your _good_ ships, as you call them, which but float about
upon sufferance; but where can be the danger when in a mermaid's
shell, which the mountain wave respects, and upon which the cresting
surge dare not throw its spray? Philip Vanderdecken, you have come to
seek your father?'

"'I have,' replied I; 'is it not the will of Heaven?'

"'It is your destiny--and destiny rules all above and below. Shall we
seek him together? This shell is mine; you know not how to navigate
it; shall I assist you?'

"'Will it bear us both?'

"'You will see," replied she, laughing, as she sank down from the
fore-part of the shell, and immediately afterwards appeared at the
side, which was not more than three inches above the water. To my
alarm, she raised herself up, and sat upon the edge, but her weight
appeared to have no effect. As soon as she was seated in this way--for
her feet still remained in the water--the shell moved rapidly along,
and each moment increased its speed, with no other propelling power
than that of her volition.

"'Do you fear now, Philip Vanderdecken?'

"'No!' replied I.

"She passed her hands across her forehead, threw aside the tresses
which had partly concealed her face, and said--

"'Then look at me.'

"I looked, Amine, and I beheld you!"

"Me!" observed Amine, with a smile upon her lips.

"Yes, Amine, it was you. I called you by your name, and threw my arms
round you. I felt that I could remain with you and sail about the
world for ever."

"Proceed, Philip," said Amine, calmly.

"I thought we ran thousands and thousands of miles--we passed by
beautiful islands, set like gems on the ocean bed; at one time
bounding against the rippling current, at others close to the
shore--skimming on the murmuring wave which rippled on the sand,
whilst the cocoa-tree on the beach waved to the cooling breeze."

"'It is not in smooth seas that your father must be sought,' said she,
'we must try elsewhere.'

"By degrees the waves rose, until at last they were raging in their
fury, and the shell was tossed by the tumultuous waters; but still not
a drop entered, and we sailed in security over billows which would
have swallowed up the proudest vessel.

"'Do you fear now, Philip?' said you to me.

"'No,' replied I; 'with you, Amine, I fear nothing.'

"'We are now off the Cape again,' said she; 'and here you may find
your father. Let us look well round us, for if we meet a ship it must
be _his_. None but the Phantom Ship could swim in a gale like this.'

"Away we flew over the mountainous waves--skimming from crest to crest
between them, our little bark sometimes wholly out of the water;
now east, now west, north, south, in every quarter of the compass,
changing our course each minute. We passed over hundreds of miles: at
last we saw a vessel, tossed by the furious gale.

"'There,' cried she, pointing with her finger, 'there is your father's
vessel, Philip.'

"Rapidly did we approach--they saw us from on board, and brought
the vessel to the wind. We were alongside--the gangway was clearing
away--for though no boat could have boarded, our shell was safe. I
looked up. I saw my father, Amine! Yes, saw him, and heard him as he
gave his orders. I pulled the relic from my bosom, and held it out
to him. He smiled, as he stood on the gunnel, holding on by the main
shrouds. I was just rising to mount on board, for they had handed to
me the man-ropes, when there was a loud yell, and a man jumped from
the gangway into the shell. You shrieked, slipped from the side, and
disappeared under the wave, and in a moment the shell, guided by the
man who had taken your place, flew away from the vessel with the
rapidity of thought. I felt a deadly chill pervade my frame. I turned
round to look at my new companion--it was the Pilot Schriften!--the
one-eyed wretch who was drowned when we were wrecked in Table Bay!

"'No! no! not yet!' cried he.

"In an agony of despair and rage I hurled him off his seat on the
shell, and he floated on the wild waters.

"'Philip Vanderdecken,' said he, as he swam, 'we shall meet again!'

"I turned away my head in disgust, when a wave filled my bark, and
down it sank. I was struggling under the water, sinking still deeper
and deeper, but without pain, when I awoke.

"Now, Amine," said Philip, after a pause, "what think you of my
dream?"

"Does it not point out that I am your friend, Philip, and that the
Pilot Schriften is your enemy?"

"I grant it; but he is dead."

"Is that so certain?"

"He hardly could have escaped without my knowledge."

"That is true, but the dream would imply otherwise. Philip, it is
my opinion that the only way in which this dream is to be expounded
is--that you remain on shore for the present. The advice is that of
the priests. In either case you require some further intimation. In
your dream, _I_ was your safe guide--be guided now by me again."

"Be it so, Amine. If your strange art be in opposition to our holy
faith, you expound the dream in conformity with the advice of its
ministers."

"I do. And now, Philip, let us dismiss the subject from our thoughts.
Should the time come, your Amine will not persuade you from your duty;
but recollect, you have promised to grant _one_ favour when I ask it."

"I have: say, then, Amine, what may be your wish?"

"O! nothing at present. I have no wish on earth but what is gratified.
Have I not you, dear Philip?" replied Amine, fondly throwing herself
on her husband's shoulder.




Chapter XV

It was about three months after this conversation that Amine and
Philip were again seated upon the mossy bank which we have mentioned,
and which had become their favourite resort. Father Mathias had
contracted a great intimacy with Father Seysen, and the two priests
were almost as inseparable as were Philip and Amine. Having determined
to wait a summons previous to Philip's again entering upon his strange
and fearful task; and, happy in the possession of each other, the
subject was seldom revived. Philip, who had, on his return, expressed
his wish to the Directors of the Company for immediate employment,
and, if possible, to have the command of a vessel, had, since that
period, taken no further steps, nor had any communication with
Amsterdam.

"I am fond of this bank, Philip," said Amine; "I appear to have formed
an intimacy with it. It was here, if you recollect, that we debated
the subject of the lawfulness of inducing dreams; and it was here,
dear Philip, that you told me your dream, and that I expounded it."

"You did so, Amine; but if you ask the opinion of Father Seysen, you
will find that he would give rather a strong decision against you--he
would call it heretical and damnable."

"Let him, if he pleases. I have no objection to tell him."

"I pray not, Amine; let the secret remain with ourselves only."

"Think you Father Mathias would blame me?"

"I certainly do."

"Well, I do not; there is a kindness and liberality about the old man
that I admire. I should like to argue the question with him."

As Amine spoke, Philip felt something touch his shoulder, and a sudden
chill ran through his frame. In a moment his ideas reverted to the
probable cause: he turned round his head, and, to his amazement,
beheld the (supposed to be drowned) mate of the _Ter Schilling_, the
one-eyed Schriften, who stood behind him, with a letter in his hand.
The sudden appearance of this malignant wretch induced Philip to
exclaim, "Merciful heaven! is it possible?"

Amine, who had turned her head round at the exclamation of Philip,
covered up her face, and burst into tears. It was not fear that caused
this unusual emotion on her part, but the conviction that her husband
was never to be at rest but in the grave.

"Philip Vanderdecken," said Schriften, "he! he! I've a letter for
you--it is from the Company."

Philip took the letter, but, previous to opening it, he fixed his eyes
upon Schriften. "I thought," said he, "that you were drowned when the
ship was wrecked in False Bay. How did you escape?"

"How did I escape?" replied Schriften. "Allow me to ask how did you
escape?"

"I was thrown up by the waves," replied Philip; "but--"

"But," interrupted Schriften, "he! he! the waves ought _not_ to have
thrown me up."

"And why not, pray? I did not say that."

"No! but I presume you wish it had been so; but, on the contrary,
I escaped in the same way that you did--I was thrown up by the
waves--he! he! but I can't wait here. I have done my bidding."

"Stop," replied Philip; answer me one question. "Do you sail in the
same vessel with me this time?"

"I'd rather be excused," replied Schriften; "I am not looking for the
Phantom Ship, Mynheer Vanderdecken;" and, with this reply, the little
man turned round and went away at a rapid pace.

"Is not this a summons, Amine?" said Philip, after a pause, still
holding the letter in his hand, with the seal unbroken.

"I will not deny it, dearest Philip. It is most surely so; the hateful
messenger appears to have risen from the grave that he might deliver
it. Forgive me, Philip; but I was taken by surprise. I will not again
annoy you with a woman's weakness."

"My poor Amine," replied Philip, mournfully. "Alas! why did I not
perform my pilgrimage alone? It was selfish of me to link you with
so much wretchedness, and join you with me in bearing the fardel of
never-ending anxiety and suspense."

"And who should bear it with you, my dearest Philip, if it is not the
wife of your bosom? You little know my heart if you think I shrink
from the duty. No, Philip, it is a pleasure, even in its most acute
pangs; for I consider that I am, by partaking with, relieving you of a
portion of your sorrow, and I feel proud that I am the wife of one who
has been selected to be so peculiarly tried. But, dearest, no more of
this. You must read the letter."

Philip did not answer. He broke the seal, and found that the letter
intimated to him that he was appointed as first mate to the _Vrow
Katerina_, a vessel which sailed with the next fleet; and requesting
he would join as quickly as possible, as she would soon be ready to
receive her cargo. The letter which was from the secretary, further
informed him that, after this voyage, he might be certain of having
the command of a vessel as captain, upon conditions which would be
explained when he called upon the Board.

"I thought, Philip, that you had requested the command of a vessel for
this voyage," observed Amine, mournfully.

"I did," replied Philip; "but not having followed up my application,
it appears not to have been attended to. It has been my own fault."

"And now it is too late?"

"Yes, dearest, most assuredly so: but it matters not; I would as
willingly, perhaps rather, sail this voyage as first mate."

"Philip, I may as well speak now. That I am disappointed, I must
confess; I fully expected that you would have had the command of a
vessel, and you may remember that I exacted a promise from you, on
this very bank upon which we now sit, at the time that you told me
your dream. That promise I shall still exact, and I now tell you what
I had intended to ask. It was, my dear Philip, permission to sail
with you. With you, I care for nothing. I can be happy under every
privation or danger; but to be left alone for so long, brooding over
my painful thoughts, devoured by suspense, impatient, restless, and
incapable of applying to any one thing--that, dear Philip, is the
height of misery, and that is what I feel when you are absent.
Recollect, I have your promise, Philip. As captain, you have the means
of receiving your wife on board. I am bitterly disappointed in being
left this time; do, therefore, to a certain degree, console me by
promising that I shall sail with you next voyage, if Heaven permit
your return."

"I promise it, Amine, since you are so earnest. I can refuse you
nothing; but I have a foreboding that yours and my happiness will be
wrecked for ever. I am not a visionary, but it does appear to me that,
strangely mixed up as I am, at once with this world and the next, some
little portion of futurity is opened to me. I have given my promise,
Amine, but from it I would fain be released."

"And if ill _do_ come, Philip, it is our destiny. Who can avert fate?"

"Amine, we are free agents, and to a certain extent are permitted to
direct our own destinies."

"Ay, so would Father Seysen fain have made me believe; but what he
said in support of his assertion was to me incomprehensible. And yet
he said that it was a part of the Catholic faith. It may be so--I am
unable to understand many other points. I wish your faith were made
more simple. As yet the good man--for good he really is--has only led
me into doubt."

"Passing through doubt, you will arrive at conviction, Amine."

"Perhaps so," replied Amine; "but it appears to me that I am as yet
but on the outset of my journey. But come, Philip, let us return. You
must to Amsterdam, and I will go with you. After your labours of the
day, at least until you sail, your Amine's smiles must still enliven
you. Is it not so?"

"Yes, dearest, I would have proposed it. I wonder much how Schriften
could come here. I did not see his body it is certain, but his escape
is to me miraculous. Why did he not appear when saved? where could he
have been? What think you, Amine?"

"What I have long thought, Philip. He is a ghoul with an evil eye,
permitted for some cause to walk the earth in human form; and, is,
certainly, in some way, connected with your strange destiny. If it
requires anything to convince me of the truth of all that has passed,
it is his appearance--the wretched Afrit! Oh, that I had my mother's
powers!--but I forget; it displeases you, Philip, that I ever talk of
such things, and I am silent."

Philip replied not; and absorbed in their own meditations they walked
back in silence to the cottage. Although Philip had made up his own
mind, he immediately sent the Portuguese priest to summon Father
Seysen, that he might communicate with them and take their opinion as
to the summons he had received. Having entered into a fresh detail of
the supposed death of Schriften, and his reappearance as a messenger,
he then left the two priests to consult together, and went upstairs to
Amine. It was more than two hours before Philip was called down, and
Father Seysen appeared to be in a state of great perplexity.

"My son," said he, "we are much perplexed. We had hoped that our ideas
upon this strange communication were correct, and that, allowing all
that you have obtained from your mother and have seen yourself to have
been no deception, still that it was the work of the evil one; and, if
so, our prayers and masses would have destroyed this power. We advised
you to wait another summons, and you have received it. The letter
itself is of course nothing, but the reappearance of the bearer of the
letter is the question to be considered. Tell me, Philip, what is your
opinion on this point? It is possible he might have been saved--why
not as well as yourself?"

"I acknowledge the possibility, Father," replied Philip; "he may have
been cast on shore and have wandered in another direction. It is
possible, although anything but probable; but since you ask me
my opinion, I must say candidly that I consider he is no earthly
messenger--nay, I am sure of it. That he is mysteriously connected
with my destiny is certain. But who he is, and what he is, of course I
cannot tell."

"Then, my son, we have come to the determination, in this instance,
not to advise. You must act now upon your own responsibility and your
own judgment. In what way soever you may decide we shall not blame
you. Our prayers shall be that Heaven may still have you in its holy
keeping."

"My decision, holy Father, is to obey the summons."

"Be it so, my son; something may occur which may assist to work
out the mystery,--a mystery which I acknowledge to be beyond my
comprehension, and of too painful a nature for me to dwell upon."

Philip said no more, for he perceived that the priest was not at all
inclined to converse. Father Mathias took this opportunity of thanking
Philip for his hospitality and kindness, and stated his intention of
returning to Lisbon by the first opportunity that might offer.

In a few days Amine and Philip took leave of the priests, and quitted
for Amsterdam--Father Seysen taking charge of the cottage until
Amine's return. On his arrival, Philip called upon the Directors of
the Company, who promised him a ship on his return from the voyage he
was about to enter upon, making a condition that he should become part
owner of the vessel. To this Philip consented, and then went down to
visit the _Vrow Katerina_, the ship to which he had been appointed as
first mate. She was still unrigged, and the fleet was not expected
to sail for two months. Only part of the crew were on board, and the
captain, who lived at Dort, had not yet arrived.

So far as Philip could judge, the _Vrow Katerina_ was a very inferior
vessel; she was larger than many of the others, but old, and badly
constructed; nevertheless, as she had been several voyages to the
Indies, and had returned in safety, it was to be presumed that she
would not have been taken up by the Company if they had not been
satisfied as to her seaworthiness. Having given a few directions to
the men who were on board, Philip returned to the hostelry where he
had secured apartments for himself and Amine.

The next day, as Philip was superintending the fitting of the rigging,
the captain of the _Vrow Katerina_ arrived, and, stepping on board of
her by the plank which communicated with the quay, the first thing
that he did was to run to the mainmast and embrace it with both arms,
although there was no small portion of tallow on it to smear the cloth
of his coat. "Oh; my dear Vrow, my Katerina!" cried he, as if he were
speaking to a female. "How do you do? I'm glad to see you again; you
have been quite well, I hope? You do not like being laid up in this
way. Never mind, my dear creature! you shall soon be handsome again."

The name of this personage who thus made love to his vessel, was
Wilhelm Barentz. He was a young man, apparently not thirty years of
age, of diminutive stature and delicate proportions. His face was
handsome, but womanish. His movements were rapid and restless, and
there was that appearance in his eye which would have warranted the
supposition that he was a little flighty, even if his conduct had not
fully proved the fact.

No sooner were the ecstacies of the captain over than Philip
introduced himself to him, and informed him of his appointment. "Oh!
you are the first mate of the _Vrow Katerina_. Sir, you are a very
fortunate man. Next to being captain of her, first mate is the most
enviable situation in the world."

"Certainly not on account of her beauty," observed Philip; "she may
have many other good qualities."

"Not on account of her beauty! Why, sir, I say (as my father has said
before me, and it was his Vrow before it was mine) that she is the
handsomest vessel in the world. At present you cannot judge; and
besides being the handsomest vessel, she has every good quality under
the sun."

"I am glad to hear it, sir," replied Philip; "it proves that one
should never judge by appearances. But is she not very old?"

"Old! not more than twenty-eight years--just in her prime. Stop, my
dear sir, till you see her dancing on the waters, and then you will do
nothing all day but discourse with me upon her excellence, and I have
no doubt that we shall have a very happy time together."

"Provided the subject be not exhausted," replied Philip.

"That it never will be, on my part: and, allow me to observe, Mr
Vanderdecken, that any officer who finds fault with the _Vrow
Katerina_ quarrels with me. I am her knight, and I have already fought
three men in her defence,--I trust, I shall not have to fight a
fourth."

Philip smiled: he thought that she was not worth fighting for; but
he acted upon the suggestion, and, from that time forward, he never
ventured to express an opinion against the beautiful _Vrow Katerina_.

The crew were soon complete, the vessel rigged, her sails bent,
and she was anchored in the stream, surrounded by the other ships
composing the fleet about to be despatched. The cargo was then
received on board, and, as soon as her hold was full, there came, to
Philip's great vexation, an order to receive on board 150 soldiers and
other passengers, many of whom were accompanied by their wives and
families. Philip worked hard, for the captain did nothing but praise
the vessel, and, at last, they had embarked everything, and the fleet
was ready to sail.

It was now time to part with Amine, who had remained at the hostelry,
and to whom Philip had dedicated every spare moment that he could
obtain. The fleet was expected to sail in two days, and it was
decided, that on the morrow they should part. Amine was cool and
collected. She felt convinced that she should see her husband again,
and with that feeling, she embraced him as they separated on the
beach, and he stepped into the boat in which he was to be pulled on
board.

"Yes," thought Amine, as she watched the form of her husband, as the
distance between them increased--"yes, I know that we shall meet
again. It is not this voyage which is to be fatal to you or me; but I
have a dark foreboding that the next, in which I shall join you, will
separate us for ever--in which way, I know not--but it is destined.
The priests talk of free-will. Is it free-will which takes him away
from me? Would he not rather remain on shore with me? Yes. But he is
not permitted, for he must fulfil his destiny. Free-will! Why, if it
were not destiny it were tyranny. I feel, and have felt, as if these
priests are my enemies; but why I know not: they are both good men,
and the creed they teach is good. Good-will and charity, love to all,
forgiveness of injuries, not judging others. All this is good; and yet
my heart whispers to me that--but the boat is alongside, and Philip
is climbing up the vessel. Farewell, farewell, my dearest husband. I
would I were a man! No, no! 'tis better as it is."

Amine watched till she could no longer perceive Philip, and then
walked slowly to the hostelry. The next day, when she arose, she found
that the fleet had sailed at daylight, and the channel, which had been
so crowded with vessels, was now untenanted.

"He is gone," muttered Amine; "now for many months of patient, calm
enduring,--I cannot say of living, for I exist but in his presence."




Chapter XVI


We must leave Amine to her solitude, and follow the fortunes of
Philip. The fleet had sailed with a flowing sheet, and bore gallantly
down the Zuyder Zee; but they had not been under way an hour before
the _Vrow Katerina_ was left a mile or two astern. Mynheer Barentz
found fault with the setting and trimming of the sails, and with the
man at the helm, who was repeatedly changed; in short, with everything
but his dear _Vrow Katerina_: but all would not do; she still dropped
astern, and proved to be the worst-sailing vessel in the fleet.

"Mynheer Vanderdecken," said he, at last, "the _Vrow_, as my father
used to say, is not so very _fast before_ the wind. Vessels that are
good on a wind seldom are: but this I will say, that, in every other
point of sailing, there is no other vessel in the fleet equal to the
_Vrow Katerina_."

"Besides," observed Philip, who perceived how anxious his captain was
on the subject, "we are heavily laden, and have so many troops on
deck."

The fleet cleared the sands and were then close-hauled, when the _Vrow
Katerina_ proved to sail even more slowly than before.

"When we are so _very_ close-hauled," observed Mynheer Barentz, "the
_Vrow_ does not do so well; but a point free, and then you will see
how she will show her stern to the whole fleet. She is a fine vessel,
Mynheer Vanderdecken, is she not?"

"A very fine, roomy vessel," replied Philip, which was all that, in
conscience, he could say.

The fleet sailed on, sometimes on a wind, sometimes free, but let the
point of sailing be what it might, the _Vrow Katerina_ was invariably
astern, and the fleet had to heave-to at sunset to enable her to keep
company; still, the captain continued to declare that the point of
sailing on which they happened to be, was the only point in which the
_Vrow Katerina_ was deficient. Unfortunately, the vessel had other
points quite as bad as her sailing; she was crank, leaky, and did not
answer the helm well: but Mynheer Barentz was not to be convinced. He
adored his ship, and, like all men desperately in love, he could
see no fault in his mistress. But others were not so blind, and the
admiral, finding the voyage so much delayed by the bad sailing of one
vessel, determined to leave her to find her way by herself so soon
as they had passed the Cape. He was, however, spared the cruelty of
deserting her, for a heavy gale came on which dispersed the whole
fleet, and on the second day the good ship _Vrow Katerina_ found
herself alone, labouring heavily in the trough of the sea, leaking so
much as to require hands constantly at the pumps, and drifting before
the gale as fast to leeward almost as she usually sailed. For a
week the gale continued, and each day did her situation become more
alarming. Crowded with troops, encumbered with heavy stores, she
groaned and laboured, while whole seas washed over her, and the men
could hardly stand at the pumps. Philip was active, and exerted
himself to the utmost, encouraging the worn-out men, securing where
aught had given way, and little interfered with by the captain, who
was himself no sailor.

"Well," observed the captain to Philip, as they held on by the
belaying-pins, "you'll acknowledge that she is a fine weatherly vessel
in a gale--is she not? Softly, my beauty, softly," continued he,
speaking to the vessel, as she plunged heavily into the waves, and
every timber groaned. "Softly, my dear, softly! How those poor
devils in the other ships must be knocking about now. Heh! Mynheer
Vanderdecken, we have the start of them this time: they must be a
terrible long way down to leeward. Don't you think so?"

"I really cannot pretend to say," replied Philip, smiling.

"Why, there's not one of them in sight. Yes, by Heavens, there is!
Look on our lee beam. I see one now. Well, she must be a capital
sailor at all events: look there, a point abaft the beam. Mercy on me!
how stiff she must be to carry such a press of canvas!"

Philip had already seen her. It was a large ship on a wind, and on the
same tack as they were. In a gale in which no vessel could carry the
topsails, the _Vrow Katerina_ being under close-reefed foresails and
staysails, the ship seen to leeward was standing under a press of
sail--top-gallant-sail, royals, flying-jib, and every stitch of canvas
which could be set in a light breeze. The waves were running mountains
high, bearing each minute the _Vrow Katerina_ down to the gunwale: and
the ship seen appeared not to be affected by the tumultuous waters,
but sailed steadily and smoothly on an even keel. At once Philip knew
it must be the Phantom Ship, in which his father's doom was being
fulfilled.

"Very odd, is it not?" observed Mynheer Barentz.

Philip felt such an oppression on his chest that he could not reply.
As he held on with one hand, he covered up his eyes with the other.

But the seamen had now seen the vessel, and the legend was too well
known. Many of the troops had climbed on deck when the report was
circulated, and all eyes were now fixed upon the supernatural vessel;
when a heavy squall burst over the _Vrow Katerina_, accompanied with
peals of thunder and heavy rain, rendering it so thick that nothing
could be seen. In a quarter of an hour it cleared away, and, when they
looked to leeward, the stranger was no longer in sight.

"Merciful Heaven! she must have been upset, and has gone down in the
squall," said Mynheer Barentz. "I thought as much, carrying such a
press of sail. There never was a ship that could carry more than the
_Vrow Katerina_. It was madness on the part of the captain of that
vessel; but I suppose he wished to keep up with us. Heh, Mynheer
Vanderdecken?"

Philip did not reply to these remarks, which fully proved the madness
of his captain. He felt that his ship was doomed, and when he thought
of the numbers on board who might be sacrificed, he shuddered. After a
pause, he said--

"Mynheer Barentz, this gale is likely to continue, and the best ship
that ever was built cannot, in my opinion, stand such weather. I
should advise that we bear up, and run back to Table Bay to refit.
Depend upon it, we shall find the whole fleet there before us."

"Never fear for the good ship, _Vrow Katerina_," replied the captain;
"see what weather she makes of it."

"Cursed bad," observed one of the seamen, for the seamen had gathered
near to Philip to hear what his advice might be. "If I had known that
she was such an old, crazy beast, I never would have trusted myself on
board. Mynheer Vanderdecken is right; we must back to Table Bay ere
worse befall us. That ship to leeward has given us warning--she is not
seen for nothing,--ask Mr Vanderdecken, captain; he knows that well,
for he _is_ a sailor."

This appeal to Philip made him start; it was, however, made without
any knowledge of Philip's interest in the Phantom Ship.

"I must say," replied Philip, "that, whenever I have fallen in with
that vessel, mischief has ever followed."

"Vessel! why, what was there in that vessel to frighten you? She
carried too much sail, and she has gone down."

"She never goes down," replied one of the seamen.

"No! no!" exclaimed many voices; "but we shall, if we do not run
back."

"Pooh! nonsense! Mynheer Vanderdecken, what say you?"

"I have already stated my opinion," replied Philip, who was anxious,
if possible, to see the ship once more in port, "that the best thing
we can do, is to bear up for Table Bay."

"And, captain," continued the old seaman who had just spoken, "we are
all determined that it shall be so, whether you like it or not; so
up with the helm, my hearty, and Mynheer Vanderdecken will trim the
sails."

"Why! what is this?" cried Captain Barentz. "A mutiny on board of the
_Vrow Katerina_? Impossible! The _Vrow Katerina_ the best ship, the
fastest in the whole fleet!"

"The dullest old rotten tub," cried one of the seamen.

"What!" cried the captain, "what do I hear? Mynheer Vanderdecken,
confine that lying rascal for mutiny."

"Pooh! nonsense! he's mad," replied the old seaman. "Never mind him;
come, Mynheer Vanderdecken, we will obey you; but the helm must be up
immediately."

The captain stormed, but Philip, by acknowledging the superiority
of his vessel, at the same time that he blamed the seamen for their
panic, pointed out to him the necessity of compliance, and Mynheer
Barentz at last consented. The helm was put up, the sails trimmed,
and the _Vrow Katerina_ rolled heavily before the gale. Towards the
evening the weather moderated, and the sky cleared up; both sea and
wind subsided fast; the leaking decreased, and Philip was in hopes
that in a day or two they would arrive safely in the Bay.

As they steered their course, so did the wind gradually decrease,
until, at last, it fell calm; nothing remained of the tempest but a
long heavy swell which set to the westward, and before which the _Vrow
Katerina_ was gradually drifting. This was a respite to the worn-out
seamen, and also to the troops and passengers, who had been cooped
below or drenched on the main-deck.

The upper deck was crowded; mothers basked in the warm sun with their
children in their arms; the rigging was filled with the wet clothes,
which were hung up to dry on every part of the shrouds; and the seamen
were busily employed in repairing the injuries of the gale. By their
reckoning, they were not more than fifty miles from Table Bay, and
each moment they expected to see the land to the southward of it. All
was again mirth, and everyone on board, except Philip, considered that
danger was no more to be apprehended.

The second mate, whose name was Krantz, was an active, good seaman,
and a great favourite with Philip, who knew that he could trust to
him, and it was on the afternoon of this day that he and Philip were
walking together on the deck.

"What think you, Vanderdecken, of the strange vessel we saw?"

"I have seen her before, Krantz; and--"

"And what?"

"Whatever vessel I have been in when I have seen her, that vessel has
never returned into port--others tell the same tale."

"Is she, then, the ghost of a vessel?"

"I am told so; and there are various stories afloat concerning her:
but of this, I assure you--that I am fully persuaded than some
accident will happen before we reach port, although everything, at
this moment, appears so calm, and our port is so near at hand."

"You are superstitious," replied Krantz; "and yet I must say that, to
me, the appearance was not like a reality. No vessel could carry such
sail in the gale; but yet, there are madmen afloat who will sometimes
attempt the most absurd things. If it was a vessel, she must have gone
down, for when it cleared up she was not to be seen. I am not very
credulous, and nothing but the occurrence of the consequences
which you anticipate will make me believe that there was anything
supernatural in the affair."

"Well! I shall not be sorry if the event proves me wrong," replied
Philip; "but I have my forebodings--we are not in port yet."

"No! but we are but a trifling distance from it, and there is every
prospect of a continuance of fine weather."

"There is no saying from what quarter the danger may come," replied
Philip; "we have other things to fear than the violence of the gale."

"True," replied Krantz; "but, nevertheless, don't let us croak.
Notwithstanding all you say, I prophesy that in two days, at the
farthest, we are safely anchored in Table Bay."

The conversation here dropped, and Philip was glad to be left alone. A
melancholy had seized him--a depression of spirits even greater than
he had ever felt before. He leant over the gangway and watched the
heaving of the sea.

"Merciful Heaven!" ejaculated he, "be pleased to spare this vessel;
let not the wail of women, the shrieks of the poor children, now
embarked, be heard; the numerous body of men, trusting to her
planks,--let them not be sacrificed for my father's crimes." And
Philip mused. "The ways of Heaven are indeed mysterious," thought
he.--"Why should others suffer because my father has sinned? And yet,
is it not so everywhere? How many thousands fall on the field of
battle in a war occasioned by the ambition of a king, or the influence
of a woman! How many millions have been destroyed for holding a
different creed of faith! _He_ works in His own way, leaving us to
wonder and to doubt."

The sun had set before Philip had quitted the gangway and gone down
below. Commending himself and those embarked with him to the care of
Providence, he at last fell asleep; but, before the bell was struck
eight times to announce midnight, he was awakened by a rude shove of
the shoulder, and perceived Krantz, who had the first watch, standing
by him.

"By the Heaven above us! Vanderdecken, you have prophesied right!
Up--quick! _The ship's on fire_!"

"On fire!" exclaimed Vanderdecken, jumping out of his berth--"where?"

"The main-hold."

"I will up immediately, Krantz. In the meantime, keep the hatches on
and rig the pumps."

In less than a minute Philip was on deck, where he found Captain
Barentz, who had also been informed of the case by the second
mate.--In a few words all was explained by Krantz: there was a strong
smell of fire proceeding from the main-hold; and, on removing one of
the hatches, which he had done without calling for any assistance,
from a knowledge of the panic it would create, he found that the hold
was full of smoke; he had put it on again immediately, and had only
made it known to Philip and the captain.

"Thanks for your presence of mind," replied Philip; "we have now time
to reflect quietly on what is to be done. If the troops and the poor
women and children knew their danger, their alarm would have much
impeded us: but how could she have taken fire in the main-hold?"

"I never heard of the _Vrow Katerina_ taking fire before," observed
the captain; "I think it is impossible. It must be some mistake--she
is--"

"I now recollect that we have, in our cargo, several cases of vitriol
in bottles," interrupted Philip. "In the gale, they must have been
disturbed and broken. I kept them above all, in case of accident: this
rolling, gunwale under, for so long a time must have occasioned one of
them to fetch way."

"That's it, depend upon it," observed Krantz.

"I did object to receive them, stating that they ought to go out in
some vessel which was not so encumbered with troops, so that they
might remain on the main-deck; but they replied, that the invoices
were made out and could not be altered. But now to act. My idea is to
keep the hatches on, so as to smother it if possible."

"Yes," replied Krantz; and, at the same time, cut a hole in the deck
just large enough to admit the hose, and pump as much water as we can
down into the hold."

"You are right, Krantz; send for the carpenter, and set him to work. I
will turn the hands up and speak to the men. I smell the fire now very
strong; there is no time to lose.--If we can only keep the troops and
the women quiet we may do something."

The hands were turned up, and soon made their appearance on deck,
wondering why they were summoned. The men had not perceived the state
of the vessel, for, the hatches having been kept on, the little smoke
that issued ascended the hatchway and did not fill the lower deck.

"My lads," said Philip, "I am sorry to say that we have reason to
suspect that there is some danger of fire in the main-hold."

"I smell it!" cried one of the seamen.

"So do I," cried several others, with every show of alarm, and moving
away as if to go below.

"Silence, and remain where you are, my men. Listen to what I say: if
you frighten the troops and passengers we shall do nothing; we must
trust to ourselves; there is no time to be lost.--Mr Krantz and the
carpenter are doing all that can be done at present; and now, my men,
do me the favour to sit down on the deck, every one of you, while I
tell you what we must do."

This order of Philip's was obeyed, and the effect was excellent: it
gave the men time to compose themselves after the first shock; for,
perhaps, of all shocks to the human frame, there is none which creates
a greater panic than the first intimation of fire on board of a
vessel--a situation, indeed, pitiable, when it is considered that you
have to choose between the two elements seeking your destruction.
Philip did not speak for a minute or two. He then pointed out to the
men the danger of their situation, what were the measures which he
and Krantz had decided upon taking, and how necessary it was that all
should be cool and collected. He also reminded them that they had but
little powder in the magazine, which was far from the site of the
fire, and could easily be removed and thrown overboard; and that, if
the fire could not be extinguished, they had a quantity of spars on
deck to form a raft, which, with the boats, would receive all on
board, and that they were but a short distance from land.

Philip's address had the most beneficial effects; the men rose up when
he ordered them; one portion went down to the magazine, and handed up
the powder, which was passed along and thrown overboard; another went
to the pumps; and Krantz, coming up, reported the hole to have been
cut in the planking of the deck above the main-hold: the hoses were
fixed, and a quantity of water soon poured down, but it was impossible
that the danger could be kept secret. The troops were sleeping on
the deck, and the very employment of the seamen pointed out what had
occurred, even if the smoke, which now increased very much, and filled
the lower deck, had not betrayed it. In a few minutes the alarm of
_Fire_! was heard throughout the vessel, and men, women, and children
were seen, some hurrying on their clothes, some running frightened
about the decks, some shrieking, some praying, and the confusion and
terror were hardly to be described.

The judicious conduct of Philip was then made evident: had the sailors
been awakened by the appalling cry, they would have been equally
incapable of acting, as were the troops and passengers. All
subordination would have ceased: some would have seized the boats,
and left the majority to perish: others would have hastened to the
spirit-room, and, by their drunkenness, added to the confusion and
horror of the scene: nothing would have been effected, and almost all
would, in all probability, have perished miserably. But this had been
prevented by the presence of mind shown by Philip and the second mate,
for the captain was a cypher:--not wanting in courage certainly, but
without conduct or a knowledge of his profession. The seamen continued
steady to their duty, pushing the soldiers out of the way as they
performed their allotted tasks: and Philip perceiving this, went
down below, leaving Krantz in charge; and by reasoning with the most
collected, by degrees he brought the majority of the troops to a state
of comparative coolness.

The powder had been thrown overboard, and another hole having been cut
in the deck on the other side, the other pump was rigged, and double
the quantity of water poured into the hold; but it was evident to
Philip that the combustion increased. The smoke and steam now burst
through the interstices of the hatchways and the holes cut in the
deck, with a violence that proved the extent of the fire which raged
below, and Philip thought it advisable to remove all the women and
children to the poop and quarter-deck of the ship, desiring the
husbands of the women to stay with them. It was a melancholy sight,
and the tears stood in Philip's eyes as he looked upon the group of
females--some weeping and straining their children to their bosoms;
some more quiet and more collected than the men: the elder children
mute or crying because their mothers cried, and the younger ones,
unconscious of danger, playing with the first object which attracted
their attention, or smiling at their parents. The officers commanding
the troops were two ensigns newly entered, and very young men,
ignorant of their duty and without any authority--for men in cases
of extreme danger will not obey those who are more ignorant than
themselves--and, at Philip's request, they remained with and
superintended the women and children.

So soon as Philip had given his orders that the women and children
should be properly clothed (which many of them were not), he went
again forward to superintend the labour of the seamen, who already
began to show symptoms of fatigue, from the excess of their exertions;
but many of the soldiers now offered to work at the pumps, and their
services were willingly accepted. Their efforts were in vain. In about
half an hour more the hatches were blown up with a loud noise, and a
column of intense and searching flame darted up perpendicularly from
the hold, high as the lower mast-head. Then was heard the loud shriek
of the women, who pressed their children in agony to their breasts,
as the seamen and soldiers who had been working the pumps, in their
precipitate retreat from the scorching flames, rushed aft, and fell
among the huddled crowd.

"Be steady, my lads--steady, my good fellows," exclaimed Philip;
"there is no danger yet. Recollect, we have our boats and raft, and
although we cannot subdue the fire, and save the vessel, still we
may, if you are cool and collected, not only save ourselves, but
everyone--even the poor infants, who now appeal to you as men to
exert yourselves in their behalf. Come, come, my lads, let us do our
duty--we have the means of escape in our power if we lose no time.
Carpenter, get your axes, and cut away the boom-lashings. Now, my men,
let us get our boats out, and make a raft for these poor women and
children; we are not ten miles from the land. Krantz, see to the boats
with the starboard watch; larboard watch with me, to launch over the
booms. Gunners, take any of the cordage you can, ready for lashing.
Come, my lads, there is no want of light--we can work without
lanterns."

The men obeyed, as Philip, to encourage them, had almost jocularly
remarked (for a joke is often well-timed, when apparently on the
threshold of eternity), there was no want of light. The column of fire
now ascended above the main-top--licking with its forky tongue the
top-mast rigging--and embracing the mainmast in its folds: and the
loud roar with which it ascended proved the violence and rapidity of
the combustion below, and how little time there was to be lost. The
lower and main decks were now so filled with smoke that no one could
remain there: some few poor fellows, sick in their cots, had long been
smothered, for they had been forgotten. The swell had much subsided,
and there was not a breath of wind: the smoke which rose from the
hatchways ascended straight up in the air, which, as the vessel had
lost all steerage way, was fortunate. The boats were soon in the
water, and trusty men placed in them: the spars were launched over,
arranged by the men in the boats, and lashed together. All the
gratings were then collected and firmly fixed upon the spars for the
people to sit upon; and Philip's heart was glad at the prospect which
he now had of saving the numbers which were embarked.




Chapter XVII


But their difficulties were not surmounted--the fire now had
communicated to the main-deck, and burst out of the port-holes
amidships--and the raft which had been forming alongside was obliged
to be drifted astern, where it was more exposed to the swell. This
retarded their labour, and, in the meantime, the fire was making rapid
progress; the mainmast, which had long been burning, fell over the
side with the lurching of the vessel, and the flames out of the
main-deck ports soon showed their points above the bulwarks,
while volumes of smoke were poured in upon the upper deck,
almost suffocating the numbers which were crowded there; for all
communication with the fore-part of the ship had been, for some time,
cut off by the flames, and everyone had retreated aft. The women and
children were now carried on to the poop; not only to remove them
farther from the suffocating smoke, but that they might be lowered
down to the raft from the stern.

It was about four o'clock in the morning when all was ready, and by
the exertions of Philip and the seamen, notwithstanding the swell,
the women and children were safely placed on the raft, where it was
considered that they would be less in the way, as the men could
relieve each other in pulling when they were tired.

After the women and children had been lowered down, the troops were
next ordered to descend by the ladders; some few were lost in the
attempt, falling under the boat's bottom and not reappearing; but
two-thirds of the men were safely put in the berths they were ordered
to take by Krantz, who had gone down to superintend this important
arrangement. Such had been the vigilance of Philip, who had requested
Captain Barentz to stand over the spirit-room hatch, with pistols,
until the smoke on the main-deck rendered the precaution unnecessary,
that not a single person was intoxicated, and to this might be
ascribed the order and regularity which had prevailed during this
trying scene. But before one-third of the soldiers had descended by
the stern ladder, the fire burst out of the stern windows with a
violence that nothing could withstand; spouts of vivid flame extended
several feet from the vessel, roaring with the force of a blow-pipe;
at the same time, the flames burst through all the after-ports of the
main-deck, and those remaining on board found themselves encircled
with fire, and suffocated with smoke and heat. The stern ladders were
consumed in a minute and dropped into the sea; the boats which had
been receiving the men were obliged, also, to back astern from the
intense heat of the flames; even those on the raft shrieked as they
found themselves scorched by the ignited fragments which fell on them
as they were enveloped in an opaque cloud of smoke, which hid from
them those who still remained on the deck of the vessel. Philip
attempted to speak to those on board, but he was not heard. A scene
of confusion took place which ended in great loss of life. The only
object appeared to be who should first escape; though, except by
jumping overboard, there was no escape. Had they waited, and (as
Philip would have pointed out to them) have one by one thrown
themselves into the sea, the men in the boats were fully prepared
to pick them up; or had they climbed out to the end of the lateen
mizen-yard which was lowered down, they might have descended safely by
a rope, but the scorching of the flames which surrounded them and the
suffocation from the smoke was overpowering, and most of the soldiers
sprang over the taffrail at once, or as nearly so as possible. The
consequence was that there were thirty or forty in the water at the
same time, and the scene was as heart-rending as it was appalling; the
sailors in the boats dragging them in as fast as they could--the women
on the raft, throwing to them loose garments to haul them in; at one
time a wife shrieking as she saw her husband struggling and sinking
into eternity;--at another, curses and execrations from the swimmer
who was grappled with by the drowning man, and dragged with him under
the surface. Of eighty men who were left of the troops on board at the
time of the bursting out of the flames from the stern windows, but
twenty-five were saved. There were but few seamen left on board with
Philip, the major part having been employed in making the raft or
manning the three boats; those who were on board remained by his side,
regulating their motions by his. After allowing full time for the
soldiers to be picked up, Philip ordered the men to climb out to the
end of the lateen yard which hung on the taffrail, and either to lower
themselves down on the raft if it was under, or to give notice to the
boats to receive them. The raft had been dropped farther astern by the
seamen, that those on board of it might not suffer from the smoke and
heat; and the sailors, one after another, lowered themselves down
and were received by the boats. Philip desired Captain Barentz to go
before him, but the captain refused. He was too much choked with smoke
to say why, but no doubt but that it would have been something in
praise of the _Vrow Katerina_. Philip then climbed out; he was
followed by the captain, and they were both received into one of the
boats.

The rope which had hitherto held the raft to the ship, was now cast
off, and it was taken in by the boats; and in a short time the _Vrow
Katerina_ was borne to leeward of them; and Philip and Krantz now made
arrangements for the better disposal of the people. The sailors were
almost all put into boats, that they might relieve one another in
pulling; the remainder were placed on the raft, along with the
soldiers, the women, and the children. Notwithstanding that the boats
were all as much loaded as they could well bear, the numbers on the
raft were so great that it sunk nearly a foot under water when the
swell of the sea poured upon it; but stanchions and ropes to support
those on board had been fixed, and the men remained at the sides,
while the women and children were crowded together in the middle.

As soon as these arrangements were made, the boats took the raft in
tow, and just as the dawn of day appeared, pulled in the direction of
the land.

The _Vrow Katerina_ was, by this time, one volume of flame; she had
drifted about half a mile to leeward, and Captain Barentz, who was
watching her as he sat in the boat with Philip, exclaimed--"Well,
there goes a lovely ship, a ship that could do everything but
speak--I'm sure that not a ship in the fleet would have made such a
bonfire as she has--does she not burn beautifully--nobly? My poor
_Vrow Katerina_! perfect to the last, we never shall see such a ship
as you again! Well, I'm glad my father did not live to see this sight,
for it would have broken his heart, poor man."

Philip made no reply, he felt a respect even for Captain Barentz's
misplaced regard for the vessel. They made but little way, for the
swell was rather against them, and the raft was deep in the water. The
day dawned, and the appearance of the weather was not favourable; it
promised the return of the gale. Already a breeze ruffled the surface
of the water, and the swell appeared to increase rather than go down.
The sky was overcast and the horizon thick. Philip looked out for the
land but could not perceive it, for there was a haze on the horizon,
so that he could not see more than five miles. He felt that to gain
the shore before the coming night was necessary for the preservation
of so many individuals, of whom more than sixty were women and
children, who, without any nourishment, were sitting on a frail raft,
immersed in the water. No land in sight--a gale coming on, and in
all probability, a heavy sea and dark night. The chance was indeed
desperate, and Philip was miserable--most miserable--when he reflected
that so many innocent beings might, before the next morning,
be consigned to a watery tomb,--and why?--yes, there was the
feeling--that although Philip could reason against, he never could
conquer; for his own life he cared nothing--even the idea of his
beloved Amine was nothing in the balance at these moments. The only
point which sustained him, was the knowledge that he had his duty to
perform, and, in the full exercise of his duty, he recovered himself.

"Land ahead!" was now cried out by Krantz, who was in the headmost
boat, and the news was received with a shout of joy from the raft and
the boats. The anticipation and the hope the news gave was like manna
in the wilderness; and the poor women on the raft, drenched sometimes
above the waist by the swell of the sea, clasped the children in their
arms still closer, and cried--"My darling, you shall be saved."

Philip stood upon the stern-sheets to survey the land, and he had the
satisfaction of finding that it was not five miles distant, and a ray
of hope warmed his heart. The breeze now had gradually increased, and
rippled the water. The quarter from which the wind came was neither
favourable nor adverse, being on the beam. Had they had sails for the
boats, it would have been otherwise, but they had been stowed away and
could not be procured. The sight of land naturally rejoiced them all,
and the seamen in the boats cheered, and double-banked the oars to
increase their way; but the towing of a large raft sunk under water
was no easy task; and they did not, with all their exertions, advance
more than half a mile an hour.

Until noon they continued their exertions, not without success;
they were not three miles from the land; but, as the sun passed the
meridian, a change took place; the breeze blew strong; the swell of
the sea rose rapidly; and the raft was often so deeply immersed in the
waves as to alarm them for the safety of those upon her. Their way
was proportionally retarded, and by three o'clock they had not gained
half-a-mile from where they had been at noon. The men not having had
refreshment of any kind during the labour and excitement of so many
hours, began to flag in their exertions. The wish for water was
expressed by all--from the child who appealed to its mother, to the
seaman who strained at the oar. Philip did all he could to encourage
the men; but finding themselves so near to the land, and so overcome
with fatigue, and that the raft in tow would not allow them to
approach their haven, they murmured, and talked of the necessity of
casting loose the raft and looking out for themselves. A feeling of
self prevailed, and they were mutinous: but Philip expostulated with
them, and out of respect for him, they continued their exertions for
another hour, when a circumstance occurred which decided the question,
upon which they had recommenced a debate.

The increased swell and the fresh breeze had so beat about and tossed
the raft, that it was with difficulty, for some time, that its
occupants could hold themselves on it. A loud shout, mingled with
screams, attracted the attention of those in the boats, and Philip,
looking back, perceived that the lashings of the raft had yielded to
the force of the waves, and that it had separated amidships. The
scene was agonising; husbands were separated from their wives and
children--each floating away from each other--for the part of the raft
which was still towed by the boats had already left the other far
astern. The women rose up and screamed, and held up their children;
some, more frantic, dashed into the water between them, and attempted
to gain the floating wreck upon which their husbands stood, and sank
before they could be assisted. But the horror increased--one lashing
having given way, all the rest soon followed; and, before the boats
could turn and give assistance the sea was strewed with the spars
which composed the raft, with men, women, and children clinging to
them. Loud were the yells of despair, and the shrieks of the women,
as they embraced their offspring, and in attempting to save them were
lost themselves. The spars of the raft still close together, were
hurled one upon the other by the swell, and many found death by
being jammed between them. Although all the boats hastened to their
assistance, there was so much difficulty and danger in forcing them
between the spars, that but few were saved, and even those few were
more than the boats could well take in. The seamen and a few soldiers
were picked up, but all the females and the children had sank beneath
the waves.

The effect of this catastrophe may be imagined, but hardly described.
The seamen who had debated as to casting them adrift to perish, wept
as they pulled towards the shore. Philip was overcome, he covered his
face, and remained, for some time, without giving directions, and
heedless of what passed.

It was now five o'clock in the evening; the boats had cast off the
tow-lines, and vied with each other in their exertions. Before the sun
had set they all had arrived at the beach, and were safely landed in
the little sand bay into which they had steered; for the wind was off
the shore, and there was no surf. The boats were hauled up, and the
exhausted men lay down on the sands, till warm with the heat of the
sun, and forgetting that they had neither eaten nor drank for so long
a time, they were soon fast asleep. Captain Barentz, Philip, and
Krantz, as soon as they had seen the boats secured, held a short
consultation, and were then glad to follow the example of the seamen;
harassed and worn out with the fatigue of the last twenty-four hours,
their senses were soon drowned in oblivion.

For many hours they all slept soundly, dreamt of water, and awoke to
the sad reality that they were tormented with thirst, and were on a
sandy beach with the salt waves mocking them; but they reflected how
many of their late companions had been swallowed up, and felt thankful
that they had been spared. It was early dawn when they all rose from
the forms which they had impressed on the yielding sand; and, by the
directions of Philip, they separated in every direction, to look for
the means of quenching their agony of thirst. As they proceeded over
the sand-hills, they found growing in the sand a low spongy-leaf
sort of shrub, something like what in our greenhouses is termed the
ice-plant; the thick leaves of which were covered with large drops
of dew. They sank down on their knees, and proceeded from one to the
other licking off the moisture which was abundant, and soon felt
a temporary relief. They continued their search till noon without
success, and hunger was now added to their thirst; they then
returned to the beach to ascertain if their companions had been more
successful. They had also quenched their thirst with the dew of
heaven, but had found no water or means of subsistence; but some of
them had eaten the leaves of the plant which had contained the dew in
the morning, and had found them, although acid, full of watery sap and
grateful to the palate. The plant in question is the one provided by
bounteous Providence for the support of the camel and other beasts
in the arid desert, only to be found there, and devoured by all
ruminating animals with avidity. By the advice of Philip they
collected a quantity of this plant and put it into the boats, and then
launched.

They were not more than fifty miles from Table Bay, and although they
had no sails, the wind was in their favour. Philip pointed out to them
how useless it was to remain, when before morning they would, in all
probability, arrive at where they would obtain all they required. The
advice was approved of and acted upon; the boats were shoved off and
the oars resumed. So tired and exhausted were the men, that their oars
dipped mechanically into the water, for there was no strength left to
be applied; it was not until the next morning at daylight, that they
had arrived opposite False Bay, and they had still many miles to pull.
The wind in their favour had done almost all--the men could do little
or nothing.

Encouraged, however, by the sight of land which they knew, they
rallied; and at about noon they pulled exhausted to the beach at the
bottom of Table Bay, near to which were the houses, and the fort
protecting the settlers who had for some few years resided there. They
landed close to where a broad rivulet at that season (but a torrent
in the winter) poured its stream into the Bay. At the sight of fresh
water, some of the men dropped their oars, threw themselves into the
sea when out of their depth--others when the water was above their
waists--yet they did not arrive so soon as those who waited till the
boat struck the beach, and jumped out upon dry land. And then they
threw themselves into the rivulet, which coursed over the shingle,
about five or six inches in depth, allowing the refreshing stream to
pour into their mouths till they could receive no more, immersing
their hot hands, and rolling in it with delight.

Despots and fanatics have exerted their ingenuity to invent torments
for their victims--how useless!--the rack, the boot, fire,--all that
they have imagined are not to be compared to the torture of extreme
thirst. In the extremity of agony the sufferers cry for water and
it is not refused: they might have spared themselves their refined
ingenuity of torment and the disgusting exhibition of it, had they
only confined the prisoner in his cell, and refused him _water_.

As soon as they had satisfied the most pressing of all wants, they
rose dripping from the stream, and walked up to the houses of the
factory; the inhabitants of which, perceiving that boats had landed,
when there was no vessel in the Bay, naturally concluded that some
disaster had happened, and were walking down to meet them.--Their
tragical history was soon told. The thirty-six men that stood before
them were all that were left of nearly three hundred souls embarked,
and they had been more than two days without food. At this intimation
no further questions were asked by the considerate settlers, until the
hunger of the sufferers had been appeased, when the narrative of their
sufferings was fully detailed by Philip and Krantz.

"I have an idea that I have seen you before," observed one of the
settlers; "did you come on shore when the fleet anchored?"

"I did not," replied Philip; "but I have been here."

"I recollect, now," replied the man; "you were the only survivor of
the _Ter Schilling_, which was lost in False Bay."

"Not the only survivor," replied Philip; "I thought so myself, but I
afterwards met the pilot, a one-eyed man, of the name of Schriften,
who was my shipmate--he must have arrived here after me. You saw him,
of course?"

"No, I did not; no one belonging to the _Ter Schilling_ ever came here
after you, for I have been a settler here ever since, and it is not
likely that I should forget such a circumstance."

"He must, then, have returned to Holland by some other means."

"I know not how.--Our ships never go near the coast after they leave
the Bay; it is too dangerous."

"Nevertheless, I saw him," replied Philip, musing.

"If you saw him, that is sufficient: perhaps some vessel had been
blown down to the eastern side, and picked him up; but the natives in
that part are not likely to have spared the life of a European. The
Caffres are a cruel people."

The information that Schriften had not been seen at the Cape, was a
subject of meditation to Philip. He had always an idea, as the reader
knows, that there was something supernatural about the man, and this
opinion was corroborated by the report of the settler.

We must pass over the space of two months, during which the wrecked
seamen were treated with kindness by the settlers, and, at the
expiration of which, a small brig arrived at the Bay, and took in
refreshments: she was homeward bound, with a full cargo, and being
chartered by the Company, could not refuse to receive on board the
crew of the _Vrow Katerina_. Philip, Krantz, and the seamen embarked,
but Captain Barentz remained behind to settle at the Cape.

"Should I go home," said he to Philip, who argued with him, "I have
nothing in this world to return for. I have no wife--no children--I
had but one dear object, my _Vrow Katerina_, who was my wife, my
child, my everything--she is gone, and I never shall find another
vessel like her; and if I could, I should not love it as I did her.
No, my affections are buried with her; are entombed in the deep sea.
How beautifully she burnt! she went out of the world like a phoenix,
as she was. No! no! I will be faithful to her--I will send for what
little money I have, and live as near to her tomb as I can--I never
shall forget her as long as I live. I shall mourn over her, and 'Vrow
Katerina,' when I die, will be found engraven on my heart."

Philip could not help wishing that his affections had been fixed upon
a more deserving object, as then, probably, the tragical loss had
not taken place; but he changed the subject, feeling that, being no
sailor, Captain Barentz was much better on shore, than in the command
of a vessel. They shook hands and parted--Philip promising to execute
Barentz's commission, which was to turn his money into articles most
useful to a settler, and have them sent out by the first fleet which
should sail from the Zuyder Zee. But this commission it was not
Philip's good fortune to execute. The brig, named the _Wilhelmina_,
sailed, and soon arrived at St Helena. After watering she proceeded on
her voyage. They had made the Western Isles, and Philip was consoling
himself with the anticipation of soon joining his Amine, when to the
northward of the Islands, they met with a furious gale, before which
they were obliged to scud for many days, with the vessel's head to the
south-east; and as the wind abated and they were able to haul to it,
they fell in with a Dutch fleet, of five vessels, commanded by an
Admiral, which had left Amsterdam more than two months, and had been
buffeted about, by contrary gales, for the major part of that period.
Cold, fatigue, and bad provisions had brought on the scurvy, and the
ships were so weakly manned that they could hardly navigate them. When
the captain of the _Wilhelmina_ reported to the Admiral that he had
part of the crew of the _Vrow Katerina_ on board, he was ordered
to send them immediately to assist in navigating his crippled
fleet--remonstrance was useless--Philip had but time to write to
Amine, acquainting her with his misfortunes and disappointment; and,
confiding the letter to his wife, as well as his narrative of the loss
of the _Vrow Katerina_ for the directors, to the charge of the captain
of the _Wilhelmina_, he hastened to pack up his effects, and repaired
on board of the Admiral's ship, with Krantz and the crew. To them were
added six of the men belonging to the _Wilhelmina_, which the Admiral
insisted on retaining; and the brig, having received the Admiral's
despatches, was then permitted to continue her voyage.

Perhaps there is nothing more trying to the seaman's feelings, than
being unexpectedly forced to recommence another series of trials, at
the very time when they anticipate repose from the former; yet, how
often does this happen! Philip was melancholy. "It is my destiny,"
thought he, using the words of Amine, "and why should I not submit?"
Krantz was furious, and the seamen discontented and mutinous--but
it was useless. Might is right on the vast ocean, where there is no
appeal--no trial or injunction to be obtained.

But hard as their case appeared to them, the Admiral was fully
justified in his proceeding. His ships were almost unmanageable with
the few hands who could still perform their duty; and this small
increase of physical power might be the means of saving hundreds who
lay helpless in their hammocks. In his own vessel, the _Lion_, which
was manned with two hundred and fifty men, when she sailed from
Amsterdam, there were not more than seventy capable of doing duty; and
the other ships had suffered in proportion.

The first captain of the _Lion_ was dead, the second captain in his
hammock, and the Admiral had no one to assist him but the mates of the
vessel, some of whom crawled up to their duty more dead than alive.
The ship of the second in command, the _Dort_, was even in a more
deplorable plight. The Commodore was dead; the first captain was still
doing his duty; but he had but one more officer capable of remaining
on deck.

The Admiral sent for Philip into his cabin, and having heard his
narrative of the loss of the _Vrow Katerina_, he ordered him to go on
board of the Commodore's ship as captain, giving the rank of Commodore
to the captain at present on board of her; Krantz was retained on
board his own vessel, as second captain; for, by Philip's narrative,
the Admiral perceived at once that they were both good officers and
brave men.




Chapter XVIII


The fleet under Admiral Rymelandt's command was ordered to proceed to
the East Indies by the western route, through the Straits of Magellan
into the Pacific Ocean--it being still imagined, notwithstanding
previous failures, that this route offered facilities which might
shorten the passage of the Spice Islands.

The vessels composing the fleet were the _Lion_ of forty-four guns,
bearing the Admiral's flag; the _Dort_ of thirty-six guns, with the
Commodore's pendant--to which Philip was appointed; the _Zuyder Zee_
of twenty; the _Young Frau_ of twelve, and a ketch of four guns,
called the _Schevelling_.

The crew of the _Vrow Katerina_ were divided between the two larger
vessels; the others, being smaller, were easier worked with fewer
hands. Every arrangement having been made, the boats were hoisted
up, and the ships made sail. For ten days they were baffled by light
winds, and the victims to the scurvy increased considerably on board
of Philip's vessel. Many died and were thrown overboard, and others
were carried down to their hammocks.

The newly-appointed Commodore, whose name was Avenhorn, went on board
of the Admiral, to report the state of the vessel, and to suggest, as
Philip had proposed to him, that they should make the coast of South
America, and endeavour, by bribery or by force, to obtain supplies
either from the Spanish inhabitants or the natives. But to this the
Admiral would not listen. He was an imperious, bold, and obstinate
man, not to be persuaded or convinced, and with little feeling for
the sufferings of others. Tenacious of being advised, he immediately
rejected a proposition which, had it originated with himself, would
probably have been immediately acted upon; and the Commodore returned
on board his vessel, not only disappointed, but irritated by the
language used towards him.

"What are we to do, Captain Vanderdecken? you know too well our
situation--it is impossible we can continue long at sea; if we do, the
vessel will be drifting at the mercy of the waves, while the crew die
a wretched death in their hammocks. At present, we have forty men
left; in ten days more we shall probably have but twenty; for as the
labour becomes more severe, so do they drop down the faster. Is it not
better to risk our lives in combat with the Spaniards, than die here
like rotten sheep?"

"I perfectly agree with you, Commodore," replied Philip; "but still we
must obey orders. The Admiral is an inflexible man."

"And a cruel one. I have a great mind to part company in the night,
and, if he finds fault, I will justify myself to the directors on my
return."

"Do nothing rashly--perhaps, when day by day he finds his own ship's
company more weakened, he will see the necessity of following your
advice."

A week had passed away after this conversation, and the fleet had made
little progress. In each ship the ravages of the fatal disease became
more serious, and, as the Commodore had predicted, he had but twenty
men really able to do duty. Nor had the Admiral's ship and the other
vessels suffered less. The Commodore again went on board to reiterate
his proposition.

Admiral Rymelandt was not only a stern, but a vindictive man. He
was aware of the propriety of the suggestion made by his second in
command, but, having refused it, he would not acquiesce; and he felt
revengeful against the Commodore, whose counsel he must now either
adopt, or by refusing it be prevented from taking the steps so
necessary for the preservation of his crew, and the success of his
voyage. Too proud to acknowledge himself in error, again did he
decidedly refuse, and the Commodore went back to his own ship. The
fleet was then within three days of the coast, steering to the
southward for the Straits of Magellan, and that night, after Philip
had retired to his cot, the Commodore went on deck and ordered the
course of the vessel to be altered some points more to the westward.
The night was very dark, and the _Lion_ was the only ship which
carried a poop-lantern, so that the parting company of the _Dort_ was
not perceived by the Admiral and the other ships of the fleet. When
Philip went on deck next morning, he found that their consorts were
not in sight. He looked at the compass, and, perceiving that the
course was altered, inquired at what hour and by whose directions.
Finding that it was by his superior officer, he of course said
nothing. When the Commodore came on deck, he stated to Philip that he
felt himself warranted in not complying with the Admiral's orders, as
it would have been sacrificing the whole ship's company. This was,
indeed, true.

In two days they made the land, and, running into the shore, perceived
a large town and Spaniards on the beach. They anchored at the mouth of
the river, and hoisted English colours, when a boat came on board to
ask them who they were and what they required? The Commodore replied
that the vessel was English, for he knew that the hatred of the
Spanish to the Dutch was so great that, if known to belong to that
nation, he would have had no chance of procuring any supplies, except
by force. He stated that he had fallen in with a Spanish vessel, a
complete wreck, from the whole of the crew being afflicted with the
scurvy; that he had taken the men out, who were now in their
hammocks below, as he considered it cruel to leave so many of his
fellow-creatures to perish, and that he had come out of his course to
land them at the first Spanish fort he could reach. He requested that
they would immediately send on board vegetables and fresh provisions
for the sick men, whom it would be death to remove, until after a few
days, when they would be a little restored; and added, that in return
for their assisting the Spaniards, he trusted the Governor would also
send supplies for his own people.

This well made-up story was confirmed by the officer sent on board by
the Spanish Governor. Being requested to go down below and see the
patients, the sight of so many poor fellows in the last stage of that
horrid disease--their teeth fallen out, gums ulcerated, bodies full
of tumours and sores--was quite sufficient, and, hurrying up from the
lower deck, as he would have done from a charnel-house, the officer
hastened on shore and made his report.

In two hours a large boat was sent off with fresh beef and vegetables
sufficient for three days' supply for the ship's company, and these
were immediately distributed among the men. A letter of thanks was
returned by the Commodore, stating that his health was so indifferent
as to prevent his coming on shore in person to thank the Governor, and
forwarding a pretended list of the Spaniards on board, in which he
mentioned some officers and people of distinction, whom he imagined
might be connected with the family of the Governor, whose name and
titles he had received from the messenger sent on board; for the Dutch
knew full well the majority of the noble Spanish families--indeed,
alliances had continually taken place between them, previous to their
assertion of their independence. The Commodore concluded his letter by
expressing a hope that, in a day or two, he should be able to pay his
respects and make arrangements for the landing of the sick, as he was
anxious to proceed on his voyage of discovery.

On the third day, a fresh supply of provisions was sent on board, and,
so soon as they were received, the Commodore, in an English uniform,
went on shore and called upon the Governor, gave a long detail of the
sufferings of the people he had rescued, and agreed that they should
be sent on shore in two days, and they would, by that time, be well
enough to be moved. After many compliments, he went on board, the
Governor having stated his intention to return his visit on the
following day, if the weather were not too rough. Fortunately, the
weather was rough for the next two days, and it was not until the
third that the Governor made his appearance. This was precisely what
the Commodore wished.

There is no disease, perhaps, so dreadful or so rapid in its effects
upon the human frame, and at the same time so instantaneously checked,
as the scurvy, if the remedy can be procured. A few days were
sufficient to restore those, who were not able to turn in their
hammocks, to their former vigour. In the course of the six days nearly
all the crew of the _Dort_ were convalescent and able to go on deck;
but still they were not cured. The Commodore waited for the arrival of
the Governor, received him with all due honours, and then, so soon
as he was in the cabin, told him very politely that he and all
his officers with him were prisoners. That the vessel was a Dutch
man-of-war, and that it was his own people, and not Spaniards, who had
been dying of the scurvy. He consoled him, however, by pointing out
that he had thought it preferable to obtain provisions by this _ruse_,
than to sacrifice lives on both sides by taking them by force, and
that his Excellency's captivity would endure no longer than until he
had received on board a sufficient number of live bullocks and fresh
vegetables to insure the recovery of the ship's company; and, in the
meantime, not the least insult would be offered to him. Whereupon the
Spanish Governor first looked at the Commodore and then at the file of
armed men at the cabin door, and then to his distance from the town;
and then called to mind the possibility of his being taken out to sea.
Weighing all these points in his mind, and the very moderate ransom
demanded (for bullocks were not worth a dollar apiece in that
country), he resolved, as he could not help himself, to comply with
the Commodore's terms. He called for pen and ink, and wrote an order
to send on board immediately all that was demanded. Before sunset the
bullocks and vegetables were brought off, and, so soon as they were
alongside, the Commodore, with many bows and many thanks, escorted the
Governor to the gangway, complimenting him with a salvo of great guns,
as he had done before, on his arrival. The people on shore thought
that his Excellency had paid a long visit, but, as he did not like to
acknowledge that he had been deceived, nothing was said about it at
least, in his hearing, although the facts were soon well known. As
soon as the boats were cleared, the Commodore weighed anchor and made
sail, well satisfied with having preserved his ship's company; and, as
the Falkland Islands, in case of parting company, had been named as
the rendezvous, he steered for them. In a fortnight he arrived, and
found that his Admiral was not yet there. His crew were now all
recovered, and his fresh beef was not yet expended, when he perceived
the Admiral and the three other vessels in the offing.

It appeared that so soon as the _Dort_ had parted company, the Admiral
had immediately acted upon the advice that the Commodore had given
him, and had run for the coast. Not being so fortunate in a _ruse_
as his second in command, he had landed an armed force from the four
vessels, and had succeeded in obtaining several head of cattle, at the
expense of an equal number of men killed and wounded. But at the same
time they had collected a large quantity of vegetables of one sort or
another, which they had carried on board and distributed with great
success to the sick, who were gradually recovering.

Immediately that the Admiral had anchored, he made the signal for
the Commodore to repair on board, and taxed him with disobedience of
orders in having left the fleet. The Commodore did not deny that he
had so done, but excused himself upon the plea of necessity, offering
to lay the whole matter before the Court of Directors so soon as they
returned; but the Admiral was vested with most extensive powers, not
only of the trial, but the _condemnation_ and punishment of any person
guilty of mutiny and insubordination in his fleet. In reply, he told
the Commodore that he was a prisoner, and, to prove it, he confined
him in irons under the half-deck.

A signal was then made for all the captains: they went on board, and
of course Philip was of the number. On their arrival the Admiral held
a summary court-martial, proving to them by his instructions that he
was so warranted to do. The result of the court-martial could be but
one,--condemnation for a breach of discipline, to which Philip was
obliged reluctantly to sign his name. The Admiral then gave Philip the
appointment of second in command, and the Commodore's pendant, much to
the annoyance of the captains commanding the other vessels,--but in
this the Admiral proved his judgment, as there was no one of them so
fit for the task as Philip. Having so done, he dismissed them. Philip
would have spoken to the late Commodore, but the sentry opposed it,
as against his orders; and with a friendly nod, Philip was obliged to
leave him without the desired communication.

The fleet remained three weeks at the Falkland Islands, to recruit the
ships' companies. Although there was no fresh beef, there was plenty
of scurvy-grass and penguins. These birds were in myriads on some
parts of the island, which, from the propinquity of their nests, built
of mud, went by the name of _towns_. There they sat, close together
(the whole area which they covered being bare of grass), hatching
their eggs and rearing their young. The men had but to select as many
eggs and birds as they pleased, and so numerous were they, that, when
they had supplied themselves, there was no apparent diminution of the
numbers. This food, although in a short time not very palatable to the
seamen, had the effect of restoring them to health, and, before the
fleet sailed, there was not a man who was afflicted with the scurvy.
In the meantime the Commodore remained in irons, and many were the
conjectures concerning his ultimate fate. The power of life and death
was known to be in the Admiral's hands, but no one thought that such
power would be exerted upon a delinquent of so high a grade. The other
captains kept aloof from Philip, and he knew little of what was the
general idea. Occasionally when on board of the Admiral's ship, he
ventured to bring up the question, but was immediately silenced; and
feeling that he might injure the late Commodore (for whom he had a
regard), he would risk nothing by importunity; and the fleet sailed
for the Straits of Magellan, without anybody being aware of what might
be the result of the court-martial.

It was about a fortnight after they had left the Falkland Islands,
that they entered the Straits. At first they had a leading wind which
carried them half through, but this did not last, and they then had to
contend not only against the wind, but against the current, and they
daily lost ground. The crews of the ships also began to sicken from
fatigue and cold. Whether the Admiral had before made up his mind, or
whether, irritated by his fruitless endeavours to continue his voyage,
it is impossible to say; but, after three weeks' useless struggle
against the wind and currents, he hove-to and ordered all the captains
on board, when he proposed that the prisoner should receive his
punishment--and that punishment was--_to be deserted_--that is, to be
sent on shore with a day's food, where there was no means of obtaining
support, so as to die miserably of hunger. This was a punishment
frequently resorted to by the Dutch at that period, as will be seen by
reading an account of their voyages: but, at the same time, seldom, if
ever, awarded to one of so high a rank as that of Commodore.

Philip immediately protested against it, and so did Krantz, although
they were both aware, that by so doing they would make the Admiral
their enemy; but the other captains, who viewed both of them with a
jealous eye, and considered them as interlopers and interfering with
their advancement, sided with the Admiral. Notwithstanding this
majority, Philip thought it his duty to expostulate.

"You know well, Admiral," said he, "that I joined in his condemnation
for a breach of discipline: but, at the same time, there was much in
extenuation. He committed a breach of discipline to save his ship's
company, but not an error in judgment, as you yourself proved, by
taking the same measure to save your own men. Do not, therefore, visit
an offence of so doubtful a nature with such cruelty. Let the Company
decide the point when you send him home, which you can do so soon
as you arrive in India. He is sufficiently punished by losing his
command: to do what you propose will be ascribed to feelings of
revenge more than to those of justice. What success can we deserve if
we commit an act of such cruelty; and how can we expect a merciful
Providence to protect us from the winds and waves when we are thus
barbarous towards each other?"

Philip's arguments were of no avail. The Admiral ordered him to return
on board his ship, and had he been able to find an excuse, he would
have deprived him of his command. This he could not well do; but
Philip was aware that the Admiral was now his inveterate enemy. The
Commodore was taken out of irons and brought into the cabin, and his
sentence was made known to him.

"Be it so, Admiral," replied Avenhorn; "for, to attempt to turn you
from your purpose, I know would be unavailing. I am not punished for
disobedience of orders, but for having, by my disobedience, pointed
out to you your duty--a duty which you were forced to perform
afterwards by necessity. Then be it so; let me perish on these black
rocks, as I shall, and my bones be whitened by the chilly blasts which
howl over their desolation. But mark me, cruel and vindictive man! I
shall not be the only one whose bones will bleach there. I prophesy
that many others will share my fate, and even you, Admiral, _may_ be
of the number,--if I mistake not, we shall lie side by side."

The Admiral made no reply, but gave a sign for the prisoner to be
removed. He then had a conference with the captains of the three
smaller vessels; and, as they had been all along retarded by the
heavier sailing of his own ship and the _Dort_ commanded by Philip, he
decided that they should part company, and proceed on as fast as they
could to the Indies--sending on board of the two larger vessels all
the provisions they could spare, as they already began to run short.

Philip had left the cabin with Krantz after the prisoner had been
removed. He then wrote a few lines upon a slip of paper--"Do not leave
the beach when you are put on shore, until the vessels are out of
sight;" and, requesting Krantz to find an opportunity to deliver this
to the Commodore, he returned on board of his own ship.

When the crew of the _Dort_ heard of the punishment about to be
inflicted upon their old Commander, they were much excited. They felt
that he had sacrificed himself to save them, and they murmured much at
the cruelty of the Admiral.

About an hour after Philip's return to his ship, the prisoner was sent
on shore and landed on the desolate and rocky coast, with a supply of
provisions for two days. Not a single article of extra clothing, or
the means of striking a light was permitted him. When the boat's keel
grazed the beach, he was ordered out. The boat shoved off, and the men
were not permitted even to bid him farewell.

The fleet, as Philip expected, remained hove-to, shifting the
provisions, and it was not till after dark that everything was
arranged. This opportunity was not lost. Philip was aware that it
would be considered a breach of discipline, but to that he was
indifferent; neither did he think it likely that it would come to the
ears of the Admiral, as the crew of the _Dort_ were partial both to
the Commodore and to him. He had desired a seaman whom he could trust,
to put into one of the boats a couple of muskets and a quantity of
ammunition, several blankets, and various other articles, besides
provisions for two or three months for one person, and, as soon as it
was dark, the men pulled on shore with the boat, found the Commodore
on the beach waiting for them, and supplied him with all these
necessaries. They then rejoined their ship, without the Admiral's
having the least suspicion of what had been done, and shortly after
the fleet made sail on a wind, with their heads off shore. The next
morning, the three smaller vessels parted company, and by sunset had
gained many miles to windward, after which they were not again seen.

The Admiral had sent for Philip to give him his instructions, which
were very severe, and evidently framed so as to be able to afford him
hereafter some excuse for depriving him of his command. Among others,
his orders were, as the _Dort_ drew much less water than the Admiral's
ship, to sail ahead of him during the night, that, if they approached
too near the land as they beat across the Channel, timely notice might
be given to the Admiral, if in too shallow water. This responsibility
was the occasion of Philip's being always on deck when they approached
the land of either side of the Straits. It was the second night after
the fleet had separated that Philip had been summoned on deck as they
were nearing the land of Terra del Fuego; he was watching the man in
the chains heaving the lead, when the officer of the watch reported
to him that the Admiral's ship was ahead of them instead of astern.
Philip made enquiry as to when he passed, but could not discover; he
went forward, and saw the Admiral's ship with her poop-light, which,
when the Admiral was astern, was not visible. "What can be the
Admiral's reason for this?" thought Philip; "has he run ahead on
purpose to make a charge against me of neglect of duty? it must be so.
Well, let him do as he pleases; he must wait now till we arrive
in India, for I shall not allow him to _desert_ me; and, with the
Company, I have as much, and I rather think, as a large proprietor,
more interest than he has. Well, as he has thought proper to go ahead,
I have nothing to do but follow. 'You may come out of the chains
there.'"

Philip went forward: they were now, as he imagined, very near to the
land, but the night was dark and they could not distinguish it. For
half an hour they continued their course, much to Philip's surprise,
for he now thought he could make out the loom of the land, dark as it
was. His eyes were constantly fixed upon the ship ahead, expecting
every minute that she would go about; but no, she continued her
course, and Philip followed with his own vessel.

"We are very close to the land, sir," observed Vander Hagen, the
lieutenant, who was the officer of the watch.

"So it appears to me: but the Admiral is closer, and draws much more
water than we do," replied Philip.

"I think I see the rocks on the beam to leeward, sir."

"I believe you are right," replied Philip: "I cannot understand this.
Ready about, and get a gun ready--they must suppose us to be ahead of
them, depend upon it."

Hardly had Philip given the order, when the vessel struck heavily on
the rocks. Philip hastened aft; he found that the rudder had been
unshipped, and the vessel was immovably fixed. His thoughts then
reverted to the Admiral. "Was he on shore?" He ran forward, and the
Admiral was still sailing on, with his poop-light, about two cables'
length ahead of him.

"Fire the gun, there," cried Philip, perplexed beyond measure.

The gun was fired, and immediately followed up by the flash and report
of another gun close astern of them. Philip looked with astonishment
over the quarter and perceived the Admiral's ship close astern to him,
and evidently on shore as well as his own.

"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Philip, rushing forward, "what can this
be?" He beheld the other vessel with her light ahead, still sailing on
and leaving them. The day was now dawning, and there was sufficient
light to make out the land. The _Dort_ was on shore not fifty yards
from the beach, and surrounded by the high and barren rocks; yet the
vessel ahead was apparently sailing on over the land. The seamen
crowded on the forecastle watching this strange phenomenon; at last it
vanished from their sight.

"That's the _Flying Dutchman_, by all that's holy!" cried one of the
seamen, jumping off the gun.

Hardly had the man uttered these words when the vessel disappeared.

Philip felt convinced that it was so, and he walked away aft in a very
perturbed state. It must have been his father's fatal ship which had
decoyed them to probable destruction. He hardly knew how to act. The
Admiral's wrath he did not wish, just at that moment, to encounter. He
sent for the officer of the watch, and, having desired him to select
a crew for the boat, out of those men who had been on deck, and could
substantiate his assertions, ordered him to go on board of the Admiral
and state what had happened.

As soon as the boat had shoved off, Philip turned his attention to
the state of his own vessel. The daylight had increased, and Philip
perceived that they were surrounded by rocks, and had run on shore
between two reefs, which extended half a mile from the mainland. He
sounded round his vessel, and discovered that she was fixed from
forward to aft, and that, without lightening her, there was no chance
of getting her off. He then turned to where the Admiral's ship lay
aground, and found that, to all appearance, she was in even a worse
plight, as the rocks to leeward of her were above the water, and she
was much more exposed, should bad weather come on. Never, perhaps, was
there a scene more cheerless and appalling: a dark wintry sky--a sky
loaded with heavy clouds--the wind cold and piercing--the whole
line of the coast one mass of barren rocks, without the slightest
appearance of vegetation; the inland part of the country presented
an equally sombre appearance, and the higher points were capped with
snow, although it was not yet the winter season. Sweeping the coast
with his eye, Philip perceived, not four miles to leeward of them (so
little progress had they made), the spot where they had _deserted_ the
Commodore.

"Surely this has been a judgment on him for his cruelty," thought
Philip, "and the prophecy of poor Avenhorn will come true--more bones
than his will bleach on those rocks." Philip turned round again to
where the Admiral's ship was on shore, and started back, as he beheld
a sight even more dreadful than all that he had viewed--the body of
Vander Hagen, the officer sent on board of the Admiral, hanging at the
main-yard-arm. "My God! is it possible?" exclaimed Philip, stamping
with sorrow and indignation.

His boat was returning on board, and Philip awaited it with
impatience. The men hastened up the side, and breathlessly informed
Philip that the Admiral, as soon as he had heard the Lieutenant's
report, and his acknowledgment that he was officer of the watch, had
ordered him to be hung, and that he had sent them back with a summons
for him to repair on board immediately, and that they had seen another
rope preparing at the other yard-arm.

"But not for you, sir," cried the men; "that shall never be--you shall
not go on board--and we will defend you with our lives."

The whole ship's company joined in this resolution, and expressed
their determination to resist the Admiral. Philip thanked them
kindly--stated his intention of not going on board, and requested
that they would remain quiet, until it was ascertained what steps the
Admiral might take. He then went down to his cabin, to reflect upon
what plan he should pursue. As he looked out of the stern-windows, and
perceived the body of the young man still swinging in the wind, he
almost wished that he was in his place, for then there would be an end
to his wayward fate: but he thought of Amine, and felt that, for her,
he wished to live. That the Phantom Ship should have decoyed him to
destruction was also a source of much painful feeling, and Philip
meditated, with his hands pressed to his temples. "It is my destiny,"
thought he at last, "and the will of Heaven must be done: we could not
have been so deceived if Heaven had not permitted it." And then his
thoughts reverted to his present situation.

That the Admiral had exceeded his powers in taking the life of the
officer was undeniable, as, although his instructions gave him power
of life and death, still it was only to be decided by the sentence of
the court-martial held by the captains commanding the vessels of the
fleet; he therefore felt himself justified in resistance. But Philip
was troubled with the idea that such resistance might lead to much
bloodshed; and he was still debating how to act, when they reported to
him that there was a boat coming from the Admiral's ship. Philip went
upon deck to receive the officer, who stated that it was the Admiral's
order that he should immediately come on board, and that he must
consider himself now under arrest, and deliver up his sword.

"No! no!" exclaimed the ship's company of the _Dort_. He shall not go
on board. We will stand by our Captain to the last."

"Silence, men! silence!" cried Philip. "You must be aware, sir," said
he to the officer, "that in the cruel punishment of that innocent
young man, the Admiral has exceeded his powers: and, much as I
regret to see any symptoms of mutiny and insubordination, it must be
remembered that, if those in command disobey the orders they have
received, by exceeding them, they not only set the example, but give
an excuse for those who otherwise would be bound to obey them, to do
the same. Tell the Admiral that his murder of that innocent man has
determined me no longer to consider myself under his authority, and
that I will hold myself, as well as him, answerable to the Company
whom we serve, for our conduct. I do not intend to go on board and
put myself in his power, that he might gratify his resentment by my
ignominious death. It is a duty that I owe these men under my command
to preserve my life, that I may, if possible, preserve theirs in this
strait; and you may also add, that a little reflection must point out
to him that this is no time for us to war with, but to assist each
other with all our energies. We are here, ship-wrecked on a barren
coast, with provisions insufficient for any lengthened stay, no
prospect of succour, and little of escape. As the Commodore truly
prophesied, many more are likely to perish as well as him--and even
the Admiral himself may be of the number. I shall wait his answer;
if he choose to lay aside all animosity, and refer our conduct to
a higher tribunal, I am willing to join with him in rendering that
assistance to each other which our situation requires--if not, you
must perceive, and of course will tell him, that I have those with me
who will defend me against any attempt at force. You have my answer,
sir, and may go on board."

The officer went to the gangway, but found that none of his crew,
except the bowman, were in the boat; they had gone up to gain from the
men of the _Dort_ the true history of what they had but imperfectly
heard: and, before they were summoned to return, had received full
intelligence. They coincided with the seamen of the _Dort_, that the
appearance of the Phantom Ship, which had occasioned their present
disaster, was a judgment upon the Admiral, for his conduct in having
so cruelly _deserted_ the poor Commodore.

Upon the return of the officer with Philip's answer, the rage of the
Admiral was beyond all bounds. He ordered the guns aft, which would
bear upon the _Dort_, to be double-shotted, and fired into her; but
Krantz pointed out to him that they could not bring more guns to bear
upon the _Dort_, in their present situation, than the _Dort_
could bring to bear upon them; that their superior force was thus
neutralised, and that no advantage could result from taking such a
step. The Admiral immediately put Krantz under arrest, and proceeded
to put into execution his insane intentions. In this he was, however,
prevented by the seamen of the _Lion_, who neither wished to fire upon
their consort, nor to be fired at in return. The report of the boat's
crew had been circulated through the ship, and the men felt too much
ill-will against the Admiral, and perceived at the same time the
extreme difficulty of their situation, to wish to make it worse. They
did not proceed to open mutiny, but they went down below, and when
the officers ordered them up, they refused to go upon deck; and the
officers, who were equally disgusted with the Admiral's conduct,
merely informed him of the state of the ship's company, without
naming individuals, so as to excite his resentment against any one
in particular. Such was the state of affairs when the sun went down.
Nothing had been done on board the Admiral's ship, for Krantz was
under arrest, and the Admiral had retired in a state of fury to his
cabin.

In the meantime Philip and the ship's company had not been idle--they
had laid an anchor out astern, and hove taut: they had started all
the water, and were pumping it out, when a boat pulled alongside, and
Krantz made his appearance on deck.

"Captain Vanderdecken, I have come to put myself under your orders, if
you will receive me--if not, render me your protection; for, as
sure as fate, I should have been hanged to-morrow morning, if I had
remained in my own ship. The men in the boat have come with the same
intention--that of joining you, if you will permit them."

Although Philip would have wished it had been otherwise, he could not
well refuse to receive Krantz, under the circumstances of the case. He
was very partial to him, and to save his life, which certainly was in
danger, he would have done much more. He desired that the boat's crew
should return; but when Krantz had stated to him what had occurred on
board the _Lion_, and the crew earnestly begged him not to send them
back to almost certain death, which their having effected the escape
of Krantz would have assured, Philip reluctantly allowed them to
remain.

The night was tempestuous, but the wind being now off shore, the water
was not rough. The crew of the _Dort_, under the directions of Philip
and Krantz, succeeded in lightening the vessel so much during the
night that the next morning they were able to haul her off, and found
that her bottom had received no serious injury. It was fortunate for
them that they had not discontinued their exertions, for the wind
shifted a few hours before sunrise, and by the time that they had
shipped their rudder, it came on to blow fresh down the Straits, the
wind being accompanied with a heavy swell.

The Admiral's ship still lay aground, and apparently no exertions were
used to get her off. Philip was much puzzled how to act: leave the
crew of the _Lion_ he could not; nor indeed could he refuse, or did he
wish to refuse the Admiral, if he proposed coming on board; but he now
made up his mind that it should only be as a passenger, and that he
would himself retain the command. At present he contented himself with
dropping his anchor outside, clear of the reef, where he was sheltered
by a bluff cape, under which the water was smooth, about a mile
distant from where the Admiral's ship lay on shore; and he employed
his crew in replenishing his water-casks from a rivulet close to where
the ship was anchored. He waited to see if the other vessel got off,
being convinced that if she did not some communication must soon take
place. As soon as the water was complete, he sent one of the boats to
the place where the Commodore had been landed, having resolved to take
him on board, if they could find him; but the boat returned without
having seen anything of him, although the men had clambered over the
hills to a considerable distance.

On the second morning after Philip had hauled his vessel off, they
observed that the boats of the Admiral's ship were passing and
repassing from the shore, landing her stores and provisions; and the
next day, from the tents pitched on shore, it was evident that she was
abandoned, although the boats were still employed in taking articles
out of her. That night it blew fresh, and the sea was heavy; the next
morning her masts were gone, and she turned on her broadside; she was
evidently a wreck, and Philip now consulted with Krantz how to act. To
leave the crew of the _Lion_ on shore was impossible: they must all
perish when the winter set in upon such a desolate coast. On the
whole, it was considered advisable that the first communication should
come from the other party, and Philip resolved to remain quietly at
anchor.

It was very plain that there was no longer any subordination among the
crew of the _Lion_, who were to be seen, in the day-time, climbing
over the rocks in every direction, and at night, when their large
fires were lighted, carousing and drinking. This waste of provisions
was a subject of much vexation to Philip. He had not more than
sufficient for his own crew, and he took it for granted that, so soon
as what they had taken on shore should be expended, the crew of the
_Lion_ would ask to be received on board of the _Dort_.

For more than a week did affairs continue in this state, when, one
morning, a boat was seen pulling towards the ship, and, in the
stern-sheets Philip recognised the officer who had been sent on board
to put him under arrest. When the officer came on deck, he took off
his hat to Philip.

"You do, then, acknowledge me as in command," observed Philip.

"Yes, sir, most certainly; you were second in command, but now you are
first--for the Admiral is dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed Philip; "and how?"

"He was found dead on the beach, under a high cliff, and the body
of the Commodore was in his arms; indeed, they were both grappled
together. It is supposed, that in his walk up to the top of the hill,
which he used to take every day, to see if any vessels might be in
the Straits, he fell in with the Commodore--that they had come to
contention, and had both fallen over the precipice together. No one
saw the meeting, but they must have fallen over the rocks, as the
bodies are dreadfully mangled."

On inquiry, Philip ascertained that all chance of saving the _Lion_
had been lost after the second night, when she had beat in her
larboard streak, and had six feet of water in the hold--that the crew
had been very insubordinate, and had consumed almost all the spirits;
and that not only all the sick had already perished, but also
many others who had either fallen over the rocks when they were
intoxicated, or had been found dead in the morning, from their
exposure during the night.

"Then the poor Commodore's prophecy has been fulfilled!" observed
Philip to Krantz. "Many others, and even the Admiral himself, have
perished with him--peace be with them! And now let us get away from
this horrible place as soon as possible."

Philip then gave orders to the officer to collect his men, and the
provisions that remained, for immediate embarkation. Krantz followed
soon after with all the boats, and before night everything was on
board. The bodies of the Admiral and Commodore were buried where they
lay, and the next morning the _Dort_ was under weigh, and, with a
slanting wind, was laying a fair course through the Straits.




Chapter XIX


It appeared as if their misfortunes were to cease, after the tragical
death of the two commanders. In a few days, the _Dort_ had passed
through the Straits of Magellan, and was sailing in the Pacific Ocean,
with a blue sky and quiet sea. The ship's company recovered their
health and spirits, and the vessel being now well manned, the duty was
carried on with cheerfulness.

In about a fortnight, they had gained well up on the Spanish coast,
but although they had seen many of the inhabitants on the beach, they
had not fallen in with any vessels belonging to the Spaniards. Aware
that if he met with a Spanish ship of superior force it would attack
him, Philip had made every preparation, and had trained his men to the
guns. He had now, with the joint crews of the vessels, a well-manned
ship, and the anticipation of prize-money had made his men very eager
to fall in with some Spaniard, which they knew that Philip would
capture if he could. Light winds and calms detained them for a month
on the coast, when Philip determined upon running for the Isle St
Marie, where, though he knew it was in possession of the Spaniards, he
yet hoped to be able to procure refreshments for the ship's company,
either by fair means or by force. The _Dort_ was, by their reckoning,
about thirty miles from the island, and having run in until after
dark, they had hove-to till the next morning. Krantz was on deck;
he leant over the side, and as the sails flapped to the masts, he
attempted to define the line of the horizon. It was very dark, but as
he watched, he thought that he perceived a light for a moment, and
which then disappeared. Fixing his eyes on the spot, he soon made out
a vessel, hove-to, and not two cables' length distant. He hastened
down to apprise Philip, and procure a glass. By the time Philip was
on deck, the vessel had been distinctly made out to be a three-masted
xebeque, very low in the water. After a short consultation, it was
agreed that the boats on the quarter should be lowered down, and
manned and armed without noise, and that they should steal gently
alongside and surprise her. The men were called up, silence enjoined,
and in a few minutes the boats' crew had possession of the vessel;
having boarded her and secured the hatches before the alarm could be
given by the few who were on deck. More men were then taken on board
by Krantz, who, as agreed upon, lay to under the lee of the _Dort_
until the daylight made its appearance. The hatches were then taken
off, and the prisoners sent on board of the _Dort_. There were sixty
people on board, a large number for a vessel of that description.

On being interrogated, two of the prisoners, who were well-dressed and
gentlemanlike persons, stepped forward and stated that the vessel was
from St Mary's, bound to Lima, with a cargo of flour and passengers;
that the crew and captain consisted of twenty-five men, and all the
rest who were on board, had taken that opportunity of going to Lima.
That they themselves were among the passengers, and trusted that the
vessel and cargo would be immediately released, as the two nations
were not at war.

"Not at war at home, I grant," replied Philip, "but in these seas, the
constant aggressions of your armed ships compel me to retaliate, and
I shall therefore make a prize of your vessel and cargo. At the same
time, as I have no wish to molest private individuals, I will land all
the passengers and crew at St Mary's, to which place I am bound in
order to obtain refreshments, which now I shall expect will be given
cheerfully as your ransom, so as to relieve me from resorting to
force." The prisoners protested strongly against this, but without
avail. They then requested leave to ransom the vessel and cargo,
offering a larger sum than they both appeared to be worth; but Philip,
being short of provisions, refused to part with the cargo, and the
Spaniards appeared much disappointed at the unsuccessful issue of
their request. Finding that nothing would induce him to part with the
provisions, they then begged hard to ransom the vessel; and to this,
after a consultation with Krantz, Philip gave his assent. The two
vessels then made sail, and steered on for the island, then about four
leagues distant. Although Philip had not wished to retain the vessel,
yet, as they stood in together, her superior speed became so manifest
that he almost repented that he had agreed to ransom her.

At noon, the _Dort_ was anchored in the roads, out of gunshot, and a
portion of the passengers allowed to go on shore and make arrangements
for the ransom of the remainder, while the prize was hauled alongside,
and her cargo hoisted into the ship. Towards evening, three large
boats with live stock and vegetables and the sum agreed upon for the
ransom of the xebeque, came alongside; and as soon as one of the boats
was cleared, the prisoners were permitted to go on shore in it, with
the exception of the Spanish pilot, who, at the suggestion of Krantz,
was retained, with a promise of being released directly the _Dort_ was
clear of the Spanish seas. A negro slave was also, at his own
request, allowed to remain on board, much to the annoyance of the two
passengers before mentioned, who claimed the man as their property,
and insisted that it was an infraction of the agreement which had been
entered into. "You prove my right by your own words," replied Philip;
"I agreed to deliver up all the passengers, but no _property_; the
slave will remain on board."

Finding their endeavours ineffectual, the Spaniards took a haughty
leave. The _Dort_ remained at anchor that night to examine her
rigging, and the next morning they discovered that the xebeque had
disappeared, having sailed unperceived by them during the night.

As soon as the anchor was up and sail made on the ship, Philip went
down to his cabin with Krantz, to consult as to their best course.
They were followed by the negro slave, who, shutting the door and
looking watchfully round, said that he wished to speak with them. His
information was most important, but given rather too late. The vessel
which had been ransomed was a government advice-boat, the fastest
sailer the Spaniards possessed. The two pretended passengers were
officers of the Spanish navy, and the others were the crew of the
vessel. She had been sent down to collect the bullion and take it
to Lima, and at the same time to watch for the arrival of the Dutch
fleet, intelligence of whose sailing had been some time before
received overland. When the Dutch fleet made its appearance, she
was to return to Lima with the news, and a Spanish force would be
despatched against it. They further learnt that some of the supposed
casks of flour contained 2000 gold doubloons each, others bars of
silver; this precaution having been taken in case of capture. That the
vessel had now sailed for Lima there was no doubt. The reason why
the Spaniards were so anxious not to leave the negro on board of the
_Dort_, was, that they knew that he would disclose what he now had
done. As for the pilot, he was a man whom the Spaniards knew they
could trust, and for that reason they had better be careful of him, or
he would lead the _Dort_ into some difficulty.

Philip now repented that he had ransomed the vessel, as he would, in
all probability, have to meet and cope with a superior force, before
he could make his way clear out of these seas; but there was no help
for it. He consulted with Krantz, and it was agreed that they should
send for the ship's company and make them acquainted with these facts;
arguing that a knowledge of the valuable capture which they had made,
would induce the men to fight well, and stimulate them with the hopes
of further success. The ship's company heard the intelligence with
delight, professed themselves ready to meet double their force, and
then, by the directions of Philip, the casks were brought up on the
quarter-deck, opened, and the bullion taken out. The whole, when
collected, amounted to about half a million of dollars, as near as
they could estimate it, and a distribution of the coined money was
made from the capstan the very next day; the bars of metal being
reserved until they could be sold, and their value ascertained.

For six weeks Philip worked his vessel up the coast, without
falling in with any vessel under sail. Notice had been given by the
advice-boat, as it appeared, and every craft, large and small, was at
anchor under the batteries. They had nearly run up the whole coast,
and Philip had determined that the next day he would stretch across to
Batavia, when a ship was seen in-shore under a press of sail, running
towards Lima. Chase was immediately given, but the water shoaled,
and the pilot was asked if they could stand on. He replied in the
affirmative, stating that they were now in the shallowest water, and
that it was deeper within. The leadsman was ordered into the chains,
but at the first heave the lead-line broke; another was sent for, and
the _Dort_ still carried on under a heavy press of sail. Just then,
the negro slave went up to Philip, and told him that he had seen the
pilot with his knife in the chains, and that he thought he must have
cut the lead-line so far through as to occasion it being carried away,
and told Philip not to trust him. The helm was immediately put down;
but as the ship went round she touched on the bank, dragged, and was
again clear.--"Scoundrel!" cried Philip. "So you cut the lead-line?
The negro saw you, and has saved us."

The Spaniard leaped down from off the gun, and, before he could be
prevented, had buried his knife in the heart of the negro. "Maldetto,
take that for your pains!" cried he, in a fury, grinding his teeth and
flourishing his knife.

The negro fell dead. The pilot was seized and disarmed by the crew
of the _Dort_, who were partial to the negro, as it was from his
information that they had become rich.

"Let them do with him as they please," said Krantz to Philip.

"Yes," replied Philip; "summary justice."

The crew debated a few minutes, and then lashed the pilot to the
negro, and carried him off to the taffrail. There was a heavy plunge,
and he disappeared under the eddying waters in the wake of the vessel.

Philip now determined to shape his course for Batavia. He was within a
few days' sail of Lima, and had every reason to believe that vessels
had been sent out to intercept him. With a favourable wind he now
stood away from the coast, and for three days made a rapid passage.
On the fourth, at daylight, two vessels appeared to windward, bearing
down upon him. That they were large armed vessels was evident; and the
display of Spanish ensigns and pennants, as they rounded to, about a
mile to windward, soon showed that they were enemies. They proved
to be a frigate of a larger size than the _Dort_, and a corvette of
twenty-two guns.

The crew of the _Dort_ showed no alarm at this disparity of force:
they clinked their doubloons in their pockets; vowed not to return
them to their lawful owners, if they could help it; and flew with
alacrity to their guns. The Dutch ensign was displayed in defiance,
and the two Spanish vessels, again putting their heads towards the
_Dort_, that they might lessen their distance, received some raking
shot, which somewhat discomposed them; but they rounded to at a
cable's length, and commenced the action with great spirit, the
frigate lying on the beam, and the corvette on the bow of Philip's
vessel. After half an hour's determined exchange of broadsides, the
foremast of the Spanish frigate fell, carrying away with it the
maintop-mast; and this accident impeded her firing. The _Dort_
immediately made sail, stood on to the corvette, which she crippled
with three or four broadsides, then tacked, and fetched alongside of
the frigate, whose lee-guns were still impeded with the wreck of the
foremast. The two vessels now lay head and stern, within ten feet of
each other, and the action recommenced to the disadvantage of the
Spaniard. In a quarter of an hour the canvas, hanging overside, caught
fire from the discharge of the guns, and very soon communicated to the
ship, the _Dort_ still pouring in a most destructive broadside, which
could not be effectually returned. After every attempt to extinguish
the flames, the captain of the Spanish vessel resolved that both
vessels should share the same fate. He put his helm up, and, running
her on to the _Dort_, grappled with her, and attempted to secure
the two vessels together. Then raged the conflict; the Spaniards
attempting to pass their grappling-chains so as to prevent the escape
of their enemy, and the Dutch endeavouring to frustrate their attempt.
The chains and sides of both vessels were crowded with men fighting
desperately; those struck down falling between the two vessels, which
the wreck of the foremast still prevented from coming into actual
collision. During this conflict, Philip and Krantz were not idle.
By squaring the after-yards, and putting all sail on forward they
contrived that the _Dort_ should pay off before the wind with her
antagonist, and by this manoeuvre they cleared themselves of the smoke
which so incommoded them; and, having good way on the two vessels,
they then rounded to so as to get on the other tack, and bring the
Spaniard to leeward. This gave them a manifest advantage, and soon
terminated the conflict. The smoke and flames were beat back on the
Spanish vessel--the fire which had communicated to the _Dort_ was
extinguished--the Spaniards were no longer able to prosecute their
endeavours to fasten the two vessels together, and retreated to within
the bulwarks of their own vessel; and, after great exertions, the
_Dort_ was disengaged, and forged ahead of her opponent, who was soon
enveloped in a sheet of flame. The corvette remained a few cables'
length to windward, occasionally firing a gun. Philip poured in a
broadside, and she hauled down her colours. The action might now be
considered at an end, and the object was to save the crew of the
burning frigate. The boats of the _Dort_ were hoisted out, but only
two of them could swim. One of them was immediately despatched to the
corvette, with orders for her to send all her boats to the assistance
of the frigate, which was done, and the major part of the surviving
crew were saved. For two hours the guns of the frigate, as they were
heated by the flames, discharged themselves; and then, the fire having
communicated to the magazine, she blew up, and the remainder of her
hull sank slowly and disappeared. Among the prisoners in the uniform
of the Spanish service Philip perceived the two pretended passengers,
this proving the correctness of the negro's statement. The two
men-of-war had been sent out of Lima on purpose to intercept him,
anticipating, with such a preponderating force, an easy victory. After
some consultation with Krantz, Philip agreed that, as the corvette was
in such a crippled state, and the nations were not actually at war,
it would be advisable to release her with all the prisoners. This was
done, and the _Dort_ again made sail for Batavia, and anchored in
the roads three weeks after the combat had taken place. He found the
remainder of the fleet, which had been despatched before them, and had
arrived there some weeks, had taken in their cargoes, and were
ready to sail for Holland. Philip wrote his despatches, in which he
communicated to the directors the events of the voyage; and then went
on shore, to reside at the house of the merchant who had formerly
received him, until the _Dort_ could be freighted for her voyage home.




Chapter XX


We must return to Amine, who is seated on the mossy bank where she and
Philip conversed when they were interrupted by Schriften the pilot.
She is in deep thought, with her eyes cast down, as if trying to
recall the past. "Alas! for my mother's power," exclaimed she; "but it
is gone--gone for ever! This torment and suspense I cannot bear--those
foolish priests too!" And Amine rose from the bank and walked towards
her cottage.

Father Mathias had not returned to Lisbon. At first he had not found
an opportunity, and afterwards, his debt of gratitude towards Philip
induced him to remain by Amine, who appeared each day to hold more in
aversion the tenets of the Christian faith. Many and many were the
consultations with Father Seysen, many were the exhortations of both
the good old men to Amine, who, at times, would listen without reply,
and at others, argue boldly against them. It appeared to them that she
rejected their religion with an obstinacy as unpardonable as it was
incomprehensible. But to her the case was more simple: she refused to
believe, she said, that which she could not understand. She went so
far as to acknowledge the beauty of the principles, the purity of the
doctrine; but when the good priests would enter into the articles of
their faith, Amine would either shake her head or attempt to turn
the conversation. This only increased the anxiety of the good Father
Mathias to convert and save the soul of one so young and beautiful;
and he now no longer thought of returning to Lisbon, but devoted his
whole time to the instruction of Amine, who, wearied by his incessant
importunities, almost loathed his presence.

Upon reflection, it will not appear surprising that Amine rejected a
creed so dissonant to her wishes and intentions. The human mind is of
that proud nature, that it requires all its humility to be called into
action before it will bow, even to the Deity.

Amine knew that her mother had possessed superior knowledge, and an
intimacy with unearthly intelligences. She had seen her practise her
art with success, although so young at the time that she could not now
call to mind the mystic preparations by which her mother had succeeded
in her wishes; and it was now that her thoughts were wholly bent upon
recovering what she had forgotten, that Father Mathias was exhorting
her to a creed which positively forbade even the attempt. The peculiar
and awful mission of her husband strengthened her opinion in the
lawfulness of calling in the aid of supernatural agencies; and the
arguments brought forward by these worthy, but not over-talented,
professors of the Christian creed, had but little effect upon a mind
so strong and so decided as that of Amine--a mind which, bent as it
was upon one object, rejected with scorn tenets, in proof of which
they could offer no visible manifestation, and which would have bound
her blindly to believe what appeared to her contrary to common sense.
That her mother's art could bring evidence of _its_ truth she had
already shown, and satisfied herself in the effect of the dream
which she had proved upon Philip;--but what proof could they bring
forward?--Records--_which they would not permit her to read_!

"Oh! that I had my mother's art," repeated Amine once more, as she
entered the cottage; "then would I know where my Philip was at this
moment. Oh! for the black mirror in which I used to peer at her
command, and tell her what passed in array before me. How well do I
remember that time--the time of my father's absence, when I looked
into the liquid on the palm of my hand, and told her of the Bedouin
camp--of the skirmish--the horse without a rider--and the turban on
the sand!" And again Amine fell into deep thought. "Yes," cried she,
after a time, "thou canst assist me, mother! Give me in a dream thy
knowledge; thy daughter begs it as a boon. Let me think again. The
word--what was the word? what was the name of the spirit--Turshoon?
Yes, methinks it was Turshoon. Mother! mother! help your daughter."

"Dost thou call upon the Blessed Virgin, my child?" said Father
Mathias, who had entered the room as she pronounced the last words.
"If so, thou dost well, for she may appear to thee in thy dreams, and
strengthen thee in the true faith."

"I called upon my own mother, who is in the land of spirits, good
father," replied Amine.

"Yes; but, as an infidel; not, I fear, in the land of the blessed
spirits, my child."

"She hardly will be punished for following the creed of her fathers,
living where she did, where no other creed was known?" replied Amine,
indignantly. "If the good on earth are blessed in the next world--if
she had, as you assert she had, a soul to be saved--an immortal
spirit--He who made that spirit will not destroy it because she
worshipped as her fathers did.--Her life was good: why should she
be punished for ignorance of that creed which she never had an
opportunity of rejecting?"

"Who shall dispute the will of Heaven, my child? Be thankful that you
are permitted to be instructed, and to be received into the bosom of
the holy church."

"I am thankful for many things, father; but I am weary, and must wish
you a good-night."

Amine retired to her room--but not to sleep. Once more did she attempt
the ceremonies used by her mother, changing them each time, as
doubtful of her success. Again the censer was lighted--the charm
essayed; again the room was filled with smoke as she threw in the
various herbs which she had knowledge of, for all the papers thrown
aside at her father's death had been carefully collected, and on many
were directions found as to the use of those herbs. "The word! the
word! I have the first--the second word! Help me, mother!" cried
Amine, as she sat by the side of the bed, in the room, which was now
so full of smoke that nothing could be distinguished. "It is of no
use," thought she at last, letting her hands fall at her side; "I have
forgotten the art. Mother! mother! help me in my dreams this night."

The smoke gradually cleared away, and, when Amine lifted up her eyes,
she perceived a figure standing before her. At first she thought she
had been successful in her charm; but, as the figure became more
distinct, she perceived that it was Father Mathias, who was looking at
her with a severe frown and contracted brow, his arms folded before
him.

"Unholy child! what dost thou?"

Amine had roused the suspicions of the priests, not only by her
conversation, but by several attempts which she had before made to
recover her lost art; and on one occasion, in which she had defended
it, both Father Mathias and Father Seysen had poured out the bitterest
anathemas upon her, or anyone who had resort to such practices. The
smell of the fragrant herbs thrown into the censer, and the smoke,
which afterwards had escaped through the door and ascended the stairs,
had awakened the suspicions of Father Mathias, and he had crept up
silently, and entered the room without her perceiving it. Amine at
once perceived her danger. Had she been single, she would have dared
the priest; but, for Philip's sake, she determined to mislead him.

"I do no wrong, father," replied she, calmly; "but it appears to me
not seemly that you should enter the chamber of a young woman during
her husband's absence. I might have been in my bed. It is a strange
intrusion."

"Thou canst not mean this, woman! My age--my profession--are a
sufficient warranty," replied Father Mathias, somewhat confused at
this unexpected attack.

"Not always, Father, if what I have been told of monks and priests
be true," replied Amine. "I ask again, why comest thou here into an
unprotected woman's chamber?"

"Because I felt convinced that she was practising unholy arts."

"Unholy arts!--what mean you? Is the leech's skill unholy? is it
unholy to administer relief to those who suffer?--to charm the
fever and the ague which rack the limbs of those who live in this
unwholesome climate?"

"All charms are most unholy."

"When I said charms, Father, I meant not what you mean; I simply would
have said a remedy. If a knowledge of certain wonderful herbs,
which, properly combined will form a specific to ease the suffering
wretch--an art well known unto my mother, and which I now would fain
recall--if that knowledge, or a wish to regain that knowledge, be
unholy, then are you correct."

"I heard thee call upon thy mother for her help."

"I did, for she well knew the ingredients; but I, I fear have not the
knowledge that she had. Is that sinful, good Father?"

"'Tis, then, a remedy that you would find?" replied the priest; "I
thought that thou didst practise that which is most unlawful."

"Can the burning of a few weeds be then unlawful? What did you expect
to find? Look you, Father, at these ashes--they may, with oil, be
rubbed into the pores and give relief--but can they do more? What do
you expect from them--a ghost?--a spirit?--like the prophet raised for
the King of Israel?" And Amine laughed aloud.

"I am perplexed, but not convinced," replied the priest.

"I, too, am perplexed and not convinced," responded Amine, scornfully.
"I cannot satisfy myself that a man of your discretion could really
suppose that there was mischief in burning weeds; nor am I convinced
that such was the occasion of your visit at this hour of the night to
a lone woman's chamber. There may be natural charms more powerful than
those you call supernatural. I pray you, Father, leave this chamber.
It is not seemly. Should you again presume, you leave the house. I
thought better of you. In future, I will not be left at any time
alone."

This attack of Amine's upon the reputation of the old priest was too
severe. Father Mathias immediately quitted the room, saying, as he
went out, "May God forgive you for your false suspicions and great
injustice! I came here for the cause I have stated, and no more."

"Yes!" soliloquised Amine, as the door closed, "I know you did; but I
must rid myself of your unwelcome company. I will have no spy upon my
actions--no meddler to thwart me in my will. In your zeal you have
committed yourself, and I will take the advantage you have given me.
Is not the privacy of a woman's chamber to be held sacred by you
sacred men? In return for assistance in distress--for food and
shelter--you would become a spy. How grateful, and how worthy of the
creed which you profess!" Amine opened her door as soon as she had
removed the censer, and summoned one of the women of the house to
stay that night in her room, stating that the priest had entered her
chamber, and she did not like the intrusion.

"Holy father! is it possible?" replied the woman.

Amine made no reply, but went to bed; but Father Mathias heard all
that passed as he paced the room below. The next day he called upon
Father Seysen, and communicated to him what had occurred, and the
false suspicions of Amine.

"You have acted hastily," replied Father Seysen, "to visit a woman's
chamber at such an hour of the night."

"I had my suspicions, good Father Seysen."

"And she will have hers. She is young and beautiful."

"Now, by the Blessed Virgin--"

"I absolve you, good Mathias," replied Father Seysen; "but still, if
known, it would occasion much scandal to our church."

And known it soon was; for the woman who had been summoned by Amine
did not fail to mention the circumstance; and Father Mathias found
himself everywhere so coldly received, and, besides, so ill at ease
with himself, that he very soon afterwards quitted the country, and
returned to Lisbon; angry with himself for his imprudence, but still
more angry with Amine for her unjust suspicions.




Chapter XXI


The cargo of the _Dort_ was soon ready, and Philip sailed and arrived
at Amsterdam without any further adventure. That he reached his
cottage, and was received with delight by Amine, need hardly be said.
She had been expecting him; for the two ships of the squadron, which
had sailed on his arrival at Batavia, and which had charge of his
despatches, had, of course, carried letters to her from Philip, the
first letters she had ever received from him during his voyages. Six
weeks after the letters Philip himself made his appearance, and Amine
was happy. The directors were, of course, highly satisfied with
Philip's conduct, and he was appointed to the command of a large armed
ship, which was to proceed to India in the spring, and one-third of
which, according to agreement, was purchased by Philip out of the
funds which he had in the hands of the Company. He had now five months
of quiet and repose to pass away, previous to his once more trusting
to the elements; and this time, as it was agreed, he had to make
arrangements on board for the reception of Amine.

Amine narrated to Philip what had occurred between her and the priest
Mathias, and by what means she had rid herself of his unwished-for
surveillance.

"And were you practising your mother's arts, Amine?"

"Nay, not practising them, for I could not recall them, but I was
trying to recover them."

"Why so, Amine? this must not be. It is, as the good father said,
'unholy.' Promise me you will abandon them, now and for ever."

"If that act be unholy, Philip, so is your mission. You would deal
and co-operate with the spirits of another world--I would do no more.
Abandon your terrific mission--abandon your seeking after disembodied
spirits--stay at home with your Amine, and she will cheerfully comply
with your request."

"Mine is an awful summons from the Most High."

"Then the Most High permits your communion with those who are not of
this world?"

"He does; you know even the priests do not gainsay it, although they
shudder at the very thought."

"If then He permits to one, He will to another; nay, aught that I can
do is but with His permission."

"Yes, Amine, so does He permit evil to stalk on the earth, but He
countenances it not."

"He countenances your seeking after your doomed father, your attempts
to meet him; nay, more, He commands it. If you are thus permitted, why
may not I be? I am your wife, a portion of yourself; and when I am
left over a desolate hearth, while you pursue your course of danger,
may not I appeal also to the immaterial world to give me that
intelligence which will soothe my sorrow, lighten my burden, and
which, at the same time, can hurt no living creature? Did I attempt to
practise these arts for evil purposes, it were just to deny them me,
and wrong to continue them; but I would but follow in the steps of my
husband, and seek as he seeks, with a good intent."

"But it is contrary to our faith."

"Have the priests declared your mission contrary to their faith? or,
if they have, have they not been convinced to the contrary, and been
awed to silence? But why argue, my dear Philip? Shall I not now be
with you? and while with you I will attempt no more. You have my
promise; but if separated, I will not say, but I shall then require of
the invisible a knowledge of my husband's motions, when in search of
the invisible also."

The winter passed rapidly away, for it was passed by Philip in quiet
and happiness; the spring came on, the vessel was to be fitted out,
and Philip and Amine repaired to Amsterdam.

The _Utrecht_ was the name of the vessel to which he had been
appointed, a ship of 400 tons, newly launched, and pierced for
twenty-four guns. Two more months passed away, during which Philip
superintended the fitting and loading of the vessel, assisted by his
favourite Krantz, who served in her as first mate. Every convenience
and comfort that Philip could think of was prepared for Amine; and
in the month of May he started, with orders to stop at Gambroon and
Ceylon, run down the Straits of Sumatra, and from thence to force his
way into the China seas, the Company having every reason to expect
from the Portuguese the most determined opposition to the attempt. His
ship's company was numerous, and he had a small detachment of soldiers
on board to assist the supercargo, who carried out many thousand
dollars to make purchases at ports in China, where their goods might
not be appreciated. Every care had been taken in the equipment of the
vessel, which was perhaps the finest, the best manned, and freighted
with the most valuable cargo, which had been sent out by the India
Company.

The _Utrecht_ sailed with a flowing sheet, and was soon clear of the
English Channel; the voyage promised to be auspicious, favouring gales
bore them without accident to within a few hundred miles of the Cape
of Good Hope, when, for the first time, they were becalmed. Amine was
delighted: in the evenings she would pace the deck with Philip; then
all was silent, except the splash of the wave as it washed against
the side of the vessel--all was in repose and beauty, as the bright
southern constellations sparkled over their heads.

"Whose destinies can be in these stars, which appear not to those who
inhabit the northern regions?" said Amine, as she cast her eyes above,
and watched them in their brightness; "and what does that falling
meteor portend? what causes its rapid descent from heaven?"

"Do you, then, put faith in stars, Amine?"

"In Araby we do; and why not? They were not spread over the sky to
give light--for what then?"

"To beautify the world. They have their uses, too."

"Then you agree with me--they have their uses, and the destinies of
men are there concealed. My mother was one of those who could read
them well. Alas! for me they are a sealed book."

"Is it not better so, Amine?"

"Better!--say better to grovel on this earth with our selfish,
humbled race, wandering in mystery, and awe, and doubt, when we can
communicate with the intelligences above! Does not the soul leap at
her admission to confer with superior powers? Does not the proud heart
bound at the feeling that its owner is one of those more gifted than
the usual race of mortals? Is it not a noble ambition?"

"A dangerous one--most dangerous."

"And therefore most noble. They seem as if they would speak to me:
look at yon bright star--it beckons to me."

For some time Amine's eyes were raised aloft; she spoke not, and
Philip remained at her side. She walked to the gangway of the vessel,
and looked down upon the placid wave, pierced by the moonbeams far
below the surface.

"And does your imagination, Amine, conjure up a race of beings gifted
to live beneath that deep blue wave, who sport amid the coral rocks,
and braid their hair with pearls?" said Philip, smiling.

"I know not, but it appears to me that it would be sweet to live
there. You may call to mind your dream, Philip; I was then, according
to your description, one of those same beings."

"You were," replied Philip, thoughtfully.

"And yet I feel as if water would reject me, even if the vessel were
to sink. In what manner this mortal frame of mine may be resolved
into its elements, I know not; but this I do feel, that it never will
become the sport of, or be tossed by, the mocking waves. But come in,
Philip, dearest; it is late, and the decks are wet with dew."

When the day dawned, the look-out man at the mast-head reported that
he perceived something floating on the still surface of the water, on
the beam of the vessel. Krantz went up with his glass to examine, and
made it out to be a small boat, probably cut adrift from some vessel.
As there was no appearance of wind, Philip permitted a boat to be sent
to examine it, and after a long pull, the seamen returned on board,
towing the small boat astern.

"There is a body of a man in it, sir," said the second mate to Krantz,
as he gained the gangway; "but whether he is quite dead, or not, I
cannot tell."

Krantz reported this to Philip, who was, at that time, sitting at
breakfast with Amine in the cabin, and then proceeded to the gangway,
to where the body of the man had been already handed up by the seamen.
The surgeon, who had been summoned, declared that life was not yet
extinct, and was ordering him to be taken below for recovery, when, to
their astonishment, the man turned as he lay, sat up, and ultimately
rose upon his feet and staggered to a gun, when, after a time, he
appeared to be fully recovered. In reply to questions put to him, he
said that he was in a vessel which had been upset in a squall, that he
had time to cut away the small boat astern, and that all the rest of
the crew had perished. He had hardly made this answer, when Philip
with Amine came out of the cabin, and walked up to where the seamen
were crowded round the man; the seamen retreated so as to make an
opening, when Philip and Amine, to their astonishment and horror,
recognised their old acquaintance, the one-eyed pilot Schriften.

"He! he! Captain Vanderdecken, I believe--glad to see you in command,
and you too, fair lady."

Philip turned away with a chill at his heart; Amine's eye flashed as
she surveyed the wasted form of the wretched creature. After a few
seconds, she turned round and followed Philip into the cabin, where
she found him with his face buried in his hands.

"Courage, Philip, courage!" said Amine; "it was indeed a heavy shock,
and I fear me forbodes evil--but what then; it is our destiny."

"It is--it ought perhaps to be mine," replied Philip, raising his
head; "but you, Amine, why should you be a partner--"

"I am your partner, Philip, in life and in death. I would not die
first, Philip, because it would grieve you; but your death will be the
signal for mine, and I will join you quickly."

"Surely, Amine, you would not hasten your own?"

"Yes! and require but one moment for this little steel to do its
duty."

"Nay! Amine, that is not lawful--our religion forbids it."

"It may do so, but I cannot tell why. I came into this world without
my own consent--surely I may leave it without asking the leave of
priests! But let that pass for the present: what will you do with that
Schriften?"

"Put him on shore at the Cape; I cannot bear the odious wretch's
presence. Did you not feel the chill, as before, when you approached
him?"

"I did--I knew that he was there before I saw him; but still, I know
not why, I feel as if I would not send him away."

"Why not?"

"I believe it is because I am inclined to brave destiny, not to quail
at it. The wretch can do no harm."

"Yes, he can--much: he can render the ship's company mutinous and
disaffected;--besides, he attempted to deprive me of my relic."

"I almost wish he had done so; then must you have discontinued this
wild search."

"Nay, Amine, say not so; it is my duty, and I have taken my solemn
oath--"

"But this Schriften--you cannot well put him ashore at the Cape; being
a Company's officer, you might send him home if you found a ship there
homeward-bound; still, were I you, I would let destiny work. He is
woven in with ours, that is certain. Courage, Philip, and let him
remain."

"Perhaps you are right, Amine; I may retard, but cannot escape,
whatever may be my intended fate."

"Let him remain, then, and let him do his worst. Treat him with
kindness--who knows what we may gain from him?"

"True, true, Amine; he has been my enemy without cause. Who can
tell?--perhaps he may become my friend."

"And if not, you will have done your duty. Send for him now."

"No, not now--to-morrow; in the meantime, I will order him every
comfort."

"We are talking as if he were one of us, which I feel that he is not,"
replied Amine; "but still, mundane or not, we cannot but offer mundane
kindness, and what this world, or rather what this ship affords. I
long now to talk with him, to see if I can produce any effect upon his
ice-like frame. Shall I make love to the ghoul?" and Amine burst into
a bitter laugh.

Here the conversation dropped, but its substance was not disregarded.
The next morning, the surgeon having reported that Schriften was
apparently quite recovered, he was summoned into the cabin. His frame
was wasted away to a skeleton, but his motions and his language were
as sharp and petulant as ever.

"I have sent for you, Schriften, to know if there is anything that I
can do to make you more comfortable. Is there anything that you want?"

"Want?" replied Schriften, eyeing first Philip and then Amine.--"He!
he! I think I want filling out a little."

"That you will, I trust, in good time; my steward has my orders to
take care of you."

"Poor man," said Amine, with a look of pity, "how much he must have
suffered! Is not this the man who brought you the letter from the
Company, Philip?"

"He! he! yes! Not very welcome, was it, lady?"

"No, my good fellow, it's never a welcome message to a wife, that
sends her husband away from her. But that was not your fault."

"If a husband will go to sea and leave a handsome wife, when he has,
as they say, plenty of money to live upon on shore, he! he!"

"Yes, indeed, you may well say that," replied Amine.

"Better give it up. All folly, all madness--eh, captain?"

"I must finish this voyage, at all events," replied Philip to Amine,
"whatever I may do afterwards. I have suffered much, and so have you,
Schriften. You have been twice wrecked; now tell me what do you wish
to do? Go home in the first ship, or go ashore at the Cape--or--"

"Or do anything, so I get out of this ship--he! he!"

"Not so. If you prefer sailing with me, as I know you are a good
seaman, you shall have your rating and pay of pilot--that is, if you
choose to follow my fortunes."

"Follow?--Must follow. Yes! I'll sail with you, Mynheer Vanderdecken,
I wish to be always near you--he! he!"

"Be it so, then: as soon as you are strong again, you will go to your
duty; till then, I will see that you want for nothing."

"Nor I, my good fellow. Come to me if you do, and I will be your
help," said Amine. "You have suffered much, but we will do what we can
to make you forget it."

"Very good! very kind!" replied Schriften, surveying the lovely face
and figure of Amine. After a time, shrugging up his shoulders, he
added--"A pity! Yes it is!--Must be, though."

"Farewell," continued Amine, holding out her hand to Schriften.

The man took it, and a cold shudder went to her heart; but she,
expecting such a result, would not appear to feel it. Schriften held
her hand for a second or two in his own, looking at it earnestly, and
then at Amine's face.--"So fair, so good! Mynheer Vanderdecken, I
thank you. Lady, may Heaven preserve you!"--Then, squeezing the hand
of Amine which he had not released, Schriften hastened out of the
cabin.

So great was the sudden icy shock which passed through Amine's frame
when Schriften pressed her hand, that when with difficulty she gained
the sofa she fell upon it. After remaining with her hand pressed
against her heart for some time, during which Philip bent over her,
she said in a breathless voice, "That creature must be supernatural,
I am sure of it, I am now convinced.--Well," continued she, after a
pause of some little while, "all the better, if we can make him a
friend; and if I can I will."

"But think you, Amine, that those who are not of this world have
feelings of kindness, gratitude, and ill-will, as we have? Can they be
made subservient?"

"Most surely so. If they have ill-will, as we know they have, they
must also be endowed with the better feelings. Why are there good and
evil intelligences? They may have disencumbered themselves of their
mortal clay, but the soul must be the same. A soul without feeling
were no soul at all. The soul is active in this world and must be so
in the next. If angels can pity, they must feel like us. If demons can
vex, they must feel like us. Our feelings change, then why not theirs?
Without feelings, there were no heaven, no hell. Here our souls are
confined, cribbed, and overladen, borne down by the heavy flesh by
which they are, for the time, polluted; but the soul that has winged
its flight from clay is, I think, not one jot more pure, more bright,
or more perfect than those within ourselves. Can they be made
subservient, say you! Yes! they can; they can be forced, when mortals
possess the means and power. The evil-inclined may be forced to good,
as well as to evil. It is not the good and perfect spirits that we
subject by art, but those that are inclined to wrong. It is over them
that mortals have the power. Our arts have no power over the perfect
spirits, but over those which are ever working evil, and which are
bound to obey and do good, if those who master them require it."

"You still resort to forbidden arts, Amine. Is that right?"

"Right! If we have power given to us, it is right to use it."

"Yes, most certainly, for good--but not for evil."

"Mortals in power, possessing nothing but what is mundane, are
answerable for the use of that power; so those gifted by superior
means, are answerable as they employ those means. Does the God above
make a flower to grow, intending that it should not be gathered? No!
neither does He allow supernatural aid to be given, if He did not
intend that mortals should avail themselves of it."

As Amine's eyes beamed upon Philip's, he could not for the moment
subdue the idea rising in his mind, that she was not like other
mortals, and he calmly observed, "Am I sure, Amine, that I am wedded
to one mortal as myself?"

"Yes! yes! Philip, compose yourself, I am but mortal; would to Heaven
I were not. Would to Heaven I were one of those who could hover over
you, watch you in all your perils, save and protect you in this your
mad career; but I am but a poor weak woman, whose heart beats fondly,
devotedly for you--who, for you, would dare all and everything--who,
changed in her nature, has become courageous and daring from her love;
and who rejects all creeds which would prevent her from calling upon
heaven, or earth, or hell, to assist her in retaining with her her
soul's existence?"

"Nay! nay! Amine, say not you reject the creed. Does not this,"--and
Philip pulled from his bosom the holy relic, "does not this, and the
message sent by it, prove our creed is true?"

"I have thought much of it, Philip. At first it startled me almost
into a belief, but even your own priests helped to undeceive me. They
would not answer you; they would have left you to guide yourself; the
message and the holy word, and the wonderful signs given were not in
unison with their creed, and they halted. May I not halt, if they
did? The relic may be as mystic, as powerful as you describe; but
the agencies may be false and wicked, the power given to it may have
fallen into wrong hands--the power remains the same, but it is applied
to uses not intended."

"The power, Amine, can only be exercised by those who are friends to
Him who died upon it."

"Then is it no power at all; or if a power, not half so great as that
of the arch-fiend; for his can work for good and evil both. But on
this point, dear Philip, we do not well agree, nor can we convince
each other. You have been taught in one way, I another. That which
our childhood has imbibed, which has grown up with our growth, and
strengthened with our years, is not to be eradicated. I have seen my
mother work great charms, and succeed. You have knelt to priests: I
blame not you!--blame not then your Amine. We both mean well--I trust,
do well."

"If a life of innocence and purity were all that were required, my
Amine would be sure of future bliss."

"I think it is; and thinking so, it is my creed. There are many
creeds: who shall say which is the true one? And what matters it? they
all have the same end in view--a future Heaven."

"True, Amine, true," replied Philip, pacing the cabin thoughtfully;
"and yet our priests say otherwise."

"What is the basis of their creed, Philip?"

"Charity, and good-will."

"Does charity condemn to eternal misery those who have never heard
this creed, who have lived and died worshipping the Great Being after
their best endeavours, and little knowledge?"

"No, surely."

Amine made no further observations; and Philip, after pacing for a few
minutes in deep thought, walked out of the cabin.

The _Utrecht_ arrived at the Cape, watered, and proceeded on her
voyage and, after two months of difficult navigation, cast anchor off
Gambroon. During this time, Amine had been unceasing in her attempts
to gain the good-will of Schriften. She had often conversed with him
on deck, and had done him every kindness, and had overcome that fear
which his near approach had generally occasioned. Schriften gradually
appeared mindful of this kindness, and at last to be pleased with
Amine's company. To Philip he was at times civil and courteous, but
not always; but to Amine he was always deferent. His language was
mystical, she could not prevent his chuckling laugh, his occasional
"He! he!" from breaking forth. But when they anchored at Gambroon, he
was on such terms with her, that he would occasionally come into the
cabin; and, although he would not sit down, would talk to Amine for
a few minutes, and then depart. While the vessel lay at anchor at
Gambroon, Schriften one evening walked up to Amine, who was sitting on
the poop. "Lady," said he, after a pause, "yon ship sails for your own
country in a few days."

"So I am told," replied Amine.

"Will you take the advice of one who wishes you well? Return in that
vessel, go back to your own cottage, and stay there till your husband
comes to you once more."

"Why is this advice given?"

"Because I forbode danger, nay, perhaps death, a cruel death, to one I
would not harm."

"To me!" replied Amine, fixing her eyes upon Schriften, and meeting
his piercing gaze.

"Yes, to you. Some people can see into futurity farther than others."

"Not if they are mortal," replied Amine.

"Yes, if they are mortal. But mortal or not, I do see that which I
would avert. Tempt not destiny farther."

"Who can avert it? If I take your counsel, still was it my destiny to
take your counsel. If I take it not, still it was my destiny."

"Well, then, avoid what threatens you."

"I fear not, yet do I thank you. Tell me, Schriften, hast thou not
thy fate someway interwoven with that of my husband? I feel that thou
hast."

"Why think you so, lady?"

"For many reasons: twice you have summoned him, twice have you been
wrecked, and miraculously reappeared and recovered. You know, too, of
his mission, that is evident."

"But proves nothing."

"Yes! it proves much; for it proves that you knew what was supposed to
be known but to him alone."

"It was known to you, and holy men debated on it," replied Schriften
with a sneer.

"How knew you that, again?"

"He! he!" replied Schriften; "forgive me, lady, I meant not to affront
you."

"You cannot deny that you are connected mysteriously and
incomprehensibly with this mission of my husband's. Tell me, is it as
he believes, true and holy?"

"If he thinks that it is true and holy, it becomes so."

"Why then do you appear his enemy?"

"I am not _his_ enemy, fair lady."

"You are not his enemy--why then did you once attempt to deprive him
of the mystic relic by which the mission is to be accomplished?"

"I would prevent his further search, for reasons which must not be
told. Does that prove that I am his enemy? Would it not be better that
he should remain on shore with competence and you, than be crossing
the wild seas on this mad search? Without the relic it is not to be
accomplished. It were a kindness, then, to take it from him."

Amine answered not, for she was lost in thought.

"Lady," continued Schriften, after a time; "I wish you well. For your
husband I care not, yet do I wish him no harm. Now hear me; if you
wish for your future life to be one of ease and peace--if you wish to
remain long in this world with the husband of your choice--of your
first and warmest love--if you wish that he should die in his bed at a
good old age, and that you should close his eyes with children's tears
lamenting, and their smiles reserved to cheer their mother--all this I
see and can promise is in futurity, if you will take that relic from
his bosom and give it up to me. But if you would that he should
suffer more than man has ever suffered, pass his whole life in doubt,
anxiety, and pain, until the deep wave receive his corpse, then let
him keep it--If you would that your own days be shortened, and yet
those remaining be long in human sufferings, if you would be separated
from him and die a cruel death, then let him keep it. I can read
futurity, and such must be the destiny of both. Lady, consider well, I
must leave you now. To-morrow I will have your answer."

Schriften walked away and left Amine to her own reflections. For a
long while she repeated to herself the conversation and denunciations
of the man, whom she was now convinced was not of this world, and was
in some way or another deeply connected with her husband's fate.
"To me he wishes well, no harm to my husband, and would prevent his
search. Why would he?--that he will not tell. He has tempted me,
tempted me most strangely. How easy 'twere to take the relic whilst
Philip sleeps upon my bosom--but how treacherous! And yet a life of
competence and ease, a smiling family, a good old age; what offers to
a fond and doting wife! And if not, toil, anxiety, and a watery grave;
and for me! Pshaw! that's nothing. And yet to die separated from
Philip, is that nothing? Oh, no, the thought is dreadful.--I do
believe him. Yes, he has foretold the future, and told it truly. Could
I persuade Philip? No! I know him well; he has vowed, and is not to be
changed. And yet, if the relic were taken without his knowledge, he
would not have to blame himself. Who then would he blame? Could I
deceive him? I, the wife of his bosom tell a lie. No! no! it must not
be. Come what will, it is our destiny, and I am resigned. I would that
Schriften had not spoken. Alas! we search into futurity, and then
would fain retrace our steps, and wish we had remained in ignorance."

"What makes you so pensive, Amine?" said Philip, who some time
afterwards walked up to where she was seated.

Amine replied not at first. "Shall I tell him all?" thought she. "It
is my only chance--I will." Amine repeated the conversation between
her and Schriften. Philip made no reply; he sat down by Amine and took
her hand. Amine dropped her head upon her husband's shoulder. "What
think you, Amine?" said Philip, after a time.

"I could not steal your relic, Philip; perhaps you'll give it to me."

"And my father, Amine, my poor father--his dreadful doom to be
eternal! He who appealed, was permitted to appeal to his son, that
that dreadful doom might be averted. Does not the conversation of this
man prove to you that my mission is not false? Does not his knowledge
of it strengthen all? Yet, why would he prevent it?" continued Philip,
musing.

"Why, I cannot tell, Philip, but I would fain prevent it. I feel that
he has power to read the future, and has read aright."

"Be it so; he has spoken, but not plainly. He has promised me what I
have long been prepared for--what I vowed to Heaven to suffer. Already
have I suffered much, and am prepared to suffer more. I have long
looked upon this world as a pilgrimage, and (selected as I have been)
trust that my reward will be in the other. But, Amine, you are not
bound by oath to Heaven, you have made no compact. He advised you to
go home. He talked of a cruel death. Follow his advice and avoid it."

"I am not bound by oath, Philip; but hear me; as I hope for future
bliss, I now bind myself--"

"Hold, Amine!"

"Nay, Philip, you cannot prevent me; for if you do now, I will repeat
it when you are absent. A cruel death were a charity to me, for I
shall not see you suffer. Then may I never expect future bliss, may
eternal misery be my portion, if I leave you as long as fate permits
us to be together. I am yours--your wife; my fortunes, my present, my
future, my all are embarked with you, and destiny may do its worst,
for Amine will not quail. I have no recreant heart to turn aside from
danger or from suffering. In that one point, Philip, at least, you
chose, you wedded well."

Philip raised her hand to his lips in silence, and the conversation
was not resumed. The next evening, Schriften came up again to Amine.
"Well, lady?" said he.

"Schriften, it cannot be," replied Amine; "yet do I thank you much."

"Lady, if he must follow up his mission, why should you?"

"Schriften, I am his wife--his for ever, in this world, and the next.
You cannot blame me."

"No," replied Schriften, "I do not blame, I admire you. I feel sorry.
But, after all, what is death? Nothing. He! he!" and Schriften
hastened away, and left Amine to herself.



Chapter XXII


The _Utrecht_ sailed from Gambroon, touched at Ceylon, and proceeded
on her voyage in the Eastern Seas. Schriften still remained on board,
but since his last conversation with Amine he had kept aloof, and
appeared to avoid both her and Philip; still there was not, as before,
any attempt to make the ship's company disaffected, nor did he indulge
in his usual taunts and sneers. The communication he had made to Amine
had also its effect upon her and Philip; they were more pensive and
thoughtful; each attempted to conceal their gloom from the other; and
when they embraced, it was with the mournful feeling that perhaps it
was an indulgence they would soon be deprived of: at the same time,
they steeled their hearts to endurance and prepared to meet the worst.
Krantz wondered at the change, but of course could not account for it.
The _Utrecht_ was not far from the Andaman Isles, when Krantz, who had
watched the barometer, came in early one morning and called Philip.

"We have every prospect of a typhoon, sir," said Krantz; "the glass
and the weather are both threatening."

"Then we must make all snug. Send down top-gallant yards and small
sails directly. We will strike top-gallant masts. I will be out in a
minute."

Philip hastened on deck. The sea was smooth, but already the moaning
of the wind gave notice of the approaching storm. The vacuum in the
air was about to be filled up, and the convulsion would be terrible; a
white haze gathered fast, thicker and thicker; the men were turned up,
everything of weight was sent below, and the guns were secured. Now
came a blast of wind which careened the ship, passed over, and in a
minute she righted as before; then another and another, fiercer and
fiercer still. The sea, although smooth, at last appeared white as a
sheet with foam, as the typhoon swept along in its impetuous career;
it burst upon the vessel, which bowed down to her gunwale and there
remained; in a quarter of an hour the hurricane had passed over, and
the vessel was relieved; but the sea had risen, and the wind was
strong. In another hour the blast again came, more wild, more furious
than the first, the waves were dashed into their faces, torrents
of rain descended, the ship was thrown on her beam ends, and thus
remained till the wild blast had passed away, to sweep destruction far
beyond them, leaving behind it a tumultuous angry sea.

"It is nearly over I believe, sir," said Krantz. "It is clearing up a
little to windward."

"We have had the worst of it, I believe," said Philip.

"No! there is worse to come," said a low voice near to Philip. It was
Schriften who spoke.

"A vessel to windward scudding before the gale," cried Krantz.

Philip looked to windward, and in the spot where the horizon was
clearest, he saw a vessel under topsails and foresail, standing right
down. "She is a large vessel; bring me my glass." The telescope was
brought from the cabin, but before Philip could use it, a haze had
again gathered up to windward, and the vessel was not to be seen.

"Thick again," observed Philip, as he shut in his telescope; "we must
look out for that vessel, that she does not run too close to us."

"She has seen us, no doubt, sir," said Krantz.

After a few minutes the typhoon again raged, and the atmosphere was of
a murky gloom. It seemed as if some heavy fog had been hurled along
by the furious wind; nothing was to be distinguished except the white
foam of the sea, and that not the distance of half a cable's length,
where it was lost in one dark gray mist. The storm-staysail yielding
to the force of the wind, was rent into strips, and flogged and
cracked with a noise even louder than the gale. The furious blast
again blew over, and the mist cleared up a little.

"Ship on the weather beam close aboard of us," cried one of the men.

Krantz and Philip sprung upon the gunwale, and beheld the large ship
bearing right down upon them, not three cables' length distant.

"Helm up! she does not see us, and she will be aboard of us!" cried
Philip. "Helm up, I say, hard up, quick!"

The helm was put up, as the men, perceiving their imminent danger,
climbed upon the guns to look if the vessel altered her course; but
no--down she came, and the head-sails of the _Utrecht_ having been
carried away, to their horror they perceived that she would not answer
her helm and pay off as they required.

"Ship, ahoy!" roared Philip through his trumpet--but the gale drove
the sound back.

"Ship, ahoy!" cried Krantz on the gunwale, waving his hat. It was
useless--down she came, with the waters foaming under her bows, and
was now within pistol-shot of the _Utrecht_.

"Ship, ahoy!" roared all the sailors, with a shout that must have been
heard: it was not attended to; down came the vessel upon them, and now
her cutwater was within ten yards of the _Utrecht_. The men of the
_Utrecht_, who expected that their vessel would be severed in half by
the concussion, climbed upon the weather gunwale, all ready to catch
at the ropes of the other vessel and climb on board of her. Amine who
had been surprised at the noise on deck, had come out and had taken
Philip by the arm.

"Trust to me--the shock"--said Philip. He said no more; the cutwater
of the stranger touched their sides; one general cry was raised by the
sailors of the _Utrecht_, they sprang to catch at the rigging of
the other vessel's bowsprit which was now pointed between their
masts--they caught at nothing--nothing--there was no shock--no
concussion of the two vessels--the stranger appeared to cleave through
them--her hull passed along in silence--no cracking of timbers--no
falling of masts--the foreyard passed through their mainsail, yet
the canvas was unrent--the whole vessel appeared to cut through the
_Utrecht_, yet left no trace of injury--not fast, but slowly, as if
she were really sawing through her by the heaving and tossing of the
sea with her sharp prow. The stranger's forechains had passed their
gunwale before Philip could recover himself. "Amine," cried he, at
last, "the Phantom Ship! my father!"

The seamen of the _Utrecht_, more astounded by the marvellous result
than by their former danger, threw themselves down upon deck; some
hastened below, some prayed, others were dumb with astonishment and
fear. Amine appeared more calm than any, not excepting Philip; she
surveyed the vessel as it slowly forced its way through; she beheld
the seamen on board of her coolly leaning over her gunwale, as
if deriding the destruction they had occasioned; she looked for
Vanderdecken himself, and on the poop of the vessel, with his trumpet
under his arm, she beheld the image of her Philip--the same hardy,
strong build--the same features--about the same age apparently--there
could be no doubt it was the _doomed_ Vanderdecken!

"See, Philip," said she, "see!--your father!"

"Even so--Merciful Heaven! It is--it is"--and Philip, overpowered by
his feelings, sank upon deck.

The vessel had now passed over the _Utrecht_; the form of the elder
Vanderdecken was seen to walk aft and look over the taffrail; Amine
perceived it to start and turn away suddenly--she looked down, and
saw Schriften shaking his fist in defiance at the supernatural being!
Again the Phantom Ship flew to leeward before the gale, and was soon
lost in the mist; but before that, Amine had turned and perceived the
situation of Philip. No one but herself and Schriften appeared able to
act or move. She caught the pilot's eye, beckoned to him, and with his
assistance Philip was led into the cabin.




Chapter XXIII


"I have then seen him," said Philip, after he had lain down on the
sofa in the cabin for some minutes to recover himself, while Amine
bent over him. "I have at last seen him, Amine! Can you doubt now?"

"No, Philip, I have now no doubt," replied Amine, mournfully; "but
take courage, Philip."

"For myself, I want not courage--but for you, Amine--you know that his
appearance portends a mischief that will surely come."

"Let it come," replied Amine, calmly; "I have long been prepared for
it, and so have you."

"Yes, for myself; but not for you."

"You have been wrecked often, and have been saved--then why should not
I?"

"But the sufferings!"

"Those suffer least, who have most courage to bear up against them. I
am but a woman, weak and frail in body, but I trust I have that within
me which will not make you feel ashamed of Amine. No, Philip, you will
have no wailing, no expression of despair from Amine's lips; if she
can console you, she will; if she can assist you, she will; but, come
what may, if she cannot serve you, at least, she will prove no burden
to you."

"Your presence in misfortune would un-nerve me, Amine."

"It shall not; it shall add to your resolution. Let fate do its
worst."

"Depend upon it, Amine, that will be ere long."

"Be it so," replied Amine; "but, Philip, it were as well you showed
yourself on deck--the men are frightened, and your absence will be
observed."

"You are right," said Philip; and rising and embracing her, he left
the cabin.

"It is but too true, then," thought Amine. "Now to prepare for
disaster and death--the warning has come. I would I could know more.
Oh! mother, mother, look down upon thy child, and in a dream reveal
the mystic arts which I have forgotten, then should I know more; but I
have promised Philip, that unless separated--yes, that idea is worse
than death, and I have a sad foreboding; my courage fails me only when
I think of that!"

Philip, on his return to the deck, found the crew of the vessel in
great consternation. Krantz himself appeared bewildered--he had not
forgotten the appearance of the Phantom Ship off Desolation Harbour,
and the vessels following her to their destruction. This second
appearance, more awful than the former, quite unmanned him; and when
Philip came out of the cabin, he was leaning in gloomy silence against
the weather bulkhead.

"We shall never reach port again, sir," said he to Philip, as he came
up to him.

"Silence, silence; the men may hear you."

"It matters not--they think the same," replied Krantz.

"But they are wrong," replied Philip, turning to the seamen. "My lads!
that some disaster may happen to us, after the appearance of this
vessel, is most probable; I have seen her before more than once, and
disasters did then happen; but here I am alive and well, therefore it
does not prove that we cannot escape as I have before done. We must do
our best, and trust in Heaven. The gale is breaking fast, and in a few
hours we shall have fine weather. I have met this Phantom Ship
before, and care not how often I meet it again. Mr Krantz, get up the
spirits--the men have had hard work, and must be fatigued."

The very prospect of obtaining liquor, appeared to give courage to the
men; they hastened to obey the order, and the quantity served out was
sufficient to give courage to the most fearful, and induce others to
defy old Vanderdecken and his whole crew of imps. The next morning the
weather was fine, the sea smooth, and the _Utrecht_ went gaily on her
voyage.

Many days of gentle breezes and favouring winds gradually wore off the
panic occasioned by the supernatural appearance, and if not forgotten,
it was referred to either in jest or with indifference. They now
had run through the Straits of Malacca, and entered the Polynesian
Archipelago. Philip's orders were to refresh and call for instructions
at the small island of Boton, then in possession of the Dutch. They
arrived there in safety, and after remaining two days, again sailed on
their voyage, intending to make their passage between the Celebes and
the island of Galago. The weather was still clear and the wind light:
they proceeded cautiously, on account of the reefs and currents,
and with a careful watch for the piratical vessels, which have for
centuries infested those seas; but they were not molested, and had
gained well up among the islands to the north of Galago, when it fell
calm, and the vessel was borne to the eastward of it by the current.
The calm lasted several days, and they could procure no anchorage; at
last they found themselves among the cluster of islands near to the
northern coast of New Guinea.

The anchor was dropped, and the sails furled for the night; a
drizzling small rain came on, the weather was thick, and watches were
stationed in every part of the ship, that they might not be surprised
by the pirate proas, for the current ran past the ship, at the rate
of eight or nine miles per hour, and these vessels, if hid among the
islands, might sweep down upon them unperceived.

It was twelve o'clock at night when Philip, who was in bed, was
awakened by a shock; he thought it might be a proa running alongside,
and he started from his bed and ran out. He found Krantz, who had
been awakened by the same cause, running up undressed--another shock
succeeded, and the ship careened to port. Philip then knew that the
ship was on shore.

The thickness of the night prevented them from ascertaining where they
were, but the lead was thrown over the side, and they found that they
were lying on shore on a sand bank, with not more than fourteen feet
water on the deepest side, and that they were broadside on, with
a strong current pressing them further up on the bank; indeed the
current ran like a mill-race, and each minute they were swept into
shallower water.

On examination they found that the ship had dragged her anchor, which,
with the cable, was still taut from the starboard bow, but this did
not appear to prevent the vessel from being swept further up on the
bank. It was supposed that the anchor had parted at the shank, and
another anchor was let go.

Nothing more could be done till daybreak, and impatiently did they
wait till the next morning. As the sun rose, the mist cleared away,
and they discovered that they were on shore on a sand bank, a small
portion of which was above water, and round which the current ran with
great impetuosity. About three miles from them was a cluster of small
islands with cocoa-trees growing on them, but with no appearance of
inhabitants.

"I fear we have little chance," observed Krantz to Philip. "If we
lighten the vessel the anchor may not hold, and we shall be swept
further on, and it is impossible to lay out an anchor against the
force of this current."

"At all events we must try; but I grant that our situation is anything
but satisfactory. Send all the hands aft."

The men came aft, gloomy and dispirited.

"My lads!" said Philip, "why are you disheartened?"

"We are doomed, sir; we knew it would be so."

"I thought it probable that the ship would be lost--I told you so; but
the loss of the ship does not involve that of the ship's company--nay,
it does not follow that the ship is to be lost, although she may be in
great difficulty, as she is at present. What fear is there for us, my
men?--the water is smooth--we have plenty of time before us--we can
make a raft and take to our boats--it never blows among these islands,
and we have land close under our lee. Let us first try what we can do
with the ship; if we fail, we must then take care of ourselves."

The men caught at the idea and went to work willingly; the water casks
were started, the pumps set going, and everything that could be spared
was thrown over to lighten the ship; but the anchor still dragged from
the strength of the current and bad holding-ground; and Philip and
Krantz perceived that they were swept further on the bank.

Night came on before they quitted their toil, and then a fresh breeze
sprung up and created a swell, which occasioned the vessel to beat
on the hard sand; thus did they continue until the next morning. At
daylight the men resumed their labours, and the pumps were again
manned to clear the vessel of the water which had been started, but
after a time they pumped up sand. This told them that a plank had
started, and that their labours were useless; the men left their work,
but Philip again encouraged them, and pointed out that they could
easily save themselves, and all that they had to do was to construct a
raft, which would hold provisions for them, and receive that portion
of the crew who could not be taken into the boats.

After some repose the men again set to work; the topsails were struck,
the yards lowered down, and the raft was commenced under the lee of
the vessel, where the strong current was checked. Philip, recollecting
his former disaster, took great pains in the construction of this
raft, and aware that as the water and provisions were expended there
would be no occasion to tow so heavy a mass, he constructed it in two
parts, which might easily be severed, and thus the boats would have
less to tow, as soon as circumstances would enable them to part with
one of them.

Night again terminated their labours, and the men retired to rest, the
weather continuing fine, with very little wind. By noon the next day
the raft was complete; water and provisions were safely stowed on
board; a secure and dry place was fitted up for Amine in the centre
of one portion; spare ropes, sails, and everything which could prove
useful, in case of their being forced on shore, were put in. Muskets
and ammunition were also provided, and everything was ready, when the
men came aft and pointed out to Philip that there was plenty of money
on board, which it was folly to leave, and that they wished to carry
as much as they could away with them. As this intimation was given in
a way that made it evident they intended that it should be complied
with, Philip did not refuse; but resolved, in his own mind, that when
they arrived at a place where he could exercise his authority, the
money should be reclaimed for the Company to whom it belonged. The men
went down below, and while Philip was making arrangements with Amine,
handed the casks of dollars out of the hold, broke them open and
helped themselves--quarrelling with each other for the first
possession, as each cask was opened. At last every man had obtained as
much as he could carry, and had placed his spoil on the raft with his
baggage, or in the boat to which he had been appointed. All was now
ready--Amine was lowered down, and took her station--the boats took in
tow the raft, which was cast off from the vessel, and away they went
with the current, pulling with all their strength, to avoid being
stranded upon that part of the sand bank which appeared above water.
This was the great danger which they had to encounter, and which they
very narrowly escaped.

They numbered eighty-six souls in all: in the boats there were
thirty-two; the rest were on the raft, which being well-built and full
of timber, floated high out of the water, now that the sea was so
smooth. It had been agreed upon by Philip and Krantz, that one of them
should remain on the raft and the other in one of the boats; but, at
the time the raft quitted the ship, they were both on the raft, as
they wished to consult, as soon as they discovered the direction of
the current, which would be the most advisable course for them to
pursue. It appeared that as soon as the current had passed the bank,
it took a more southerly direction towards New Guinea. It was then
debated between them whether they should or should not land on that
island, the natives of which were known to be pusillanimous, yet
treacherous. A long debate ensued, which ended, however, in their
resolving not to decide as yet, but wait and see what might occur. In
the meantime, the boats pulled to the westward, while the current set
them fast down in a southerly direction.

Night came on, and the boats dropped the grapnels, with which they had
been provided; and Philip was glad to find that the current was not
near so strong, and the grapnels held both boats and raft. Covering
themselves up with the spare sails with which they had provided
themselves, and setting a watch, the tired seamen were soon fast
asleep.

"Had I not better remain in one of the boats?" observed Krantz.
"Suppose, to save themselves, the boats were to leave the raft."

"I have thought of that," replied Philip, "and have, therefore, not
allowed any provisions or water in the boats; they will not leave us
for that reason."

"True, I had forgotten that."

Krantz remained on watch, and Philip retired to the repose which he so
much needed. Amine met him with open arms.

"I have no fear, Philip," said she, "I rather like this wild
adventurous change. We will go on shore and build our hut beneath
the cocoa-trees, and I shall repine when the day comes which brings
succour, and releases us from our desert isle. What do I require but
you?"

"We are in the hands of One above, dear, who will act with us as He
pleases. We have to be thankful that it is no worse," replied Philip.
"But now to rest, for I shall soon be obliged to watch."

The morning dawned, with a smooth sea and a bright blue sky; the raft
had been borne to leeward of the cluster of uninhabited islands of
which we spoke, and was now without hopes of reaching them; but to the
westward were to be seen on the horizon the refracted heads and trunks
of cocoa-nut trees, and in that direction it was resolved that they
should tow the raft. The breakfast had been served out, and the men
had taken to the oars, when they discovered a proa, full of men,
sweeping after them from one of the islands to windward. That it was
a pirate vessel there could be no doubt; but Philip and Krantz
considered that their force was more than sufficient to repel them,
should an attack be made. This was pointed out to the men; arms were
distributed to all in the boats, as well as to those on the raft; and
that the seamen might not be fatigued, they were ordered to lie on
their oars, and await the coming up of the vessel.

As soon as the pirate was within range, having reconnoitred her
antagonists, she ceased pulling and commenced firing from a small
piece of cannon, which was mounted on her bows. The grape and
langridge which she poured upon them wounded several of the men,
although Philip had ordered them to lie down flat on the raft and
in the boats. The pirate advanced nearer, and her fire became
more destructive, without any opportunity of returning it by the
_Utrecht's_ people. At last it was proposed, as the only chance of
escape, that the boats should attack the pirate. This was agreed to by
Philip--more men were sent in the boats--Krantz took the command--the
raft was cast off, and the boats pulled away. But scarcely had they
cleared the raft, when, as by one sudden thought, they turned round
and pulled away in the opposite direction. Krantz's voice was heard
by Philip, and his sword was seen to flash through the air--a moment
afterwards he plunged into the sea, and swam to the raft. It appeared
that the people in the boats, anxious to preserve the money which they
had possession of, had agreed among themselves to pull away and leave
the raft to its fate. The proposal for attacking the pirate had been
suggested with that view, and as soon as they were clear of the
raft, they put their intentions into execution. In vain had Krantz
expostulated and threatened; they would have taken his life; and when
he found that his efforts were of no avail, he leaped from the boat.
"Then are we lost, I fear," said Philip. "Our numbers are so reduced,
that we cannot hope to hold out long. What think you, Schriften?"
ventured Philip, addressing the pilot who stood near to him.

"Lost--but not lost by the pirates--no harm there. He! he!"

The remark of Schriften was correct. The pirates, imagining that in
taking to their boat, the people had carried with them everything that
was valuable, instead of firing at the raft, immediately gave chase to
the boats. The sweeps were now out, and the proa flew over the smooth
water like a sea-bird, passed the raft, and was at first evidently
gaining on the boats; but their speed soon slackened, and as the day
passed, the boats, and then the pirate vessel disappeared in the
southward; the distance between them being apparently much the same as
at the commencement of the chase.

The raft being now at the mercy of the winds and waves, Philip and
Krantz collected the carpenter's tools which had been brought from
the ship, and selecting two spars from the raft, they made every
preparation for stepping a mast and setting sail by the next morning.

The morning dawned, and the first objects that met their view, were
the boats pulling back towards the raft, followed closely by the
pirate. The men had pulled the whole night, and were worn out with
fatigue. It was presumed that a consultation had been held, in which
it was agreed that they should make a sweep, so as to return to the
raft; as, if they gained it, they would be able to defend themselves,
and moreover, obtain provisions and water, which they had not on board
at the time of their desertion. But it was fated otherwise; gradually
the men dropped from their oars, exhausted, into the bottom of the
boat, and the pirate vessel followed them with renewed ardour. The
boats were captured one by one; the booty found was more than the
pirates anticipated, and it hardly need be said that not one man was
spared. All this took place within three miles of the raft, and Philip
anticipated that the next movement of the vessel would be towards
them, but he was mistaken. Satisfied with their booty, and imagining
that there could be no more on the raft, the pirate pulled away to the
eastward, towards the islands from amongst which she had first made
her appearance. Thus were those who expected to escape and who had
deserted their companions, deservedly punished, whilst those who
anticipated every disaster from this desertion, discovered that it was
the cause of their being saved.

The remaining people on board the raft amounted to about forty-five;
Philip, Krantz, Schriften, Amine, the two mates, sixteen seamen,
and twenty-four soldiers, who had been embarked at Amsterdam. Of
provisions they had sufficient for three or four weeks, but of water
they were very short, already not having sufficient for more than
three days at the usual allowance. As soon as the mast had been
stepped and rigged, and the sails set (although there was hardly a
breath of wind), Philip explained to the men the necessity of reducing
the quantity of water, and it was agreed that it should be served out
so as to extend the supply to twelve days, the allowance being reduced
to half a pint per day.

There was a debate at this time, as the raft was in two parts, whether
it would not be better to cast off the smaller one and put all the
people on board the other; but this proposal was overruled, as in the
first place, although the boats had deserted them, the number on the
raft had not much diminished, and moreover, the raft would steer much
better under sail, now that it had length, than it would do if they
reduced its dimensions and altered its shape to a square mass of
floating wood.

For three days it was a calm, the sun poured down his hot beams upon
them, and the want of water was severely felt; those who continued to
drink spirits suffered the most.

On the fourth day the breeze sprung up favourably, and the sail was
filled; it was a relief to their burning brows and blistered backs;
and as the raft sailed on at the rate of four miles an hour, the men
were gay and full of hope. The land below the cocoa-nut trees was now
distinguishable, and they anticipated that the next day they could
land and procure the water, which they now so craved for. All night
they carried sail, but the next morning they discovered that the
current was strong against them, and that what they gained when the
breeze was fresh, they lost from the adverse current as soon as it
went down; the breeze was always fresh in the morning, but it fell
calm in the evening. Thus did they continue for four days more, every
noon being not ten miles from the land but the next morning swept away
to a distance, and having their ground to retrace. Eight days had now
passed, and the men, worn out with exposure to the burning sun, became
discontented and mutinous. At one time they insisted that the raft
should be divided, that they might gain the land with the other half;
at another, that the provisions which they could no longer eat should
be thrown overboard to lighten the raft. The difficulty under which
they lay, was the having no anchor or grapnel to the raft, the boats
having carried away with them all that had been taken from the ship.
Philip then proposed to the men, that, as every one of them had such a
quantity of dollars, the money should be sewed up in canvas bags, each
man's property separate; and that with this weight to the ropes they
would probably be enabled to hold the raft against the current for one
night, when they would be able the next day to gain the shore; but
this was refused--they would not risk their money. No, no--fools!
they would sooner part with their lives by the most miserable of
all deaths. Again and again was this proposed to them by Philip and
Krantz, but without success.

In the meantime, Amine had kept up her courage and her spirits;
proving to Philip a valuable adviser and a comforter in his
misfortunes. "Cheer up, Philip," would she say; "we shall yet build
our cottage under the shade of those cocoa-nut trees, and pass a
portion, if not the remainder of our lives in peace; for who indeed
is there who would think to find us in these desolate and untrodden
regions?"

Schriften was quiet and well-behaved; talked much with Amine, but with
nobody else. Indeed he appeared to have a stronger feeling in favour
of Amine than he had ever shown before. He watched over her and
attended her; and Amine would often look up after being silent, and
perceived Schriften's face wear an air of pity and melancholy, which
she had believed it impossible that he could have exhibited.

Another day passed; again they neared the land, and again did the
breeze die away, and they were swept back by the current. The men now
rose, and in spite of the endeavours of Philip and Krantz, they rolled
into the sea all the provisions and stores, everything but one cask of
spirits and the remaining stock of water; they then sat down at the
upper end of the raft with gloomy, threatening looks, and in close
consultation.

Another night closed in: Philip was full of anxiety. Again he urged
them to anchor with their money, but in vain; they ordered him away,
and he returned to the after part of the raft, upon which Amine's
secure retreat had been erected; he leant on it in deep thought and
melancholy, for he imagined that Amine was asleep.

"What disturbs you, Philip?"

"What disturbs me? The avarice and folly of these men. They will die,
rather than risk their hateful money. They have the means of saving
themselves and us, and they will not. There is weight enough in
bullion on the fore part of the raft to hold a dozen floating masses
such as this, yet they will not risk it. Cursed love of gold! it makes
men fools, madmen, villains. We have now but two days' water--doled
out as it is drop by drop. Look at their emaciated, broken down,
wasted forms, and yet see how they cling to money, which probably
they will never have occasion for, even if they gain the land. I am
distracted!"

"You suffer, Philip, you suffer from privation; but I have been
careful, I thought that this would come; I have saved both water and
biscuit--I have here four bottles;--drink, Philip, and it will relieve
you."

Philip drank; it did relieve him, for the excitement of the day had
pressed heavily on him.

"Thanks, Amine--thanks, dearest! I feel better now.--Good Heaven! are
there such fools as to value the dross of metal above one drop of
water in a time of suffering and privation such as this?"

The night closed in as before; the stars shone bright but there was no
moon, Philip had risen at midnight to relieve Krantz from the steerage
of the raft. Usually the men had lain about in every part of the raft,
but this night the majority of them remained forward. Philip was
communing with his own bitter thoughts, when he heard a scuffle
forward, and the voice of Krantz crying out to him for help. He
quitted the helm, and seizing his cutlass ran forward, where he found
Krantz down, and the men securing him. He fought his way to him, but
was himself seized and disarmed. "Cut away--cut away," was called out
by those who held him; and, in a few seconds, Philip had the misery to
behold the after part of the raft, with Amine upon it, drifted apart
from the one on which he stood. "For mercy's sake! my wife--my
Amine--for Heaven's sake save her!" cried Philip, struggling in vain
to disengage himself. Amine also, who had run to the side of the raft,
held out her arms--it was in vain--they were separated more than a
cable's length. Philip made one more desperate struggle, and then fell
down deprived of sense and motion.




Chapter XXIV


It was not until the day had dawned that Philip opened his eyes, and
discovered Krantz kneeling at his side; at first his thoughts were
scattered and confused; he felt that some dreadful calamity had
happened to him, but he could not recall to mind what it was. At last
it rushed upon him, and he buried his face in his hands.

"Take comfort," said Krantz; "we shall probably gain the shore to-day,
and we will go in search of her as soon as we can."

"This, then, is the separation and the cruel death to her which that
wretch Schriften prophesied to us," thought Philip; "cruel indeed to
waste away to a skeleton, under a burning sun, without one drop of
water left to cool her parched tongue; at the mercy of the winds and
waves; drifting about--alone--all alone--separated from her husband,
in whose arms she would have died without regret; maddened with
suspense and with the thoughts of what I may be suffering, or what may
have been my fate. Pilot, you are right; there can be no more cruel
death to a fond and doting wife. Oh! my head reels. What has Philip
Vanderdecken to live for now?"

Krantz offered such consolation as his friendship could suggest, but
in vain. He then talked of revenge, and Philip raised his head.
After a few minutes' thought, he rose up. "Yes," replied he,
"revenge!--revenge upon those dastards and traitors! Tell me, Krantz,
how many can we trust?"

"Half of the men, I should think, at least. It was a surprise." A spar
had been fitted as a rudder, and the raft had now gained nearer the
shore than it ever had done before. The men were in high spirits at
the prospect, and every man was sitting on his own store of dollars,
which, in their eyes, increased in value, in proportion as did their
prospect of escape.

Philip discovered from Krantz, that it was the soldiers and the most
indifferent seamen who had mutinied on the night before, and cut away
the other raft; and that all the best men had remained neuter.

"And so they will be now, I imagine," continued Krantz; "the prospect
of gaining the shore has, in a manner, reconciled them to the
treachery of their companions."

"Probably," replied Philip, with a bitter laugh; "but I know what will
rouse them. Send them here to me."

Philip talked to the seamen, whom Krantz had sent over to him. He
pointed out to them that the other men were traitors, not to be relied
upon; that they would sacrifice everything and everybody for their
own gain; that they had already done so for money, and that they
themselves would have no security, either on the raft or on shore,
with such people; that they dare not sleep for fear of having their
throats cut, and that it were better at once to get rid of those
who could not be true to each other; that it would facilitate their
escape, and that they could divide between themselves the money which
the others had secured, and by which they would double their own
shares. That it had been his intention, although he had said nothing,
to enforce the restoration of the money for the benefit of the
Company, as soon as they had gained a civilised port, where the
authorities could interfere; but that, if they consented to join and
aid him, he would now give them the whole of it for their own use.

What will not the desire of gain effect? Is it, therefore, to be
wondered at, that these men, who were indeed but little better than
those who were thus, in his desire of retaliation, denounced by
Philip, consented to his proposal? It was agreed, that if they did not
gain the shore, the others should be attacked that very night, and
tossed into the sea.

But the consultation with Philip had put the other party on the alert;
they, too, held council, and kept their arms by their sides. As the
breeze died away, they were not two miles from the land, and once more
they drifted back into the ocean. Philip's mind was borne down with
grief at the loss of Amine; but it recovered to a certain degree when
he thought of revenge: that feeling stayed him up, and he often felt
the edge of his cutlass, impatient for the moment of retribution.

It was a lovely night; the sea was now smooth as glass, and not a
breath of air moved in the heavens; the sail of the raft hung listless
down the mast, and was reflected upon the calm surface by
the brilliancy of the starry night alone. It was a night for
contemplation--for examination of oneself, and adoration of the Deity;
and here, on a frail raft, were huddled together more than forty
beings ready for combat, for murder, and for spoil. Each party
pretended to repose; yet each were quietly watching the motions of the
other, with their hands upon their weapons. The signal was to be given
by Philip: it was, to let go the halyards of the yard, so that the
sail should fall down upon a portion of the other party, and entangle
them. By Philip's directions, Schriften had taken the helm, and Krantz
remained by his side.

The yard and sail fell clattering down, and then the work of death
commenced; there was no parley, no suspense; each man started upon his
feet and raised his sword. The voices of Philip and of Krantz alone
were heard, and Philip's sword did its work. He was nerved to his
revenge, and never could be satiated as long as one remained who had
sacrificed his Amine. As Philip had expected, many had been covered up
and entangled by the falling of the sail, and their work was thereby
made easier.

Some fell where they stood; others reeled back, and sunk down under
the smooth water; others were pierced as they floundered under the
canvas. In a few minutes, the work of carnage was complete. Schriften
meanwhile looked on, and ever and anon gave vent to his chuckling
laugh--his demoniacal "He! he!"

The strife was over, and Philip stood against the mast to recover his
breath. "So far art thou revenged, my Amine," thought he; "but, oh!
what are these paltry lives compared to thine?" And now that his
revenge was satiated, and he could do no more, he covered his face up
in his hands, and wept bitterly, while those who had assisted him were
already collecting the money of the slain for distribution. These men,
when they found that three only of their side had fallen, lamented
that there had not been more, as their own shares of the dollars would
have been increased.

There were now but thirteen men besides Philip, Krantz, and Schriften
left upon the raft. As the day dawned, the breeze again sprung up,
and they shared out the portions of water, which would have been the
allowance of their companions who had fallen. Hunger they felt not;
but the water revived their spirits.

Although Philip had had little to say to Schriften since the
separation from Amine, it was very evident to him and to Krantz, that
all the pilot's former bitter feelings had returned. His chuckle,
his sarcasms, his "He! he!" were incessant; and his eye was now as
maliciously directed to Philip as it was when they first met. It was
evident that Amine alone had for the time conquered his disposition;
and that, with her disappearance, had vanished all the good-will of
Schriften towards her husband. For this Philip cared little; he had a
much more serious weight on his heart--the loss of his dear Amine; and
he felt reckless and indifferent concerning anything else.

The breeze now freshened, and they expected that, in two hours, they
would run on the beach, but they were disappointed: the step of the
mast gave way from the force of the wind, and the sail fell upon the
raft. This occasioned great delay; and before they could repair the
mischief, the wind again subsided, and they were left about a mile
from the beach. Tired and worn out with his feelings, Philip at last
fell asleep by the side of Krantz, leaving Schriften at the helm. He
slept soundly--he dreamt of Amine--he thought she was under a grove
of cocoa-nuts in a sweet sleep; that he stood by and watched her, and
that she smiled in her sleep, and murmured "Philip," when suddenly he
was awakened by some unusual movement. Half-dreaming still, he thought
that Schriften, the pilot, had in his sleep been attempting to gain
his relic, had passed the chain over his head, and was removing
quietly from underneath his neck the portion of the chain which, in
his reclining posture, he lay upon. Startled at the idea, he threw up
his hand to seize the arm of the wretch, and found that he had really
seized hold of Schriften, who was kneeling by him, and in possession
of the chain and relic. The struggle was short, the relic was
recovered, and the pilot lay at the mercy of Philip, who held him down
with his knee on his chest. Philip replaced the relic on his bosom,
and, excited to madness, rose from the body of the now breathless
Schriften, caught it in his arms, and hurled it into the sea.

"Man or devil! I care not which," exclaimed Philip, breathless;
"escape now, if you can!"

The struggle had already roused up Krantz and others, but not in time
to prevent Philip from wreaking his vengeance upon Schriften. In few
words, he told Krantz what had passed; as for the men, they cared not;
they laid their heads down again, and, satisfied that their money was
safe, inquired no further.

Philip watched to see if Schriften would rise up again, and try to
regain the raft; but he did not make his appearance above water, and
Philip felt satisfied.




Chapter XXV


What pen could portray the feelings of the fond and doting Amine, when
she first discovered that she was separated from her husband? In a
state of bewilderment, she watched the other raft as the distance
between them increased. At last the shades of night hid it from her
aching eyes, and she dropped down in mute despair.

Gradually she recovered herself, and turning round, she exclaimed,
"Who's here?"

No answer.

"Who's here?" cried she in a louder voice; "alone--alone--and Philip
gone. Mother, mother, look down upon your unhappy child!" and Amine
frantically threw herself down so near to the edge of the raft, that
her long hair, which had fallen down, floated on the wave.

"Ah me! where am I?" cried Amine, after remaining in a state of torpor
for some hours. The sun glared fiercely upon her, and dazzled her eyes
as she opened them--she cast them on the blue wave close by her, and
beheld a large shark motionless by the side of the raft, waiting for
his prey. Recoiling from the edge, she started up. She turned round,
and beheld the raft vacant, and the truth flashed on her. "Oh! Philip,
Philip!" cried she, "then it is true, and you are gone for ever! I
thought it was only a dream, I recollect all now. Yes--all--all!"
And Amine sank down again upon her cot, which had been placed in the
centre of the raft, and remained motionless for some time.

But the demand for water became imperious; she seized one of the
bottles, and drank. "Yet why should I drink or eat? Why should I wish
to preserve life?" She rose, and looked round the horizon--"Sky and
water, nothing more. Is this the death I am to die--the cruel death
prophesied by Schriften--a lingering death under a burning sun, while
my vitals are parched within? Be it so! Fate I dare thee to thy
worst--we can die but once--and without him, what care I to live! But
yet I may see him again," continued Amine, hurriedly, after a pause.
"Yes! I may--who knows? Then welcome life, I'll nurse thee for that
bare hope--bare indeed with nought to feed on. Let me see, is it here
still?" Amine looked at her zone, and perceived her dagger was still
in it. "Well then, I will live since death is at my command, and be
guardful of life for my dear husband's sake." And Amine threw herself
on her resting-place that she might forget everything. She did: from
that morning till the noon of the next day, she remained in a state of
torpor.

When she again rose, she was faint; again she looked round her--there
was but sky and water to be seen. "Oh! this solitude--it is horrible!
death would be a release--but no, I must not die--I must live for
Philip." She refreshed herself with water and a few pieces of biscuit,
and folded her arms across her breast. "A few more days without
relief, and all must be over. Was ever woman situated as I am, and yet
I dare to indulge hope? Why, 'tis madness! And why am I thus singled
out: because I have wedded with Philip? It may be so; if so, I welcome
it. Wretches! who thus severed me from my husband; who, to save their
own lives, sacrificed a helpless woman! Nay! they might have saved me,
if they had had the least pity;--but no, they never felt it. And these
are Christians! The creed that the old priests would have had me--yes!
that Philip would have had me embrace. Charity and good-will! They
talk of it, but I have never seen them practise it! Loving one
another!--forgiving one another!--say rather hating and preying upon
one another! A creed never practised: why, if not practised, of what
value is it? Any creed were better--I abjure it, and if I be saved,
will abjure it still for ever. Shade of my mother! is it that I have
listened to these men--that I have, to win my husband's love, tried to
forget that which thou taughtest, even when a child at thy feet--that
faith which our forefathers for thousands of years lived and died
in--that creed proved by works, and obedience to the prophet's
will--is it for this that I am punished? Tell me, mother--oh! tell me
in my dreams."

The night closed in, and with the gloom rose heavy clouds; the
lightning darted through the firmament, ever and anon lighting up
the raft. At last, the flashes were so rapid, not following each
other--but darting down from every quarter at once, that the whole
firmament appeared as if on fire, and the thunder rolled along the
heavens, now near and loud, then rumbling in the distance. The breeze
rose up fresh, and the waves tossed the raft, and washed occasionally
even to Amine's feet, as she stood in the centre of it.

"I like this--this is far better than that calm and withering
heat--this rouses me," said Amine, as she cast her eyes up, and
watched the forked lightning till her vision became obscured. "Yes,
this is as it should be. Lightning, strike me if you please--waves
wash me off and bury me in a briny tomb--pour the wrath of the whole
elements upon this devoted head.--I care not, I laugh at, I defy it
all. Thou canst but kill, this little steel can do as much. Let those
who hoard up wealth--those who live in splendour--those that are
happy--those who have husbands, children, aught to love--let them
tremble, I have nothing. Elements! be ye fire, or water, or earth, or
air, Amine defies you! And yet--no, no, deceive not thyself, Amine,
there is no hope; thus will I mount my funeral bier, and wait the will
of destiny." And Amine regained the secure place which Philip had
fitted up for her in the centre of the raft, threw herself down upon
her bed, and shut her eyes.

The thunder and lightning was followed up by torrents of heavy rain,
which fell till daylight; the wind still continued fresh, but the sky
cleared, and the sun shone out. Amine remained shivering in her wet
garments; the heat of the sun proved too powerful for her exhausted
state, and her brain wandered. She rose up in a sitting posture,
looked around her, saw verdant fields in every direction, the
cocoa-nuts waving to the wind--imagined even that she saw her own
Philip in the distance hastening to her; she held out her arms; strove
to get up, and run to meet him, but her limbs refused their office;
she called to him, she screamed, and sank back exhausted on her
resting-place.




Chapter XXVI


We must for a time return to Philip, and follow his strange destiny. A
few hours after he had thrown the pilot into the sea they gained the
shore, so long looked at with anxiety and suspense. The spars of the
raft, jerked by the running swell, undulated and rubbed against each
other, as they rose and fell to the waves breaking on the beach. The
breeze was fresh, but the surf was trifling, and the landing was
without difficulty. The beach was shelving, of firm white sand,
interspersed and strewed with various brilliant-coloured shells; and
here and there, the bleached fragments and bones of some animal which
had been forced out of its element to die. The island was, like all
the others, covered with a thick wood of cocoa-nut trees, whose tops
waved to the breeze, or bowed to the blast, producing a shade and a
freshness which would have been duly appreciated by any other party
than the present, with the exception only of Krantz; for Philip
thought of nothing but his lost wife, and the seamen thought of
nothing but of their sudden wealth. Krantz supported Philip to the
beach and led him to the shade; but after a minute he rose, and
running down to the nearest point, looked anxiously for the portion
of the raft which held Amine, which was now far, far away. Krantz had
followed, aware that, now the first paroxysms were past, there was no
fear of Philip's throwing away his life.

"Gone, gone for ever!" exclaimed Philip, pressing his hands to the
balls of his eyes.

"Not so, Philip, the same Providence which has preserved us, will
certainly assist her. It is impossible that she can perish among so
many islands, many of which are inhabited; and a woman will be certain
of kind treatment."

"If I could only think so," replied Philip.

"A little reflection may induce you to think that it is rather an
advantage than otherwise, that she is thus separated--not from you,
but from so many lawless companions, whose united force we could
not resist. Do you think that, after any lengthened sojourn on this
island, these people with us would permit you to remain in quiet
possession of your wife? No!--they would respect no laws; and Amine
has, in my opinion, been miraculously preserved from shame and
ill-treatment, if not from death."

"They durst not, surely! Well, but Krantz, we must make a raft and
follow her; we must not remain here--I will seek her through the wide
world."

"Be it so, if you wish, Philip, and I will follow your fortunes,"
replied Krantz, glad to find that there was something, however wild
the idea, for his mind to feed on. "But now let us return to the
raft, seek the refreshment we so much require, and after that we will
consider what may be the best plan to pursue."

To this, Philip, who was much exhausted, tacitly consented, and he
followed Krantz to where the raft had been beached. The men had left
it, and were each of them sitting apart from one another under the
shade of his own chosen cocoa-nut tree. The articles which had been
saved on the raft had not been landed, and Krantz called upon them to
come and carry the things on shore--but no one would answer or obey.
They each sat watching their money, and afraid to leave it, lest they
should be dispossessed of it by the others. Now that their lives were,
comparatively speaking, safe, the demon of avarice had taken full
possession of their souls; there they sat, exhausted, pining for
water, and longing for sleep, and yet they dared not move--they were
fixed as if by the wand of the enchanter.

"It is the cursed dollars which have turned their brains," observed
Krantz to Philip; "let us try if we cannot manage to remove what we
most stand in need of, and then we will search for water."

Philip and Krantz collected the carpenter's tools, the best arms, and
all the ammunition, as the possession of the latter would give them
advantage in case of necessity; they then dragged on shore the sail
and some small spars, all of which they carried up to a clump of
cocoa-nut trees, about a hundred yards from the beach.

In half an hour they had erected an humble tent, and put into it what
they had brought with them, with the exception of the major part of
the ammunition, which, as soon as he was screened by the tent, Krantz
buried in a heap of dry sand behind it; he then, for their immediate
wants, cut down with an axe a small cocoa-nut tree in full bearing. It
must be for those who have suffered the agony of prolonged thirst, to
know the extreme pleasure with which the milk of the nuts were one
after the other poured down the parched throats of Krantz and Philip.
The men witnessed their enjoyment in silence, and with gloating eyes.
Every time that a fresh cocoa-nut was seized and its contents quaffed
by their officers, more sharp and agonising was their own devouring
thirst--still closer did their dry lips glue themselves together--yet
they moved not, although they felt the tortures of the condemned.

Evening closed in; Philip had thrown himself down on the spare sails,
and had fallen asleep, when Krantz set off to explore the island upon
which they had been thrown. It was small, not exceeding three miles in
length, and at no one part more than five hundred yards across. Water
there was none, unless it were to be obtained by digging; fortunately
the young cocoa-nuts prevented the absolute necessity for it. On his
return, Krantz passed the men in their respective stations. Each was
awake, and raised himself on his elbow to ascertain if it were an
assailant; but perceiving Krantz, they again dropped down. Krantz
passed the raft--the water was now quite smooth, for the wind had
shifted off shore, and the spars which composed the raft hardly
jostled each other. He stepped upon it, and, as the moon was bright in
the heavens, he took the precaution of collecting all the arms which
had been left, and throwing them as far as he could into the sea. He
then walked to the tent, where he found Philip still sleeping soundly,
and in a few minutes he was reposing by his side. And Philip's dreams
were of Amine; he thought that he saw the hated Schriften rise again
from the waters, and, climbing up to the raft, seat himself by her
side. He thought that he again heard his unearthly chuckle and his
scornful laugh, as his unwelcome words fell upon her distracted ears.
He thought that she fled into the sea to avoid Schriften, and that the
waters appeared to reject her--she floated on the surface. The storm
rose, and once more he beheld her in the sea-shell skimming over the
waves. Again, she was in a furious surf on the beach, and her shell
sank, and she was buried in the waves; and then he saw her walking on
shore without fear and without harm, for the water which spared
no one, appeared to spare her. Philip tried to join her, but was
prevented by some unknown power, and Amine waved her hand and said,
"We shall meet again, Philip; yes, once more on this earth shall we
meet again."

The sun was high in the heavens and scorching in his heat, when Krantz
first opened his eyes, and awakened Philip. The axe again procured for
them their morning's meal. Philip, was silent; he was ruminating upon
his dreams, which had afforded him consolation. "We shall meet again!"
thought he. "Yes, once more at least we shall meet again. Providence!
I thank thee."

Krantz then stepped out to ascertain the condition of the men. He
found them faint, and so exhausted, that they could not possibly
survive much longer, yet still watching over their darling treasure.
It was melancholy to witness such perversion of intellect, and Krantz
thought of a plan which might save their lives. He proposed to them
each separately, that they should bury their money so deep, that it
was not to be recovered without time: this would prevent any one from
attacking the treasure of the other, without its being perceived
and the attempt frustrated, and would enable them to obtain their
necessary food and refreshment without danger of being robbed.

To this plan they acceded. Krantz brought out of the tent the only
shovel in their possession, and they, one by one, buried their dollars
many feet deep in the yielding sand. When they had all secured their
wealth, he brought them one of the axes, and the cocoa-nut trees
fell, and they were restored to new life and vigour. Having satiated
themselves, they then lay down upon the several spots under which they
had buried their dollars, and were soon enjoying that repose which
they all so much needed.

Philip and Krantz had now many serious consultations as to the means
which should be taken for quitting the island, and going in search
of Amine; for although Krantz thought the latter part of Philip's
proposal useless, he did not venture to say so. To quit this island
was necessary; and provided they gained one of those which were
inhabited, it was all that they could expect. As for Amine, he
considered that she was dead before this, either having been washed
off the raft, or that her body was lying on it exposed to the
decomposing heat of a torrid sun.

To cheer Philip, he expressed himself otherwise; and whenever they
talked about leaving the island, it was not to save their own lives,
but invariably to search after Philip's lost wife. The plan which they
proposed and acted upon was, to construct a light raft, the centre to
be composed of three water-casks, sawed in half, in a row behind each
other, firmly fixed by cross pieces to two long spars on each side.
This, under sail, would move quickly through the water, and be
manageable so as to enable them to steer a course. The outside spars
had been selected and hauled on shore, and the work was already in
progress; but they were left alone in their work, for the seamen
appeared to have no idea at present of quitting the island. Restored
by food and repose, they were not content with the money which they
had--they were anxious for more. A portion of each party's wealth had
been dug up, and they now gambled all day with pebbles, which they
had collected on the beach, and with which they had invented a game.
Another evil had crept among them: they had cut steps in the largest
cocoa-nut trees, and with the activity of seamen had mounted them,
and by tapping the top of the trees, and fixing empty cocoa-nuts
underneath, had obtained the liquor, which in its first fermentation
is termed toddy, and is afterwards distilled into arrack. But as
toddy, it is quite sufficient to intoxicate; and every day the scenes
of violence and intoxication, accompanied with oaths and execrations,
became more and more dreadful. The losers tore their hair, and rushed
like madmen upon those who had gained their dollars; but Krantz had
fortunately thrown their weapons into the sea, and those he had saved,
as well as the ammunition, he had secreted.

Blows and bloodshed, therefore, were continual, but loss of life there
was none, as the contending parties were separated by the others, who
were anxious that the play should not be interrupted. Such had been
the state of affairs for now nearly a fortnight, while the work of the
raft had slowly proceeded. Some of the men had lost their all, and
had, by the general consent of those who had won their wealth, been
banished to a certain distance that they might not pilfer from them.
These walked gloomily round the island, or on the beach, seeking
some instrument by which they might avenge themselves, and obtain
repossession of their money. Krantz and Philip had proposed to these
men to join them, and leave the island, but they had sullenly refused.

The axe was now never parted with by Krantz. He cut down what
cocoa-nut trees they required for subsistence, and prevented the men
from notching more trees, to procure the means of inebriation. On the
sixteenth day, all the money had passed into the hands of three men
who had been more fortunate than the rest. The losers were now by
far the more numerous party, and the consequence was, that the next
morning these three men were found lying strangled on the beach; the
money had been redivided, and the gambling had recommenced with more
vigour than ever.

"How can this end?" exclaimed Philip to Krantz, as he looked upon the
blackened countenances of the murdered men.

"In the death of all," replied Krantz. "We cannot prevent it. It is a
judgment."

The raft was now ready; the sand had been dug from beneath it, so as
to allow the water to flow in and float it, and it was now made fast
to a stake, and riding on the peaceful waters. A large store of
cocoa-nuts, old and young, had been procured and put on board of her,
and it was the intention of Philip and Krantz to have quitted the
island the next day.

Unfortunately, one of the men, when bathing, had perceived the arms
lying in the shallow water. He had dived down and procured a cutlass;
others had followed his example, and all had armed themselves. This
induced Philip and Krantz to sleep on board of the raft, and keep
watch; and that night, as the play was going on, a heavy loss on one
side ended in a general fray. The combat was furious, for all were
more or less excited by intoxication. The result was melancholy, for
only three were left alive. Philip, with Krantz, watched the issue;
every man who fell wounded was put to the sword, and the three left,
who had been fighting on the same side, rested panting on their
weapons. After a pause, two of them communicated with each other, and
the result was an attack upon the third man, who fell dead beneath
their blows.

"Merciful Father! are these Thy creatures?" exclaimed Philip.

"No!" replied Krantz, "they worshipped the devil as Mammon. Do you
imagine that those two, who could now divide more wealth than they
could well spend if they return to their country, will consent to a
division? Never!--they must have all--yes, all."

Krantz had hardly expressed his opinion, when one of the men, taking
advantage of the other turning round a moment from him, passed his
sword through his back. The man fell with a groan, and the sword was
again passed through his body.

"Said I not so? But the treacherous villain shall not reap his
reward," continued Krantz, levelling the musket which he held in his
hand, and shooting him dead.

"You have done wrong, Krantz; you have saved him from the punishment
he deserved. Left alone on the island, without the means of obtaining
his subsistence, he must have perished miserably and by inches, with
all his money round him--that would have been torture indeed!"

"Perhaps I was wrong. If so, may Providence forgive me, I could not
help it. Let us go ashore, for we are now on this island alone. We
must collect the treasure and bury it, so that it may be recovered;
and, at the same time, take a portion with us--for who knows but that
we may have occasion for it. To-morrow we had better remain here, for
we shall have enough to do in burying the bodies of these infatuated
men, and the wealth which has caused their destruction."

Philip agreed to the propriety of the suggestion; the next day they
buried the bodies where they lay; and the treasure was all collected
in a deep trench, under a cocoa-nut tree, which they carefully marked
with their axe. About five hundred pieces of gold were selected and
taken on board of the raft, with the intention of secreting them about
their persons, and resorting to them in case of need.

The following morning they hoisted their sail and quitted the island.
Need it be said in what direction they steered? As may be well
imagined, in that quarter where they had last seen the raft with the
isolated Amine.




Chapter XXVII


The raft was found to answer well; and although her progress through
the water was not very rapid, she obeyed the helm and was under
command. Both Philip and Krantz were very careful in taking such marks
and observations of the island as should enable them, if necessary,
to find it again. With the current to assist them, they now proceeded
rapidly to the southward, in order that they might examine a large
island which lay in that direction. Their object, after seeking for
Amine, was to find out the direction of Ternate; the king of which
they knew to be at variance with the Portuguese, who had a fort and
factory at Tidore, not very far distant from it; and from thence to
obtain a passage in one of the Chinese junks, which, on their way to
Bantam, called at that island.

Towards evening they had neared the large island, and they soon ran
down it close to the beach. Philip's eyes wandered in every direction
to ascertain whether anything on the shore indicated the presence of
Amine's raft, but he could perceive nothing of the kind, nor did he
see any inhabitants.

That they might not pass the object of their search during the night,
they ran their raft on shore, in a small cove, where the waters were
quite smooth, and remained there until the next morning, when they
again made sail and prosecuted their voyage. Krantz was steering with
the long sweep they had fitted for the purpose, when he observed
Philip, who had been for some time silent, take from his breast the
relic which he wore, and gaze attentively upon it.

"Is that your picture, Philip?" observed Krantz.

"Alas! No, it is my destiny," replied Philip, answering without
reflection.

"Your destiny! What mean you?"

"Did I say my destiny? I hardly know what I said," replied Philip,
replacing the relic in his bosom.

"I rather think you said more than you intended," replied Krantz, "but
at the same time, something near the truth. I have often perceived you
with that trinket in your hand, and I have not forgotten how anxious
Schriften was to obtain it, and the consequences of his attempt upon
it. Is there not some secret--some mystery attached to it? Surely,
if so, you must now sufficiently know me as your friend, to feel me
worthy of your confidence."

"That you are my friend, Krantz, I feel--my sincere and much valued
friend, for we have shared much danger together, and that is
sufficient to make us friends--that I could trust you, I believe, but
I feel as if I dare not trust anyone. There is a mystery attached to
this relic (for a relic it is), which as yet has been confided to my
wife and holy men alone."

"And if trusted to holy men, surely it may be trusted to sincere
friendship, than which nothing is more holy."

"But I have a presentiment that the knowledge of my secret would prove
fatal to you. Why I feel such a presentiment I know not; but I feel
it, Krantz; and I cannot afford to lose you, my valued friend."

"You will not, then, make use of my friendship, it appears," replied
Krantz. "I have risked my life with you before now, and I am not to
be deterred from the duties of friendship by a childish foreboding on
your part, the result of an agitated mind and a weakened body. Can
anything be more absurd than to suppose, that a secret confided to me
can be pregnant with danger, unless it be, indeed, that my zeal
to assist you may lead me into difficulties. I am not of a prying
disposition; but we have been so long connected together, and are now
so isolated from the rest of the world, that it appears to me it would
be a solace to you, were you to confide in one whom you can trust,
what evidently has long preyed upon your mind. The consolation and
advice of a friend, Philip, are not to be despised, and you will feel
relieved if able to talk over with him a subject which evidently
oppresses you. If, therefore, you value my friendship, let me share
with you in your sorrows."

There are few who have passed through life so quietly, as not to
recollect how much grief has been assuaged by confiding its cause to,
and listening to the counsels and consolations of, some dear friend.
It must not therefore appear surprising, that, situated as he was, and
oppressed with the loss of Amine, Philip should regard Krantz as one
to whom he might venture to confide his important secret. He commenced
his narrative with no injunctions, for he felt that if Krantz could
not respect his secret for his secret's sake, or from good-will
towards him, he was not likely to be bound by any promise; and as,
during the day, the raft passed by the various small capes and
headlands of the island, he poured into Krantz's ear the history which
the reader is acquainted with. "Now you know all," said Philip with
a deep sigh, as the narrative was concluded. "What think you? Do you
credit my strange tale, or do you imagine, as some well would, that it
is a mere phantom of a disordered brain?"

"That it is not so, Philip, I believe," replied Krantz; "for I too
have had ocular proof of the correctness of a part of your history.
Remember how often I have seen this Phantom Ship--and if your father
is permitted to range over the seas, why should you not be selected
and permitted to reverse his doom? I fully believe every word that you
have told me, and since you have told me this, I can comprehend much
that in your behaviour at times appeared unaccountable; there are many
who would pity you, Philip, but I envy you."

"Envy me?" cried Philip.

"Yes! envy you: and gladly would I take the burden of your doom on my
own shoulders, were it only possible. Is it not a splendid thought
that you are summoned to so great a purpose,--that instead of roaming
through the world as we all do in pursuit of wealth, which possibly we
may lose after years of cost and hardship, by the venture of a day,
and which, at all events, we must leave behind us,--you are selected
to fulfil a great and glorious work--the work of angels, I may
say--that of redeeming the soul of a father, _suffering_ indeed, for
his human frailties, but not doomed to perish for eternity; you have,
indeed, an object of pursuit worthy of all the hardships and dangers
of a maritime life. If it ends in your death, what then? Where else
end our futile cravings, our continual toil, after nothing? We all
must die--but how few--who indeed besides yourself--was ever permitted
before his death to ransom the soul of the author of his existence!
Yes, Philip, I envy you!"

"You think and speak like Amine. She too is of a wild and ardent
soul, that would mingle with the beings of the other world, and hold
intelligence with disembodied spirits."

"She is right," replied Krantz; "there are events in my life, or
rather connected with my family, which have often fully convinced me
that this is not only possible but permitted. Your story has only
corroborated what I already believed."

"Indeed! Krantz?"

"Indeed, yes; but of that hereafter: the night is closing in, we must
again put our little bark in safety for the night, and there is a cove
which I think appears suited for the purpose."

Before morning, a strong breeze right on shore had sprung up, and the
surf became so high as to endanger the raft; to continue their course
was impossible; they could only haul up their raft to prevent its
being dashed to pieces by the force of the waves, as the seas broke
on the shore. Philip's thoughts were, as usual, upon Amine, and as he
watched the tossing waters, as the sunbeams lightened up their crests,
he exclaimed, "Ocean! hast thou my Amine? If so, give up thy dead!
What is that?" continued he, pointing to a speck on the horizon.

"The sail of a small craft of some description or another," replied
Krantz; "and apparently coming down before the wind to shelter herself
in the very nook we have selected."

"You are right; it is the sail of a vessel, of one of those peroquas
which skim over these seas--how she rises on the swell!--she is full
of men, apparently."

The peroqua rapidly approached, and was soon close to the beach; the
sail was lowered, and she was backed in through the surf.

"Resistance is useless should they prove enemies," observed Philip.
"We shall soon know our fate."

The people in the peroqua took no notice of them, until the craft had
been hauled up and secured; three of them then advanced towards Philip
and Krantz, with spears in their hands, but evidently with no hostile
intentions. One addressed them in Portuguese, asking them who they
were?

"We are Hollanders," replied Philip.

"A part of the crew of the vessel which was wrecked?" inquired he.

"Yes!"

"You have nothing to fear--you are enemies to the Portuguese, and so
are we. We belong to the island of Ternate--our king is at war with
the Portuguese, who are villains. Where are your companions? on which
island?"

"They are all dead," replied Philip; "may I ask you whether you have
fallen in with a woman, who was adrift on a part of the raft by
herself? or have you heard of her?"

"We have heard that a woman was picked up on the beach to the
southward, and carried away by the Tidore people to the Portuguese
settlement, on the supposition that she was a Portuguese."

"Then God be thanked, she is saved," cried Philip. "Merciful Heaven!
accept my thanks.--To Tidore you said?"

"Yes; we are at war with the Portuguese, we cannot take you there."

"No! but we shall meet again."

The person who accosted them was evidently of some consequence. His
dress was, to a certain degree, Mahometan, but mixed up with Malay--he
carried arms in his girdle and a spear in his hand; his turban was of
printed chintz; and his deportment, like most persons of rank in that
country, was courteous and dignified.

"We are now returning to Ternate, and will take you with us. Our king
will be pleased to receive any Hollanders, especially as you are
enemies to the Portuguese dogs. I forgot to tell you that we have one
of your companions with us in the boat; we picked him up at sea, much
exhausted, but he is now doing well."

"Who can it be?" observed Krantz, "it must be some one belonging to
some other vessel."

"No," replied Philip, shuddering, "it must be Schriften."

"Then my eyes must behold him before I believe it," replied Krantz.

"Then believe your eyes," replied Philip, pointing to the form of
Schriften, who was now walking towards them.

"Mynheer Vanderdecken, glad to see you. Mynheer Krantz, I hope you are
well. How lucky that we should all be saved. He! he!"

"The ocean has then, indeed, given up its dead, as I requested,"
thought Philip.

In the meantime, Schriften, without making any reference to the way
in which they had so unceremoniously parted company, addressed Krantz
with apparent good-humour, and some slight tinge of sarcasm. It was
some time before Krantz could rid himself of him.

"What think you of him, Krantz?"

"That he is a part of the whole, and has his destiny to fulfil as well
as you. He has his part to play in this wondrous mystery, and will
remain until it is finished. Think not of him. Recollect, your Amine
is safe."

"True," replied Philip, "the wretch is not worth a thought; we have
now nothing to do but to embark with these people; hereafter we may
rid ourselves of him, and strive then to rejoin my dearest Amine."




Chapter XXVIII


When Amine again came to her senses, she found herself lying on the
leaves of the palmetto, in a small hut. A hideous black child sat by
her, brushing off the flies. Where was she?

The raft had been tossed about for two days, during which Amine
remained in a state of alternate delirium and stupor. Driven by the
current and the gale, it had been thrown on shore on the eastern end
of the coast of New Guinea. She had been discovered by some of the
natives, who happened to be on the beach trafficking with some of the
Tidore people. At first, they hastened to rid her of her garments,
although they perceived that she was not dead; but before they had
left her as naked as themselves, a diamond of great value, which had
been given to her by Philip, attracted the attention of one of the
savages; failing in his attempt to pull it off, he pulled out a rusty,
blunt knife, and was busily sawing at the finger, when an old woman of
authority interfered and bade him desist. The Tidore people, also, who
were friends with the Portuguese, pointed out, that to save one of
that nation would ensure a reward; they stated moreover, that they
would, on their return, inform the people of the factory establishment
that one of their country-women had been thrown on shore on a
raft.--To this Amine owed the care and attention that was paid to
her; that part of New Guinea being somewhat civilised by occasional
intercourse with the Tidore people, who came there to exchange
European finery and trash for the more useful productions of the
island.

The Papoos woman carried Amine into her hut, and there she lay for
many days, wavering between life and death, carefully attended, but
requiring little, except the moistening of her parched lips with
water, and the brushing off of the mosquitoes and flies.

When Amine opened her eyes, the little Papoos ran out to acquaint
the woman who followed her into the hut. She was of large size, very
corpulent and unwieldy, with little covering on her body; her hair,
which was woolly in its texture, was partly parted, partly frizzled;
a cloth round her waist, and a piece of faded yellow silk on her
shoulders, was all her dress. A few silver rings on her fat fingers,
and a necklace of mother-of-pearl, were her ornaments. Her teeth were
jet black, from the use of the betel-nut, and her whole appearance was
such as to excite disgust in the breast of Amine.

She addressed Amine, but her words were unintelligible: and the
sufferer, exhausted with the slight effort she had made, fell back
into her former position, and closed her eyes. But if the woman was
disgusting, she was kind; and by her attention and care Amine was
able, in the course of three weeks, to crawl out of the hut and enjoy
the evening breeze. The natives of the island would at times surround
her, but they treated her with respect, from fear of the old woman.
Their woolly hair was frizzled or plaited, sometimes powdered white
with chunam. A few palmetto leaves round the waist and descending to
the knee, was their only attire; rings through the nose and ears,
and feathers of birds, particularly the bird of paradise, were their
ornaments: but their language was wholly unintelligble. Amine felt
grateful for life; she sat under the shade of the trees, and watched
the swift peroquas as they skimmed the blue sea which was expanded
before her; but her thoughts were elsewhere--they were on Philip.

One morning Amine came out of the hut, with joy on her countenance,
and took her usual seat under the trees. "Yes, mother, dearest mother,
I thank thee; thou hast appeared to me; thou hast recalled to me thy
arts, which I had forgotten, and had I but the means of conversing
with these people, even now would I know where my Philip might be."

For two months did Amine remain under the care of the Papoos woman.
When the Tidore people returned, they had an order to bring the white
woman, who had been cast on shore, to the Factory, and repay those who
had taken charge of her. They made signs to Amine, who had now quite
recovered her beauty, that she was to go with them. Any change was
preferable to staying where she was, and Amine followed them down to a
peroqua, on which she was securely fixed, and was soon darting through
the water with her new companions; and, as they flew along the smooth
seas, Amine thought of Philip's dream and the mermaid's shell.

By the evening they had arrived at the southern point of Galolo, where
they landed for the night; the next day they gained the place of their
destination, and Amine was led up to the Portuguese factory.

That the curiosity of those who were stationed there was roused is not
to be wondered at, the history given by the natives of Amine's escape
appeared so miraculous. From the Commandant to the lowest servant,
every one was waiting to receive her. The beauty of Amine, her perfect
form, astonished them. The Commandant addressed a long compliment to
her in Portuguese, and was astonished that she did not make a suitable
reply; but as Amine did not understand a word that he said, it would
have been more surprising if she had.

As Amine made signs that she could not understand the language, it was
presumed that she was either English or Dutch, and an interpreter was
sent for. She then explained that she was the wife of a Dutch captain,
whose vessel had been wrecked, and that she did not know whether the
crew had been saved or not. The Portuguese were very glad to hear
that a Dutch vessel had been wrecked, and very glad that so lovely a
creature as Amine had been saved. She was informed by the Commandant
that she was welcome, and that during her stay there everything should
be done to make her comfortable; that in three months they expected
a vessel from the Chinese seas, proceeding to Goa, and that, if
inclined, she should have a passage to Goa in that vessel, and from
that city she would easily find other vessels to take her wherever she
might please to go; she was then conducted to an apartment, and left
with a little negress to attend upon her.

The Portuguese Commandant was a small, meagre, little man, dried up to
a chip, from long sojourning under a tropical sun. He had very large
whiskers, and a very long sword; these were the two most remarkable
features in his person and dress.

His attentions could not be misinterpreted, and Amine would have
laughed at him, had she not been fearful that she might be detained.
In a few weeks, by due attention, she gained the Portuguese language
so far as to ask for what she required, and before she quitted the
island of Tidore she could converse fluently. But her anxiety to
leave, and to ascertain what had become of Philip, became greater
every day; and at the expiration of the three months, her eyes were
continually bent to seaward, to catch the first glimpse of the vessel
which was expected. At last it appeared, and as Amine watched the
approach of the canvas from the west, the Commandant fell on his
knees, and declaring his passion, requested her not to think of
departure, but to unite her fate with his.

Amine was cautious in her reply, for she knew that she was in his
power. "She must first receive intelligence of her husband's death,
which was not yet certain; she would proceed to Goa, and if she
discovered that she was single, she would write to him."

This answer, as it will be discovered, was the cause of great
suffering to Philip: the Commandant, fully assured that he could
compass Philip's death, was satisfied--declared that, as soon as he
had any positive intelligence, he would bring it to Goa himself, and
made a thousand protestations of truth and fidelity.

"Fool!" thought Amine, as she watched the ship, which was now close to
the anchorage.

In half-an-hour the vessel had anchored, and the people had landed.
Amine observed a priest with them, as they walked up to the fort. She
shuddered--she knew not why; when they arrived, she found herself in
the presence of Father Mathias.




Chapter XXIX


Both Amine and Father Mathias started, and drew back with surprise at
this unexpected meeting. Amine was the first to extend her hand;
she had almost forgotten at the moment how they had parted, in the
pleasure she experienced in meeting with a well-known face.

Father Mathias coldly took her hand, and laying his own upon her head,
said: "May God bless thee, and forgive thee, my daughter, as I have
long done." Then the recollection of what had passed, rushed into
Amine's mind, and she coloured deeply.

Had Father Mathias forgiven her? The event would show; but this is
certain, he now treated her as an old friend: listened with interest
to her history of the wreck, and agreed with her upon the propriety of
her accompanying him to Goa.

In a few days the vessel sailed, and Amine quitted the Factory and its
enamoured Commandant. They ran through the Archipelago in safety, and
were crossing the mouth of the Bay of Bengal, without having had any
interruption to fine weather. Father Mathias had returned to Lisbon,
when he quitted Ternicore, and, tired of idleness, had again
volunteered to proceed as a missionary to India. He had arrived at
Formosa, and shortly after his arrival, had received directions from
his superior to return on important business to Goa, and thus it was
that he fell in with Amine at Tidore.

It would be difficult to analyse the feelings of Father Mathias
towards Amine--they varied so often. At one moment, he would call to
mind the kindness shown to him by her and Philip--the regard he had
for the husband, and the many good qualities which he acknowledged
that she possessed--and _now_ he would recollect the disgrace, the
unmerited disgrace, he had suffered through her means; and he would
then canvass, whether she really did believe him an intruder in her
chamber for other motives than those which actuated him, or whether
she had taken advantage of his indiscretion. These accounts were
nearly balanced in his mind; he could have forgiven all, if he had
thought that Amine was a sincere convert to the church; but his strong
conviction that she was not only an unbeliever, but that she practised
forbidden arts, turned the scale against her. He watched her narrowly,
and when, in her conversation, she shewed any religious feeling, his
heart warmed towards her; but when, on the contrary, any words escaped
her lips which seemed to show that she thought lightly of his creed,
then the full tide of indignation and vengeance poured into his bosom.

It was in crossing the Bay of Bengal, to pass round the southern cape
of Ceylon, that they first met with bad weather; and when the storm
increased, the superstitious seamen lighted candles before the small
image of the saint which was shrined on deck. Amine observed it,
and smiled with scorn; and as she did so, almost unwittingly, she
perceived that the eye of Father Mathias was earnestly fixed upon her.

"The Papooses I have just left do no worse than worship their idols,
and are termed idolaters," muttered Amine. "What then are these
Christians?"

"Would you not be better below?" said Father Mathias, coming over to
Amine; "this is no time for women to be on deck--they would be better
employed in offering up prayers for safety."

"Nay, Father, I can pray better here; I like this conflict of the
elements; and as I view, I bow down in admiration of the Deity who
rules the storm; who sends the winds forth in their wrath, or soothes
them into peace."

"It is well said, my child," replied Father Mathias; "but the Almighty
is not only to be worshipped in His works, but, in the closet, with
meditation, self-examination, and faith. Hast thou followed up the
precepts which thou hast been taught? hast thou reverenced the sublime
mysteries which have been unfolded to thee?"

"I have done my best, Father," replied Amine, turning away her head,
and watching the rolling wave.

"Hast thou called upon the Holy Virgin, and upon the saints--those
intercessors for mortals erring like thyself?"

Amine made no answer; she did not wish to irritate the priest, neither
would she tell an untruth.

"Answer me, child," continued the priest with severity.

"Father," replied Amine, "I have appealed to God alone--the God of the
Christians--the God of the whole universe!"

"Who believes not everything, believes nothing, young woman. I thought
as much! I saw thee smile with scorn just now; why didst thou smile?"

"At my own thoughts, good Father."

"Say rather, at the true faith shown by others."

Amine made no answer.

"Thou art still an unbeliever, and a heretic. Beware, young woman!
beware!"

"Beware of what, good Father? why should I beware? Are there not
millions in these climes more unbelieving, and more heretic, perhaps,
than I? How many have you converted to your faith? What trouble, what
toil, what dangers have you not undergone to propagate that creed--and
why do you succeed so ill? Shall I tell you, Father? It is because the
people have already had a creed of their own: a creed taught to them
from their infancy, and acknowledged by all who live about them. Am I
not in the same position? I was brought up in another creed: and can
you expect that that can be dismissed, and the prejudices of early
years at once eradicated? I have thought much of what you have told
me--have felt that much is true--that the tenets of your creed are
god-like--is not that much? and yet you are not content. You would
have blind acknowledgment, blind obedience--I were then an unworthy
convert. We shall soon be in port, then teach me, and convince me, if
you will; I am ready to examine and confess, but on conviction only.
Have patience, good Father, and the time may come when I _may_ feel,
what now I _do not_;--that yon bit of painted wood is a thing to bow
down to and adore."

Notwithstanding this taunt at the close of this speech, there was so
much truth in the observations of Amine, that Father Mathias felt
their power. As the wife of a Catholic, he had been accustomed to view
Amine as one who had backslided from the church of Rome--not as one
who had been brought up in another creed. He now recalled to mind,
that she had never yet been received into the church, for Father
Seysen had not considered her as in a proper state to be admitted, and
had deferred her baptism until he was satisfied of her full belief.

"You speak boldly; but you speak as you feel, my child," replied
Father Mathias after a pause. "We will, when we arrive at Goa, talk
over these things, and with the blessing of God, the new faith shall
be made manifest to you."

"So be it," replied Amine.

Little did the priest imagine that Amine's thoughts were at that
moment upon a dream she had had at New Guinea, in which her mother
appeared, and revealed to her her magic arts--and that Amine was
longing to arrive at Goa that she might practise them.

Every hour the gale increased, and the vessel laboured and leaked; the
Portuguese sailors were frightened, and invoked their saints. Father
Mathias, and the other passengers, gave themselves up for lost, for
the pumps could not keep the vessel free; and their cheeks blanched as
the waves washed furiously over the vessel: they prayed and trembled.
Father Mathias gave them absolution; some cried like children, some
tore their hair, some cursed, and cursed the saints they had but the
day before invoked. But Amine stood unmoved; and as she heard them
curse, she smiled in scorn.

"My child," said Father Mathias, checking his tremulous voice that he
might not appear agitated before one whom he saw so calm and unmoved
amidst the roaring of the elements--"My child, let not this hour of
peril pass away. Before thou art summoned, let me receive thee into
the bosom of our church--give thee pardon for thy sins, and certainty
of bliss hereafter."

"Good Father, Amine is not to be frightened into belief, even if she
feared the storm," replied she; "nor will she credit your power to
forgive her sins, merely because she says, in fear, that which in her
calm reason she might reject. If ever fear could have subjected me,
it was when I was alone upon the raft--that was indeed a trial of my
strength of mind, the bare recollection of which is, at this moment,
more dreadful than the storm now raging, and the death which may await
us. There is a God on high in whose mercy I trust--in whose love I
confide--to whose will I bow. Let Him do His will."

"Die not, my child, in unbelief!"

"Father," replied Amine, pointing to the passengers and seamen who
were on the deck crying and wailing: "these are Christians--these men
have been promised by you, but now, the inheritance of perfect bliss.
What is their faith, that it does not give them strength to die like
men? Why is it that a woman quails not, while they lie grovelling on
the deck?"

"Life is sweet, my child--they leave their wives, their children, and
they dread hereafter. Who is prepared to die?"

"I am," replied Amine. "I have no husband--at least I fear I have no
husband. For me life has no sweets; yet, one little hope remains--a
straw to the sinking wretch. I fear not death, for I have nought to
live for. Were Philip here, why, then indeed--but he is gone before
me, and now to follow him is all I ask."

"He died in the faith, my child--if you would meet him, do the same."

"He never died like these," replied Amine, looking with scorn at the
passengers.

"Perhaps he lived not as they have lived," replied Father Mathias. "A
good man dies in peace, and hath no fear."

"So die the good men of all creeds, Father," replied Amine; "and in
all creeds death is equally terrible to the wicked."

"I will pray for thee, my child," said Father Mathias, sinking on his
knees.

"Many thanks--thy prayers will be heard, even though offered for one
like me," replied Amine, who, clinging to the man-ropes, made her way
up to the ladder, and gained the deck.

"Lost! signora, lost!" exclaimed the captain, wringing his hands as he
crouched under the bulwark.

"No!" replied Amine, who had gained the weather side, and held on by a
rope; "not lost this time."

"How say you, signora?" replied the captain, looking with admiration
at Amine's calm and composed countenance. "How say you, signora?"

"Something tells me, good captain, that you will not be lost, if you
exert yourselves--something tells it to me here," and Amine laid her
hand to her heart. Amine had a conviction that the vessel would not be
lost, for it had not escaped her observation that the storm was less
violent, although, in their terror, this had been unnoticed by the
sailors.

The coolness of Amine, her beauty, perhaps, the unusual sight of a
woman so young, calm and confiding, when all others were in despair,
had its due effect upon the captain and seamen. Supposing her to be
a Catholic they imagined that she had had some warrant for her
assertion, for credulity and superstition are close friends. They
looked upon Amine with admiration and respect, recovered their
energies, and applied to their duties. The pumps were again worked;
the storm abated during the night, and the vessel was, as Amine had
predicted, saved.

The crew and passengers looked upon her almost as a saint, and talked
of her to Father Mathias, who was sadly perplexed. The courage which
she had displayed was extraordinary; even when he trembled, she showed
no sign of fear. He made no reply, but communed with his own mind,
and the result was unfavourable to Amine. What had given her such
coolness? what had given her the spirit of prophecy? Not the God of
the Christians, for she was no believer. Who then? and Father Mathias
thought of her chamber at Terneuse, and shook his head.




Chapter XXX


We must now again return to Philip and Krantz, who had a long
conversation upon the strange reappearance of Schriften. All that they
could agree upon was, that he should be carefully watched, and that
they should dispense with his company as soon as possible. Krantz had
interrogated him as to his escape, and Schriften had informed him, in
his usual sneering manner, that one of the sweeps of the raft had been
allowed to get adrift during the scuffle, and that he had floated on
it, until he had gained a small island; that on seeing the peroqua, he
had once more launched it and supported himself by it, until he was
perceived and picked up. As there was nothing impossible although much
of the improbable in this account, Krantz asked no more questions. The
next morning, the wind having abated, they launched the peroqua, and
made sail for the island of Ternate.

It was four days before they arrived: as every night they landed and
hauled up their craft on the sandy beach. Philip's heart was relieved
at the knowledge of Amine's safety, and he could have been happy at
the prospect of again meeting her, had he not been so constantly
fretted by the company of Schriften.

There was something so strange, so contrary to human nature that the
little man, though diabolical as he appeared to be in his disposition,
should never hint at, or complain of, Philip's attempts upon his life.
Had he complained--had he accused Philip of murder--had he vowed
vengeance and demanded justice on his return to the authorities, it
had been different; but no--there he was, making his uncalled-for and
impertinent observations, with his eternal chuckle and sarcasm, as if
he had not the least cause of anger or ill-will.

As soon as they arrived at the principal port and town of Ternate,
they were conducted to a large cabin, built of palmetto leaves and
bamboo, and requested not to leave it until their arrival had been
announced to the king. The peculiar courtesy and good breeding of
these islanders was the constant theme of remark of Philip and Krantz;
their religion, as well as their dress, appeared to be a compound of
the Mahometan and Malayan.

After a few hours, they were summoned to attend the audience of the
king, held in the open air. The king was seated under a portico,
attended by a numerous concourse of priests and soldiers. There was
much company, but little splendour. All who were about the king
were robed in white, with white turbans, but he himself was without
ornament. The first thing that struck Philip and Krantz, when they
were ushered into the presence of the king, was the beautiful
cleanliness which everywhere prevailed; every dress was spotless and
white, as the sun could bleach it.

Having followed the example of those who introduced them, and saluted
the king after the Mahommedan custom, they were requested to be
seated; and through the Portuguese interpreters--for the former
communication of the islanders with the Portuguese, who had been
driven from the place, made the Portuguese language well known by
many--a few questions were put by the king, who bade them welcome, and
then requested to know how they had been wrecked.

Philip entered into a short detail, in which he stated that his wife
had been separated from him, and was, he understood, in the hands of
the Portuguese factory at Tidore. He requested to know if his majesty
could assist him in obtaining her release, or in going to join her.

"It is well said," replied the king. "Let refreshments be brought in
for the strangers, and the audience be broken up."

In a few minutes there remained of all the Court but two or three
of the king's confidential friends and advisers; and a collation of
curries, fish, and a variety of other dishes was served up. After it
was over, the king then said, "The Portuguese are dogs, they are our
enemies--will you assist us to fight them? We have large guns, but do
not understand the use of them as well as you do. I will send a
fleet against the Portuguese at Tidore, if you will assist me. Say,
Hollanders, will you fight? You," addressing Philip, "will then
recover your wife."

"I will give an answer to you to-morrow," replied Philip; "I must
consult with my friend. As I told you before, I was the captain of the
ship, and this was my second in command--we will consult together."
Schriften, whom Philip had represented as a common seaman, had not
been brought up into the presence of the king.

"It is good," replied the king; "to-morrow we will expect your reply."

Philip and Krantz took their leave, and, on their return to the
cabin, found that the king had sent them, as a present, two complete
Mahommedan dresses, with turbans. These were welcome, for their own
garments were sadly tattered, and very unfit for exposure to the
burning sun of those climes. Their peaked hats too, collected the rays
of heat, which were intolerable; and they gladly exchanged them for
the white turban. Secreting their money in the Malayan sash, which
formed a part of the attire, they soon robed themselves in the native
garments, the comfort of which was immediately acknowledged. After a
long consultation, it was decided that they should accept the terms
offered by the king, as this was the only feasible way by which
Philip could hope to re-obtain possession of Amine. Their consent was
communicated to the king on the following day, and every preparation
was made for the expedition.

And now was to be beheld a scene of bustle and activity. Hundreds and
hundreds of peroquas, of every dimension, floating close to the beach,
side by side, formed a raft extending nearly half a mile on the smooth
water of the bay, teeming with men, who were equipping them for the
service: some were fitting the sails; others were carpentering
where required; the major portion were sharpening their swords, and
preparing the deadly poison of the pineapple for their creezes.
The beach was a scene of confusion: water in jars, bags of rice,
vegetables, salt-fish, fowls in coops, were everywhere strewed about
among the armed natives, who were obeying the orders of the chiefs,
who themselves walked up and down, dressed in their gayest apparel,
and glittering in their arms and ornaments. The king had six long
brass four-pounders, a present from an Indian captain; these, with
a proportionate quantity of shot and cartridges, were (under the
direction of Philip and Krantz) fitted on some of the largest
peroquas, and some of the natives were instructed how to use them. At
first the king, who fully expected the reduction of the Portuguese
fort, stated his determination to go in person; but in this he was
overruled by his confidential advisers and by the request of Philip,
who could not allow him to expose his valuable life. In ten days all
was ready, and the fleet, manned by seven thousand men, made sail for
the island of Tidore.

It was a beautiful sight, to behold the blue rippling sea, covered
with nearly six hundred of these picturesque craft, all under sail,
and darting through the water like dolphins in pursuit of prey; all
crowded with natives, whose white dresses formed a lively contrast
with the deep blue of the water. The large peroquas, in which were
Philip and Krantz with the native commanders, were gaily decorated
with streamers and pennons of all colours, that flowed out and snapped
with the fresh breeze. It appeared rather to be an expedition of
mirth and merriment, than one which was proceeding to bloodshed and
slaughter.

On the evening of the second day they had made the island of Tidore,
and run down to within a few miles of the Portuguese factory and
fort. The natives of the country, who disliked, though they feared
to disobey the Portuguese, had quitted their huts near the beach and
retired into the woods. The fleet, therefore, anchored and lay near
the beach, without molestation, during the night. The next morning
Philip and Krantz proceeded to reconnoitre.

The fort and factory of Tidore were built upon the same principle
as almost all the Portuguese defences in those seas. An outer
fortification, consisting of a ditch, with strong palisades embedded
in masonry, surrounded the factory and all the houses of the
establishment. The gates of the outer wall were open all day for
ingress and egress, and closed only at night. On the seaward side
of this enclosure was what may be termed the citadel or real
fortification; it was built of solid masonry with parapets, was
surrounded by a deep ditch, and was only accessible by a drawbridge,
mounted with cannon on every side. Its real strength however, could
not well be perceived, as it was hidden by the high palisading which
surrounded the whole establishment. After a careful survey, Philip
recommended that the large peroquas with the cannon should attack by
sea, while the men of the small vessels should land and surround the
fort--taking advantage of every shelter which was afforded them, to
cover themselves while they harassed the enemy with their matchlocks,
arrows, and spears. This plan having been approved of, one hundred and
fifty peroquas made sail; the others were hauled on the beach, and the
men belonging to them proceeded by land.

But the Portuguese had been warned of their approach, and were fully
prepared to receive them; the guns mounted to the seaward were of
heavy calibre and well served. The guns of the peroquas, though
rendered as effectual as they could be, under the direction of Philip,
were small, and did little damage to the thick stone front of the
fort. After an engagement of four hours, during which the Ternate
people lost a great number of men, the peroquas, by the advice of
Philip and Krantz, hauled off, and returned to where the remainder of
the fleet were stationed; and another council of war was held. The
force, which had surrounded the fort on the land side, was, however,
not withdrawn, as it cut off any supplies or assistance; and, at the
same time, occasionally brought down any of the Portuguese who might
expose themselves--a point of no small importance, as Philip well
knew, with a garrison so small as that in the fort.

That they could not take the fort by means of their cannon was
evident; on the sea-side it was for them impregnable; their efforts
must now be directed to the land. Krantz, after the native chiefs had
done speaking, advised that they should wait until dark, and then
proceed to the attack in the following way. When the breeze set along
shore, which it would do in the evening, he proposed that the men
should prepare large bundles of dry palmetto and cocoa-nut leaves;
that they should carry their bundles and stack them against the
palisades to windward, and then set fire to them. They would thus burn
down the palisades, and gain an entrance into the outer fortification:
after which they could ascertain in what manner they should next
proceed. This advice was too judicious not to be followed. All the men
who had not matchlocks were set to collect fagots; a large quantity of
dry wood was soon got together, and before night they were ready for
the second attack.

The white dresses of the Ternates were laid aside: with nothing
on them but their belts, and scimitars, and creezes, and blue
under-drawers, they silently crept up to the palisades, there
deposited their fagots, and then again returned, again to perform the
same journey. As the breastwork of fagots increased, so did they more
boldly walk up, until the pile was completed; they then, with a loud
shout, fired it in several places. The flames mounted, the cannon
of the fort roared, and many fell under the discharges of grape and
hand-grenade. But, stifled by the smoke, which poured in volumes upon
them, the people in the fort were soon compelled to quit the ramparts
to avoid suffocation. The palisades were on fire, and the flames
mounting in the air, swept over, and began to attack the factory and
houses. No resistance was now offered, and the Ternates tore down the
burning palisades, and forced their way into the entrenchment, and
with their scimitars and creezes, put to death all who had been so
unfortunate as not to take refuge in the citadel. These were chiefly
native servants, whom the attack had surprised, and for whose lives
the Portuguese seemed to care but little, for they paid no attention
to their cries to lower the drawbridge, and admit them into the fort.

The factory, built of stone, and all the other houses, were on fire,
and the island was lighted up for miles. The smoke had cleared away,
and the defences of the fort were now plainly visible in the broad
glare of the flames. "If we had scaling-ladders," cried Philip, "the
fort would be ours; there is not a soul on the ramparts." "True,
true," replied Krantz, "but even as it is, the factory walls will
prove an advantageous post for us after the fire is extinguished; if
we occupy it we can prevent them showing themselves while the ladders
are constructing. To-morrow night we may have them ready, and having
first smoked the fort with a few more fagots, we may afterwards mount
the walls, and carry the place."

"That will do," replied Philip as he walked away. He then joined
the native chiefs, who were collected together outside of the
entrenchment, and communicated to them his plans. When he had made
known his views, and the chiefs had assented to them, Schriften, who
had come with the expedition unknown to Philip, made his appearance.

"That won't do; you'll never take that fort, Philip Vanderdecken. He!
he!" cried Schriften.

Hardly had he said the words, when a tremendous explosion took place,
and the air was filled with large stones, which flew and fell in every
direction, killing and maiming hundreds. It was the factory which had
blown up, for in its vaults there was a large quantity of gunpowder,
to which the fire had communicated.

"So ends that scheme, Mynheer Vanderdecken. He! he!" screamed
Schriften; "you'll never take that fort."

The loss of life and the confusion caused by this unexpected result,
occasioned a panic, and all the Ternate people fled down to the beach
where their peroquas were lying.

It was in vain that Philip and their chiefs attempted to rally them.
Unaccustomed to the terrible effects of gunpowder in any large
quantities, they believed that something supernatural had occurred,
and many of them jumped into the peroquas and made sail, while the
remainder were confused, trembling, and panting, all huddled together,
on the beach.

"You'll never take that fort, Mynheer Vanderdecken," screamed the
well-known voice.

Philip raised his sword to cleave the little man in two, but he let it
fall again. "I fear he tells an unwelcome truth," thought Philip; "but
why should I take his life for that?"

Some few of the Ternate chiefs still kept up their courage, but
the major part were as much alarmed as their people. After some
consultation, it was agreed that the army should remain where it was
till the next morning, when they should finally decide what to do.

When the day dawned, now that the Portuguese fort was no longer
surrounded by the other buildings, they perceived that it was more
formidable than they had at first supposed. The ramparts were filled
with men, and they were bringing cannon to bear on the Ternate forces.
Philip had a consultation with Krantz, and both acknowledged, that
with the present panic nothing more could be done. The chiefs were
of the same opinion, and orders were given for the return of the
expedition: indeed, the Ternate chiefs were fully satisfied with their
success; they had destroyed the large fort, the factory, and all the
Portuguese buildings; a small fortification only was uninjured: that
was built of stone, and inaccessible, and they knew that the report of
what had been done, would be taken and acknowledged by the king as a
great victory. The order was therefore given for embarkation, and in
two hours the whole fleet, after a loss of about seven hundred men,
was again on its way to Ternate. Krantz and Philip this time embarked
in the same peroqua, that they might have the pleasure of each other's
conversation. They had not, however, sailed above three hours, when it
fell calm, and, towards the evening, there was every prospect of bad
weather. When the breeze again sprung up, it was from an adverse
quarter, but these vessels steer so close to the wind, that this was
disregarded: by midnight, however, the wind had increased to a gale,
and before they were clear of the N.E. headland of Tidore, it blew a
hurricane, and many were washed off into the sea from the different
craft, and those who could not swim, sank, and were drowned. The sails
were lowered, and the vessels lay at the mercy of the wind and waves,
every sea washing over them. The fleet was drifting fast on the shore,
and before morning dawned, the vessel in which were Philip and Krantz
was among the rollers on the beach off the northern end of the island.
In a short time she was dashed to pieces, and every one had to look
out for himself. Philip and Krantz laid hold of one fragment, and were
supported by it till they gained the shore; here they found about
thirty more companions who had suffered the same fate as themselves.
When the day dawned, they perceived that the major part of the fleet
had weathered the point, and that those who had not, would in all
probability escape, as the wind had moderated.

The Ternate people proposed, that as they were well armed, they
should, as soon as the weather moderated, launch some of the craft
belonging to the islanders, and join the fleet; but Philip, who had
been consulting with Krantz, considered this a good opportunity for
ascertaining the fate of Amine. As the Portuguese could prove nothing
against them, they could either deny that they had been among the
assailants, or might plead that they had been forced to join them. At
all risks, Philip was determined to remain, and Krantz agreed to share
his fate: and seeming to agree with them, they allowed the Ternate
people to walk to the Tidore peroquas, and while they were launching
them Philip and Krantz fell back into the jungle and disappeared. The
Portuguese had perceived the wreck of their enemies, and, irritated by
the loss they had sustained, they had ordered the people of the island
to go out and capture all who were driven on shore. Now that they were
no longer assailed, the Tidore people obeyed them, and very soon fell
in with Philip and Krantz, who had quietly sat down under the shade of
a large tree, waiting the issue. They were led away to the fort, where
they arrived by nightfall. They were ushered into the presence of the
Commandant, the same little man who had made love to Amine, and as
they were dressed in Mussulman's attire, he was about to order them to
be hung, when Philip told him that they were Dutchmen, who had been
wrecked, and forced by the King of Ternate to join his expedition;
that they had taken the earliest opportunity of escaping, as was very
evident since those who had been thrown on shore with them had got off
in the island boats, while they chose to remain. Whereupon the little
Portuguese Commandant struck his sword firm down on the pavement of
the ramparts, _looked_ very big, and then ordered them to prison for
further examination.




Chapter XXXI


As every one descants upon the want of comfort in a prison, it is to
be presumed that there are no very comfortable ones. Certainly that to
which Philip and Krantz were ushered, had anything rather than the air
of an agreeable residence. It was under the fort, with a very small
aperture looking towards the sea, for light and air. It was very hot,
and moreover destitute of all those little conveniences which add
so much to one's happiness in modern houses and hotels. In fact, it
consisted of four bare walls, and a stone floor, and that was all.

Philip, who wished to make some inquiries relative to Amine,
addressed, in Portuguese, the soldier who brought them down.

"My good friend, I beg your pardon--"

"I beg yours," replied the soldier going out of the door, and locking
them in.

Philip leant gloomily against the wall; Krantz, more mercurial, walked
up and down three steps each way and turn.

"Do you know what I am thinking of?" observed Krantz, after a pause in
his walk. "It is very fortunate that (lowering his voice) we have all
our doubloons about us; if they don't search us, we may yet get away
by bribing."

"And I was thinking," rejoined Philip, "that I would sooner be here
than in company with that wretch Schriften, whose sight is poison to
me."

"I did not much admire the appearance of the Commandant, but I suppose
we shall know more to-morrow."

Here they were interrupted by the turning of the key, and the entrance
of a soldier with a chatty of water, and a large dish of boiled rice.
He was not the man who had brought them to the dungeon, and Philip
accosted him.

"You have had hard work within these last two days?"

"Yes, indeed! signor."

"The natives forced us to join the expedition, and we escaped."

"So I heard you say, signor."

"They lost nearly a thousand men," said Krantz.

"Holy St Francis! I am glad of it."

"They will be careful how they attack Portuguese in a hurry, I
expect," rejoined Krantz.

"I think so," replied the soldier.

"Did you lose many men?" ventured Philip, perceiving that the man was
loquacious.

"Not ten of our own people. In the factory there were about a hundred
of the natives, with some women and children; but that is of no
consequence."

"You had a young European woman here, I understand," said Philip with
anxiety; "one who was wrecked in a vessel--was she among those who
were lost?"

"Young woman!--Holy St Francis. Yes, now I recollect. Why the fact
is--"

"Pedro!" called a voice from above; the man stopped, put his fingers
to his lips, went out, and locked the door.

"God of Heaven! give me patience," cried Philip; "but this is too
trying."

"He will be down here again to-morrow morning," observed Krantz.

"Yes! to-morrow morning; but what an endless time will suspense make
of the intervening hours."

"I feel for you," replied Krantz; "but what can be done? The hours
must pass, though suspense draws them out into interminable years; but
I hear footsteps."

Again the door was unlocked, and the first soldier made his
appearance. "Follow me--the Commandant would speak with you."

This unexpected summons was cheerfully complied with by Philip and his
companion. They walked up the narrow stone steps, and at last found
themselves in a small room, in presence of the Commandant, with whom
our readers have been already made acquainted. He was lolling on a
small sofa, his long sword lay on the table before him, and two young
native women were fanning him, one at his head, and the other at his
feet.

"Where did you get those dresses?" was the first interrogatory.

"The natives, when they brought us prisoners from the island on which
we had saved ourselves, took away our clothes, and gave us these as a
present from their king."

"And engaged you to serve in their fleet, in the attack on this fort?"

"They forced us," replied Krantz; "for as there was no war between our
nations, we objected to this service: notwithstanding which, they put
us on board, to make the common people believe that they were assisted
by Europeans."

"How am I to know the truth of this?"

"You have our word in the first place, and our escape from them in the
second."

"You belonged to a Dutch East-Indiaman. Are you officers or common
seamen?"

Krantz, who considered that they were less likely to be detained if
they concealed their rank on board, gave Philip a slight touch with
his finger as he replied, "We are inferior officers. I was third mate,
and this man was pilot."

"And your captain, where is he?"

"I--I cannot say, whether he is alive or dead."

"Had you no woman on board?"

"Yes! the captain had his wife."

"What has become of her?"

"She is supposed to have perished on a portion of the raft which broke
adrift."

"Ha!" replied the Commandant, who remained silent for some time.

Philip looked at Krantz, as much as to say, "Why all this subterfuge;"
but Krantz gave him a sign to leave him to speak.

"You say you don't know whether your captain is alive or dead?"

"I do."

"Now, suppose I was to give you your liberty, would you have any
objection to sign a paper, stating his death, and swearing to the
truth of it?"

Philip stared at the Commandant, and then at Krantz.

"I see no objection, exactly; except that if it were sent home to
Holland we might get into trouble. May I ask, signor Commandant, why
you wish for such a paper?"

"No!" roared the little man, in a voice like thunder. "I will give
no reason, but that I wish it; that is enough; take your choice--the
dungeon, or liberty and a passage by the first vessel which calls."

"I don't doubt--in fact--I'm sure, he must be dead by this time,"
replied Krantz, drawing out the words in a musing manner. "Commandant,
will you give us till to-morrow morning to make our calculations?"

"Yes! you may go."

"But not to the dungeon, Commandant," replied Krantz; "we are not
prisoners, certainly; and, if you wish us to do you a favour, surely
you will not ill-treat us?"

"By your own acknowledgment you have taken up arms against the
most Christian King; however, you may remain at liberty for the
night--to-morrow morning will decide whether or no you are prisoners."

Philip and Krantz thanked the little Commandant for his kindness, and
then hastened away to the ramparts. It was now dark, and the moon had
not yet made her appearance. They sat there on the parapet, enjoying
the breeze, and feeling the delight of liberty, even after their short
incarceration; but, near to them, soldiers were either standing or
lying, and they spoke but in whispers.

"What could he mean by requiring us to give a certificate of the
captain's death; and why did you answer as you did?"

"Philip Vanderdecken, that I have often thought of the fate of your
beautiful wife, you may imagine; and, when I heard that she was
brought here, I then trembled for her. What must she appear, lovely as
she is, when placed in comparison with the women of this country? And
that little Commandant--is he not the very person who would be taken
with her charms? I denied our condition, because I thought he would
be more likely to allow us our liberty as humble individuals, than as
captain and first mate; particularly as he suspects that we led on the
Ternate people to the attack; and when he asked for a certificate
of your death, I immediately imagined that he wanted it in order to
induce Amine to marry him. But where is she? is the question. If we
could only find out that soldier, we might gain some information."

"Depend upon it, she is here," replied Philip, clenching his hands.

"I am inclined to think so," said Krantz; "that she is alive, I feel
assured."

The conversation was continued until the moon rose, and threw her
beams over the tumbling waters. Philip and Krantz turned their faces
towards the sea, and leant over the battlements in silence; after some
time their reveries were disturbed by a person coming up to them with
a "_Buenos noctes, signor_."

Krantz immediately recognised the Portuguese soldier, whose
conversation with him had been interrupted.

"Good-night, my friend! We thank Heaven that you have no longer to
turn the key upon us."

"Yes, I'm surprised!" replied the soldier, in a low tone. "Our
Commandant is fond of exercising his power; he rules here without
appeal, that I can tell you."

"He is not within hearing of us now," replied Krantz. "It is a lovely
spot this to live in! How long have you been in this country?"

"Now, thirteen years, signor, and I'm tired of it. I have a wife and
children in Oporto--that is, I _had_--but whether they are alive or
not, who can tell?"

"Do you not expect to return and see them?"

"Return--signor! no Portuguese soldier like me ever returns. We are
enlisted for five years, and we lay our bones here."

"That is hard indeed."

"Hard, signor," replied the soldier in a low whisper; "it is cruel
and treacherous. I have often thought of putting the muzzle of my
arquebuse to my head; but while there's life there's hope."

"I pity you, my good fellow," rejoined Krantz; "look you, I have two
gold pieces left--take one; you may be able to send it home to your
poor wife."

"And here is one of mine, too, my good fellow," added Philip, putting
another in his hand.

"Now may all the saints preserve you, signors," replied the soldier,
"for it is the first act of kindness shown to me for many years--not
that my wife and children have much chance of ever receiving it."

"You were speaking about a young European woman when we were in the
dungeon," observed Krantz, after a pause.

"Yes, signor, she was a very beautiful creature. Our Commandant was
very much in love with her."

"Where is she now?"

"She went away to Goa, in company with a priest who knew, her, Father
Mathias, a good old man; he gave me absolution when he was here."

"Father Mathias!" exclaimed Philip; but a touch from Krantz checked
him.

"You say the Commandant loved her?"

"O yes; the little man was quite mad about her; and had it not been
for the arrival of Father Mathias, he would never have let her go,
that I'm sure of, although she was another man's wife."

"Sailed for Goa, you said?"

"Yes, in a ship which called here. She must have been very glad to
have got away, for our little Commandant persecuted her all day long,
and she evidently was grieving for her husband. Do you know, signors,
if her husband is alive?"

"No, we do not; we have heard nothing of him."

"Well, if he is, I hope he will not come here; for should the
Commandant have him in his power, it would go hard with him. He is a
man who sticks at nothing. He is a brave little fellow, _that_ cannot
be denied; but to get possession of that lady, he would remove all
obstacles at any risk--and a husband is a very serious one, signors.
Well, signors," continued the soldier, after a pause, "I had better
not be seen here too long; you may command me if you want anything;
recollect, my name is Pedro--good-night to you, and a thousand
thanks," and the soldier walked away.

"We have made one friend, at all events," said Krantz, "and we have
gained information of no little importance."

"Most important," replied Philip. "Amine then has sailed for Goa with
Father Mathias! I feel that she is safe, and in good hands. He is an
excellent man, that Father Mathias--my mind is much relieved."

"Yes; but recollect you are in the power of your enemy. We must leave
this place as quick as we can--to-morrow we must sign the paper. It
is of little consequence, as we shall probably be at Goa before it
arrives, and even if we are not, the news of your death would not
occasion Amine to marry this little withered piece of mortality."

"That I feel assured of; but it may cause her great suffering."

"Not worse than her present suspense, believe me, Philip; but it
is useless canvassing the past--it must be done. I shall sign as
Cornelius Richter, our third mate; you, as Jacob Vantreat--recollect
that."

"Agreed," replied Philip, who then turned away, as if willing to be
left to his own thoughts. Krantz perceived it, and laid down under the
embrasure, and was soon fast asleep.




Chapter XXXII


Tired out with the fatigue of the day before, Philip had laid himself
down by Krantz and fallen asleep; early the next morning he was
awakened by the sound of the Commandant's voice, and his long sword
rattling as usual upon the pavement. He rose, and found the little man
rating the soldiers--threatening some with the dungeon, others with
extra duty. Krantz was also on his feet before the Commandant had
finished his morning's lecture. At last, perceiving them, in a stern
voice he ordered them to follow him into his apartment. They did so,
and the Commandant throwing himself upon his sofa, inquired whether
they were ready to sign the required paper, or go back to the
dungeon.--Krantz replied that they had been calculating chances, and
that they were in consequence so perfectly convinced of the death of
the captain, that they were willing to sign any paper to that effect;
at which reply, the Commandant immediately became very gracious, and
having called for materials, he wrote out the document, which was duly
subscribed to by Krantz and Philip. As soon as they had signed it, and
he had it in his possession, the little man was so pleased, that he
requested them to partake of his breakfast.

During the repast, he promised that they should leave the island by
the first opportunity. Although Philip was taciturn, yet as Krantz
made himself very agreeable, the Commandant invited them to dinner.
Krantz, as they became more familiar, informed him that they had each
a few pieces of gold, and wished to be allowed a room where they could
keep their table. Whether it was the want of society or the desire of
obtaining the gold, probably both, the Commandant offered that they
should join his table and pay their proportion of the expenses; a
proposal which was gladly acceded to. The terms were arranged, and
Krantz insisted upon putting down the first week's payment in advance.
From that moment the Commandant was the best of friends with them,
and did nothing but caress them whom he had so politely shoved into a
dungeon below water. It was on the evening of the third day, as they
were smoking their Manilla cheroots, that Krantz, perceiving the
Commandant in a peculiarly good humour, ventured to ask him why he was
so anxious for a certificate of the captain's death; and in reply was
informed, much to the astonishment of Philip, that Amine had agreed to
marry him upon his producing such a document.

"Impossible," cried Philip, starting from his seat.

"Impossible, signor, and why impossible?" replied the Commandant
curling his mustachios with his fingers, with a surprised and angry
air.

"I should have said impossible too," interrupted Krantz, who perceived
the consequences of Philip's indiscretion, "for had you seen,
Commandant, how that woman doted upon her husband, how she fondled
him, you would with us have said, it was impossible that she could
have transferred her affections so soon; but women are women, and
soldiers have a great advantage over other people; perhaps she has
some excuse, Commandant.--Here's your health, and success to you."

"It is exactly what I would have said," added Philip, acting upon
Krantz's plan: "but she has a great excuse, Commandant, when I
recollect her husband, and have you in my presence."

Soothed with the flattery, the Commandant replied, "Why, yes, they say
military men are very successful with the fair sex.--I presume it
is because they look up to us for protection, and where can they
be better assured of it, than with a man who wears a sword at his
thigh.--Come, signors, we will drink her health. Here's to the
beautiful Amine Vanderdecken."

"To the beautiful Amine Vanderdecken," cried Krantz, tossing off his
wine.

"To the beautiful Amine Vanderdecken," followed Philip. "But,
Commandant, are you not afraid to trust her at Goa, where there are
so many enticements for a woman, so many allurements held out for her
sex?"

"No, not in the least--I am convinced that she loves me--nay, between
ourselves, that she doats upon me."

"Liar!" exclaimed Philip.

"How, signor! is that addressed to me?" cried the Commandant, seizing
his sword which lay on the table.

"No, no," replied Philip, recovering himself; "it was addressed to
her; I have heard her swear to her husband, that she would exist for
no other but him."

"Ha! ha! Is that all?" replied the Commandant, "my friend, you do not
know women."

"No, nor is he very partial to them either," replied Krantz, who then
leant over to the Commandant and whispered, "He is always so when you
talk of women. He was cruelly jilted once, and hates the whole sex."

"Then we must be merciful to him," replied the little officer:
"suppose we change the subject."

When they repaired to their own room, Krantz pointed out to Philip the
necessity for his commanding his feelings, as otherwise they would
again be immured in the dungeon. Philip acknowledged his rashness, but
pointed out to Krantz, that the circumstance of Amine having promised
to marry the Commandant, if he procured certain intelligence of his
death, was the cause of his irritation. "Can it be so? Is it possible
that she can have been so false," exclaimed Philip; "yet his anxiety
to procure that document seems to warrant the truth of his assertion."

"I think, Philip, that in all probability it is true," replied Krantz,
carelessly; "but of this you may be assured that she has been placed
in a situation of great peril, and has only done so to save herself
for your sake. When you meet, depend upon it she will fully prove to
you that necessity had compelled her to deceive him in that way, and
that if she had not done so, she would, by this time, have fallen a
prey to his violence."

"It may be so," replied Philip, gravely.

"It is so, Philip, my life upon it. Do not for a moment harbour a
thought so injurious to one who lives but in your love. Suspect that
fond and devoted creature! I blush for you, Philip Vanderdecken."

"You are right, and I beg her pardon for allowing such feelings or
thoughts to have for one moment overpowered me," responded Philip;
"but it is a hard case for a husband, who loves as I do, to hear
his wife's name bandied about, and her character assailed by a
contemptible wretch like this Commandant."

"It is, I grant; but still I prefer even that to a dungeon," replied
Krantz, "and so, good-night."

For three weeks they remained in the fort, every day becoming more
intimate with the Commandant, who often communicated with Krantz, when
Philip was not present, turning the conversation upon his love for
Amine, and entering into a minute detail of all that had passed.
Krantz perceived that he was right in his opinion, and that Amine had
only been cajoling the Commandant, that she might escape. But the time
passed heavily away with Philip and Krantz, for no vessel made its
appearance.

"When shall I see her again?" soliloquised Philip one morning as he
lolled over the parapet, in company with Krantz.

"See! who?" said the Commandant, who happened to be at his elbow.

Philip turned round, and stammered something unintelligible.

"We were talking of his sister, Commandant," said Krantz, taking his
arm, and leading him away.--"Do not mention the subject to my friend,
for it is a very painful one, and forms one reason why he is so
inimical to the sex. She was married to his intimate friend, and ran
away from her husband: it was his only sister; and the disgrace broke
his mother's heart, and has made him miserable. Take no notice of it,
I beg."

"No, no, certainly not; I don't wonder at it: the honour of one's
family is a serious affair," replied the Commandant.--"Poor young man,
what with his sister's conduct, and the falsehood of his own intended,
I don't wonder at his being so grave and silent. Is he of good family,
signor?"

"One of the noblest in all Holland," replied Krantz;--"he is heir to
a large property, and independent by the fortune of his mother; but
these two unfortunate events induced him to quit the States secretly,
and he embarked for these countries that he might forget his grief."

"One of the noblest families?" replied the Commandant;--"then he
is under an assumed name--Jacob Vantreat is not his true name, of
course."

"Oh no," replied Krantz;--"that it is not, I assure you; but my lips
are sealed on that point."

"Of course, except to a friend, who can keep a secret. I will not ask
it now. So he is really noble?"

"One of the highest families in the country, possessing great wealth
and influence--allied to the Spanish nobility by marriage."

"Indeed!" rejoined the Commandant, musing--"I dare say he knows many
of the Portuguese as well."

"No doubt of it, they are all more or less connected."

"He must prove to you a most valuable friend, Signor Richter."

"I consider myself provided for for life as soon as we return home. He
is of a very grateful, generous disposition, as he would prove to you,
should you ever fall in with him again."

"I have no doubt of it; and I can assure you that I am heartily tired
of staying in this country. Here I shall remain probably for two years
more before I am relieved, and then shall have to join my regiment at
Goa, and not be able to obtain leave to return home without resigning
my commission. But he is coming this way."

After this conversation with Krantz, the alteration in the manner of
the Portuguese Commandant, who had the highest respect for nobility,
was most marked. He treated Philip with a respect, which was
observable to all in the fort; and which was, until Krantz had
explained the cause, a source of astonishment to Philip himself. The
Commandant often introduced the subject to Krantz, and sounded him as
to whether his conduct towards Philip had been such, as to have made
a favourable impression; for the little man now hoped, that, through
such an influential channel, he might reap some benefit.

Some days after this conversation, as they were all three seated at
table, a corporal entered, and saluting the Commandant, informed
him that a Dutch sailor had arrived at the fort, and wished to know
whether he should be admitted. Both Philip and Krantz turned pale at
this communication--they had a presentiment of evil, but they said
nothing. The sailor was ordered in, and in a few minutes, who should
make his appearance but their tormentor, the one-eyed Schriften.
On perceiving Philip and Krantz seated at the table he immediately
exclaimed, "Oh! Captain Philip Vanderdecken, and my good friend
Mynheer Krantz, first mate of the good ship _Utrecht_, I am glad to
meet you again."

"Captain Philip Vanderdecken!" roared the Commandant, as he sprung
from his chair.

"Yes, that is my Captain, Mynheer Philip Vanderdecken; and that is my
first mate, Mynheer Krantz; both of the good ship _Utrecht_: we were
wrecked together, were we not, Mynheer? He! he!"

"Sangue de--Vanderdecken! the husband? Corpo del Diavolo--is it
possible?" cried the Commandant, panting for breath, as he seized his
long sword with both hands, and clenched it with fury--"What then, I
have been deceived, cajoled, laughed at!" Then, after a pause--the
veins of his forehead distending so as almost to burst--he continued,
with a suppressed voice, "Most noble sir, I thank you; but now it is
my turn.--What, ho! there! Corporal--men, here instantly--quick!"

Philip and Krantz felt convinced that all denial was useless. Philip
folded his arms and made no reply. Krantz merely observed, "A little
reflection will prove to you, sir, that this indignation is not
warranted."

"Not warranted!" rejoined the Commandant with a sneer; "you have
deceived me; but you are caught in your own trap. I have the paper
signed, which I shall not fail to make use of. _You_ are dead, you
know, captain; I have your own hand to it, and your wife will be glad
to believe it."

"She has deceived you, Commandant, to get out of your power, nothing
more," said Vanderdecken. "She would spurn a contemptible withered
wretch like yourself, were she as free as the wind."

"Go on, go on; it will be my turn soon. Corporal, throw these two men
into the dungeon: a sentry at the door till further orders. Away with
them. Most noble sir, perhaps your influential friends in Holland and
Spain will enable you to get out again."

Philip and Krantz were led away by the soldiers, who were very much
surprised at this change of treatment. Schriften followed them; and
as they walked across the rampart to the stairs which led to their
prison, Krantz, in his fury, burst from the soldiers, and bestowed a
kick upon Schriften which sent him several feet forward on his face.

"That was a good one--he! he!" cried Schriften, smiling and looking at
Krantz as he regained his legs.

There was an eye, however, which met theirs with an intelligent
glance, as they descended the stairs to the dungeon. It was that of
the soldier Pedro. It told them that there was one friend upon whom
they could rely, and who would spare no endeavour to assist them in
their new difficulty. It was a consolation to them both; a ray of hope
which cheered them as they once more descended the narrow steps, and
heard the heavy key turned which again secured them in their dungeon.




Chapter XXXIII


"Thus are all our hopes wrecked," said Philip, mournfully; "what
chance have we now of escaping from this little tyrant?"

"Chances turn up," replied Krantz; "at present, the prospect is not
very cheering. Let us hope for the best."

"I have an idea in my head which may probably be turned to some
account," added Krantz; "as soon as the little man's fury is over."

"Which is--"

"That, much as he likes your wife, there is something which he likes
quite as well--money. Now, as we know where all the treasure is
concealed, I think he may be tempted to offer us our liberty, if we
were to promise to put it into his possession."

"That is not impossible. Confound that little malignant wretch
Schriften; he certainly is not, as you say, of this world. He has been
my persecutor through life, and appears to act from an impulse not his
own."

"Then must he be part and portion of your destiny. I'm thinking
whether our noble Commandant intends to leave us without anything to
eat or drink."

"I should not be surprised: that he will attempt my life I am
convinced of, but not that he can take it; he may, however, add to its
sufferings."

As soon as the Commandant had recovered from his fury, he ordered
Schriften in, to be examined more particularly; but after every search
made for him, Schriften was no where to be found. The sentry at the
gate declared that he had not passed; and a new search was ordered,
but in vain. Even the dungeons and galleries below were examined, but
without success.

"Can he be locked up with the other prisoners?" thought the
Commandant: "impossible--but I will go and see."

He descended and opened the door of the dungeon, looked in, and was
about to return without speaking, when Krantz said, "Well, signor,
this is kind treatment, after having lived so long and so amicably
together; to throw us into prison merely because a fellow declares
that we are not what we represented ourselves to be; perhaps you will
allow us a little water to drink?"

The Commandant, confused by the extraordinary disappearance of
Schriften, hardly knew how to reply. He at last said in a milder tone
than was to be anticipated, "I will order them to bring some, signor."

He then closed the door of the dungeon and disappeared.

"Strange," observed Philip, "he appears more pacified already."

In a few minutes the door was again opened, and Pedro came in with a
chatty of water.

"He has disappeared like magic, signors, and is no where to be found.
We have searched everywhere, but in vain."

"Who?--the little old seaman?"

"Yes, he whom you kicked as you were led to prison. The people all
say, that it must have been a ghost. The sentry declares that he never
left the fort, nor came near him; so, how he has got away is a riddle,
which I perceive, has frightened our Commandant not a little."

Krantz gave a long whistle as he looked at Philip.

"Are you to have charge of us, Pedro?"

"I hope so."

"Well, tell the Commandant that when he is ready to listen to me, I
have something of importance to communicate."

Pedro went out.

"Now, Philip, I can frighten this little man into allowing us to go
free, if you will consent to say that you are not the husband of
Amine."

"That I cannot do, Krantz. I will not utter such a falsehood."

"I was afraid so, and yet it appears to me that we may avail ourselves
of duplicity to meet cruelty and injustice. Unless you do as I
propose, I hardly know how I can manage it; however, I will try what I
can do."

"I will assist you in every way, except disclaiming my wife: that I
never will do."

"Well then, I will see if I can make up a story that will suit all
parties: let me think."

Krantz continued musing as he walked up and down, and was still
occupied with his own thoughts when the door opened, and the
Commandant made his appearance.

"You have something to impart to me, I understand--what is it?"

"First, sir, bring that little wretch down here and confront him with
us."

"I see no occasion for that," replied the Commandant; "what, sir, may
you have to say?"

"Do you know who you have in your company when you speak to that
one-eyed deformity?"

"A Dutch sailor, I presume."

"No--a spirit--a demon--who occasioned the loss of the vessel; and who
brings misfortune wherever he appears."

"Holy Virgin! What do you tell me, signor?"

"The fact, signor Commandant. We are obliged to you for confining us
here, while he is in the fort; but beware for yourself."

"You are laughing at me."

"I am not; bring him down here. This noble gentleman has power over
him. I wonder, indeed, at his daring to stay while he is so near; he
has on his heart that which will send him trembling away.--Bring
him down here, and you shall at once see him vanish with curses and
screams."

"Heaven defend us!" cried the Commandant, terrified.

"Send for him now, signor?"

"He is gone--vanished--not to be found!"

"I thought as much," replied Philip, significantly.

"He is gone--vanished--you say. Then, Commandant, you will probably
apologise to this noble gentleman for your treatment of him, and
permit us to return to our former apartments. I will there explain to
you this most strange and interesting history."

The Commandant, more confused than ever, hardly knew how to act. At
last he bowed to Philip, and begged that he would consider himself at
liberty; and, continued he to Krantz, "I shall be most happy at an
immediate explanation of this affair, for everything appears so
contradictory."

"And must, until it is explained. I will follow you into your own
room; a courtesy you must not expect from my noble friend, who is not
a little indignant at your treatment of him."

The Commandant went out, leaving the door open. Philip and Krantz
followed: the former retiring to his own apartment; the latter,
bending his steps after the Commandant to his sitting-room. The
confusion which whirled in the brain of the Commandant, made him
appear most ridiculous. He hardly knew whether to be imperative or
civil; whether he was really speaking to the first mate of the vessel,
or to another party; or whether he had insulted a noble, or been
cajoled by a captain of a vessel: he threw himself down on his sofa,
and Krantz, taking his seat in a chair, stated as follows:

"You have been partly deceived and partly not, Commandant. When we
first came here, not knowing what treatment we might receive, we
concealed our rank; afterwards I made known to you the rank of my
friend on shore; but did not think it worth while to say anything
about his situation on board of the vessel. The fact is, as you may
well suppose of a person of his dignity, he was owner of the fine ship
which was lost through the intervention of that one-eyed wretch; but
of that by-and-bye. Now for the story.

"About ten years ago there was a great miser in Amsterdam; he lived
in the most miserable way that a man could live in; wore nothing but
rags; and having been formerly a seaman, his attire was generally of
the description common to his class. He had one son, to whom he denied
the necessaries of life, and whom he treated most cruelly. After
vain attempts to possess a portion of his father's wealth, the devil
instigated the son to murder the old man, who was one day found dead
in his bed; but as there were no marks of violence which could be
sworn to, although suspicion fell upon the son, the affair was hushed
up, and the young man took possession of his father's wealth. It was
fully expected that there would now be rioting and squandering on the
part of the heir, as is usually the case; but, on the contrary, he
never spent anything, but appeared to be as poor--even poorer--than he
ever was. Instead of being gay and merry, he was, in appearance, the
most miserable, downcast person in the world; and he wandered about,
seeking a crust of bread wherever he could find it. Some said that he
had been inoculated by his father, and was as great a miser as his
father had been; others shook their heads, and said that all was not
right. At last, after pining away for six or seven years, the young
man died at an early age, without confession or absolution; in fact,
he was found dead in his bed. Beside the bed there was a paper,
addressed to the authorities, in which he acknowledged that he had
murdered his father for the sake of his wealth; and that when he went
to take some of it for his expenses on the day afterwards, he found
his father's spirit sitting on the bags of money, and menacing him
with instant death, if he touched one piece. He returned again and
again, and found his father a sentinel as before. At last, he gave
up attempting to obtain it; his crime made him miserable, and he
continued in possession, without daring to expend one sixpence of all
the money. He requested that, as his end was approaching, the money
should be given to the church of his patron saint, wherever that
church might be found; if there was not one, then that a church might
be built and endowed. Upon investigation, it appeared that there was
no such church in either Holland or the Low Countries (for you know
that there are not many Catholics there); and they applied to the
Catholic countries, Lisbon and Spain, but there again they were at
fault; and it was discovered, that the only church dedicated to that
saint was one which had been erected by a Portuguese nobleman in the
city of Goa, in the East Indies. The Catholic bishop determined that
the money should be sent to Goa; and, in consequence, it was embarked
on board of my patron's vessel, to be delivered up to the first
Portuguese authorities he might fall in with.

"Well, signor, the money, for better security, was put down into the
captain's cabin, which, of course, was occupied by my noble friend,
and when he went to bed the first night he was surprised to perceive a
little one eyed old man sitting on the boxes."

"Merciful Saviour!" exclaimed the Commandant, "what, the very same
little man who appeared here this day?"

"The very same," replied Krantz.

The Commandant crossed himself, and Krantz proceeded:--"My noble
patron was, as you may imagine, rather alarmed; but he is very
courageous in disposition, and he inquired of the old man who he was,
and how he had come on board?

"'I came on board with my own money,' replied the spectre. It is all
my own, and I shall keep it. The church shall never have one stiva of
it if I can help it.'

"Whereupon, my patron pulled out a famous relic, which he wears on
his bosom, and held it towards him; at which the old man howled and
screamed, and then most unwillingly disappeared. For two more
nights the spectre was obstinate, but at the sight of the relic, he
invariably went off howling as if in great pain; every time that
he went away, invariably crying out 'Lost--lost!' and during the
remainder of the voyage he did not trouble us any more.

"We thought, when our patron told us this, that he referred to the
money being lost to him, but it appears he referred to the ship;
indeed it was very inconsiderate to have taken the wealth of a
parricide on board; we could not expect any good fortune with such a
freight, and so it proved. When the ship was lost, our patron was very
anxious to save the money; it was put on the raft, and when we landed,
it was taken on shore and buried, that it might be restored and given
to the church to which it had been bequeathed; but the men who buried
it are all dead, and there is no one but my friend here, the patron,
who knows the spot.--I forgot to say, that as soon as the money was
landed on the island and buried, the spectre appeared as before, and
seated himself over the spot where the money was interred. I think, if
this had not been the case, the seamen would have taken possession of
it. But, by his appearance here this day, I presume he is tired, and
has deserted his charge, or else has come here that the money might be
sent for, though I cannot understand why."

"Strange--very strange!--so there is a large treasure buried in the
sand?"

"There is."

"I should think, by the spectre's coming here, that it has abandoned
it."

"Of course it has, or it would not be here."

"What can you imagine to have been the cause of its coming?"

"Probably to announce its intention, and request my friend to have the
treasure sent for; but you know he was interrupted."

"Very true; but he called your friend Vanderdecken."

"It was the name which he took on board of the ship."

"And it was the name of the lady."

"Very true; he fell in with her at the Cape of Good Hope and brought
her away with him."

"Then she is his wife?"

"I must not answer that question. It is quite sufficient that he
treats her as his wife."

"Ah! indeed. But about this treasure. You say that no one knows where
it is buried, but the patron as you call him?"

"No one."

"Will you express my regret at what has passed, and tell him I will
have the pleasure of seeing him to-morrow."

"Certainly, signor," replied Krantz, rising from his chair; and
wishing the Commandant a good evening as he retired.

"I was after one thing and have found another. A spectre that must
have been; but he must be a bold spectre that can frighten me from
doubloons--besides, I can call in the priests. Now, let me see; if I
let this man go on condition that he reveals the site of the treasure
to the authorities, that is to _me_, why then I need not lose the fair
young woman. If I forward this paper to her, why then I gain her--but
I must first get rid of him. Of the two, I prefer--yes!--the gold! But
I cannot obtain both. At all events, let me obtain the money first: I
want it more than the church does: but, if I do get the money; these
two men can expose me. I must get rid of them; silence them for
ever--and then perhaps I may obtain the fair Amine also. Yes, their
death will be necessary to secure either--that is, after I have the
first in my possession.--Let me think."

For some minutes the Commandant walked up and down the room,
reflecting upon the best method of proceeding. "He says it was a
spectre, and he has told a plausible story," thought he; "but I don't
know--I have my doubts--they may be tricking me. Well, be it so:
if the money is there, I will have it; and if not, I will have my
revenge. Yes! I have it: not only must they be removed, but by
degrees all the others too who assist in bringing the treasure
away;--then--but--who's there, Pedro?"

"Yes, signor."

"How long have you been here?"

"But as you spoke, signor: I thought I heard you call."

"You may go--I want nothing."

Pedro departed; but he had been some time in the room, and had
overheard the whole of the Commandant's soliloquy.




Chapter XXXIV


It was a bright morning when the Portuguese vessel on which Amine was
on board entered into the bay and roadstead of Goa. Goa was then at
its zenith--a proud, luxurious, superb, wealthy city, the capital of
the East, a City of Palaces, whose Viceroy reigned supreme. As they
approached the river the two mouths of which form the island upon
which Goa is built, the passengers were all on deck; and the
Portuguese captain, who had often been there, pointed out to Amine the
most remarkable buildings. When they had passed the forts they entered
the river, the whole line of whose banks were covered with the country
seats of the nobility and hidalgos--splendid buildings embosomed in
groves of orange trees, whose perfume scented the air.

"There, signora, is the country palace of the Viceroy," said the
captain, pointing to a building which covered nearly three acres of
ground.

The ship sailed on until they arrived nearly abreast of the town, when
Amine's eyes were directed to the lofty spires of the churches and
other public edifices--for Amine had seen but little of cities during
her life, as may be perceived when her history is recollected.

"That is the Jesuits' church, with their establishment," said the
captain, pointing to a magnificent pile. "In the church, now opening
upon us, lay the canonised bones of the celebrated Saint Francisco,
who sacrificed his life in his zeal for the propagation of the gospel
in these countries."

"I have heard of him from Father Mathias," replied Amine; "but what
building is that?"

"The Augustine convent; and the other, to the right, is the
Dominican."

"Splendid, indeed!" observed Amine.

"The building you see now, on the water-side, is the Viceroy's palace;
that to the right, again, is the convent of the barefooted Carmelites:
yon lofty spire is the cathedral of St Catherine, and that beautiful
and light piece of architecture is the church of our Lady of Pity. You
observe there a building, with a dome, rising behind the Viceroy's
palace?"

"I do," replied Amine.

"That is the Holy Inquisition."

Although Amine had heard Philip speak of the inquisition, she knew
little about its properties; but a sudden tremor passed through her
frame as the name was mentioned, which she could not herself account
for.

"Now we open upon the Viceroy's palace, and you perceive what a
beautiful building it is," continued the captain; "that large pile a
little above it is the Custom-house, abreast of which we shall come to
an anchor. I must leave you now, signora."

A few minutes afterwards the ship anchored opposite the Custom-house.
The captain and passengers went on shore, with the exception of Amine,
who remained in the vessel, while Father Mathias went in search of an
eligible place of abode.

The next morning the priest returned on board the ship, with the
intelligence that he had obtained a reception for Amine in the
Ursuline convent, the abbess of which establishment he was acquainted
with; and, before Amine went on shore, he cautioned her that the
lady-abbess was a strict woman, and would be pleased if she conformed,
as much as possible, to the rules of the convent; that this convent
only received young persons of the highest and most wealthy families,
and he trusted that she would be happy there. He also promised to call
upon her, and talk upon those subjects so dear to his heart, and so
necessary to her salvation. The earnestness and kindness with which
the old man spoke melted Amine to tears, and the holy father quitted
her side to go down and collect her baggage, with a warmth of feeling
towards her which he had seldom felt before, and with greater hopes
than ever that his endeavours to convert her would not ultimately be
thrown away.

"He is a good man," thought Amine, as she descended--and Amine was
right. Father Mathias was a good man, but, like all men, he was
not perfect. A zealot in the cause of his religion, he would have
cheerfully sacrificed his life as a martyr, but if opposed or thwarted
in his views, he could then be cruel and unjust.

Father Mathias had many reasons for placing Amine in the Ursuline
convent. He felt bound to offer her that protection which he had
so long received under her roof; he wished her to be under the
surveillance of the abbess, for he could not help imagining, although
he had no proof, that she was still essaying or practising forbidden
arts. He did not state this to the abbess, as he felt it would be
unjust to raise suspicions; but he represented Amine as one who would
do honour to their faith, to which she was not yet quite converted.
The very idea of effecting a conversion is to the tenants of a convent
an object of surpassing interest, and the abbess was much better
pleased to receive one who required her councils and persuasions, than
a really pious Christian who would give her no trouble. Amine went on
shore with Father Mathias; she refused the palanquin which had been
prepared for her, and walked up to the convent. They landed between
the Custom-house and the Viceroy's palace, passed through to the large
square behind it, and then went up the Strada Diretta, or Straight
Street, which led up to the Church of Pity, near to which the convent
is situated. This street is the finest on Goa, and is called Strada
Diretta, from the singular fact that almost all the streets in Goa are
quadrants or segments of circles. Amine was astonished: the houses
were of stone, lofty and massive; at each story was thrown out a
balcony of marble, elaborately carved; and over each door were the
arms of the nobility, or hidalgos, to whom the houses belonged. The
square behind the palace, and the wide streets, were filled with
living beings; elephants with gorgeous trappings; led or mounted
horses in superb housings; palanquins, carried by natives in splendid
liveries; running footmen; syces; every variety of nation, from the
proud Portuguese to the half-covered native; Mussulmans, Arabs,
Hindoos, Armenians; officers and soldiers in their uniforms, all
crowded and thronged together: all was bustle and motion. Such was
the wealth, the splendour, and luxury of the proud city of Goa--the
Empress of the East at the time we are now describing.

In half an hour they forced their way through the crowd, and arrived
at the convent, where Amine was well received by the abbess; and after
a few minutes' conversation, Father Mathias took his leave: upon which
the abbess immediately set about her task of conversion. The first
thing she did was to order some dried sweetmeats--not a bad beginning,
as they were palatable; but as she happened to be very ignorant, and
unaccustomed to theological disputes, her subsequent arguments did not
go down as well as the fruit. After a rambling discourse of about an
hour, the old lady felt tired, and felt as if she had done wonders.
Amine was then introduced to the nuns, most of whom were young and all
of good family. Her dormitory was shown to her, and expressing a wish
to be alone, she was followed into her chamber by only sixteen of
them, which was about as many as the chamber could well hold.

We must pass over the two months during which Amine remained in the
convent. Father Mathias had taken every step to ascertain if her
husband had been saved upon any of the islands which were under the
Portuguese dominions, but could gain no information. Amine was soon
weary of the convent; she was persecuted by the harangues of the old
abbess, but more disgusted at the conduct and conversation of the
nuns. They all had secrets to confide to her--secrets which had been
confided to the whole convent before: such secrets, such stories, so
different from Amine's chaste ideas, such impurity of thought that
Amine was disgusted at them. But how could it be otherwise; the poor
creatures had been taken from the world in the full bloom of youth
under a ripening sun, and had been immured in this unnatural manner
to gratify the avarice and pride of their families. Its inmates being
wholly composed of the best families, the rules of this convent were
not so strict as others; licenses were given--greater licenses were
taken--and Amine, to her surprise, found that in this society, devoted
to Heaven, there were exhibited more of the bad passions of human
nature than she had before met with. Constantly watched, never allowed
a moment to herself, her existence became unbearable: and after three
months she requested Father Mathias would find her some other place of
refuge; telling him frankly that her residence in that place was not
very likely to assist her conversion to the tenets of his faith.
Father Mathias fully comprehended her, but replied, "I have no means."

"Here are means," replied Amine, taking the diamond ring from her
finger: "this is worth eight hundred ducats in our country; here I
know not how much."

Father Mathias took the ring. "I will call upon you to-morrow morning,
and let you know what I have done. I shall acquaint the lady abbess
that you are going to your husband, for it would not be safe to let
her suppose that you have reasons for quitting the convent. I have
heard what you state mentioned before, but have treated it as scandal;
but you, I know, are incapable of falsehood."

The next day Father Mathias returned, and had an interview with the
abbess, who after a time sent for Amine, and told her that it was
necessary that she should leave the convent. She consoled her as well
as she could at leaving such a happy place, sent for some sweetmeats
to make the parting less trying, gave her her blessing, and made her
over to Father Mathias; who, when they were alone, informed Amine that
he had disposed of the ring for eighteen hundred dollars, and had
procured apartments for her in the house of a widow lady, with whom
she was to board.

Taking leave of the nuns, Amine quitted the convent with Father
Mathias, and was soon installed in her new apartments, in a house
which formed part of a spacious square called the Terra di Sabaio.
After the introduction to her hostess, Father Mathias left her. Amine
found her apartments fronting the square, airy and commodious. The
landlady, who had escorted her to view them, not having left her, she
inquired "what large church that was on the other side of the square?"

"It is the Ascension," replied the lady; "the music is very fine
there; we will go and hear it to-morrow, if you please."

"And that massive building in face of us?"

"That is the Holy Inquisition," said the widow, crossing herself.

Amine again started, she knew not why. "Is that your child?" said
Amine, as a boy of about twelve years old entered the room.

"Yes," replied the widow, "the only one that is left me. May God
preserve him." The boy was handsome and intelligent, and Amine, for
her own reasons, did everything she could to make friends with him,
and was successful.




Chapter XXXV


Amine had just returned from an afternoon's walk through the streets
of Goa; she had made some purchases at different shops in the bazaar,
and had brought them home under her mantilla. "Here, at last, thank
Heaven, I am alone and not watched," thought Amine, as she threw
herself on the couch. "Philip, Philip, where are you?" exclaimed she;
"I have now the means, and I soon will know." Little Pedro, the son of
the widow, entered the room, ran up to Amine, and kissed her. "Tell
me, Pedro, where is your mother?"

"She has gone out to see her friends this evening, and we are alone. I
will stay with you."

"Do so, dearest. Tell me, Pedro, can you keep a secret?"

"Yes, I will--tell it me."

"Nay, I have nothing to tell, but I wish to do something: I wish to
make a play, and you shall see things in your hand."

"Oh! yes, shew me, do shew me."

"If you promise not to tell."

"No, by the Holy Virgin, I will not."

"Then you shall see."

Amine lighted some charcoal in a chafing dish, and put it at her feet;
she then took a reed pen, some ink from a small bottle, and a pair of
scissors, and wrote down several characters on a paper, singing,
or rather chanting, words which were not intelligible to her young
companion. Amine then threw frankincense and coriander seed into the
chafing dish, which threw out a strong aromatic smoke; and desiring
Pedro to sit down by her on a small stool, she took the boy's right
hand and held it in her own. She then drew upon the palm of his hand
a square figure with characters on each side of it, and in the centre
poured a small quantity of the ink, so as to form a black mirror of
the size of a half-a-crown.

"Now all is ready," said Amine; "look, Pedro, what see you in the
ink?"

"My own face," replied the boy.

She threw more frankincense upon the chafing dish, until the room was
full of smoke, and then chanted.

"Turshoon, turyo-shoon--come down, come down.

"Be present, ye servants of these names.

"Remove the veil, and be correct."

The characters she had drawn upon the paper she had divided with the
scissors, and now taking one of the pieces, she dropped it into the
chafing dish, still holding the boy's hand.

"Tell me now, Pedro, what do you see?"

"I see a man sweeping," replied Pedro, alarmed.

"Fear not, Pedro, you shall see more. Has he done sweeping?"

"Yes, he has."

And Amine muttered words, which were unintelligible, and threw into
the chafing dish the other half of the paper with the characters she
had written down. "Say now, Pedro, Philip Vanderdecken, appear."

"Philip Vanderdecken, appear!" responded the boy, trembling.

"Tell me what thou seest, Pedro--tell me true?" said Amine, anxiously.

"I see a man lying down on the white sand; (I don't like this play.)"

"Be not alarmed, Pedro, you shall have sweetmeats directly. Tell me
what thou seest, how the man is dressed?"

"He has a short coat--he has white trousers--he looks about him--he
takes something out of his breast and kisses it."

"'Tis he! 'tis he! and he lives! Heaven, I thank thee. Look again,
boy."

"He gets up (I don't like this play; I am frightened; indeed I am.)"

"Fear not."

"Oh, yes, I am--I cannot," replied Pedro, falling on his knees; "pray
let me go,"

Pedro had turned his hand, and spilt the ink, the charm was broken,
and Amine could learn no more. She soothed the boy with presents, made
him repeat his promise that he would not tell, and postponed further
search into fate until the boy should appear to have recovered from
his terror, and be willing to resume the ceremonies.

"My Philip lives--mother, dear mother, I thank you."

Amine did not allow Pedro to leave the room until he appeared to
have quite recovered from his fright; for some days she did not say
anything to him, except to remind him of his promise not to tell his
mother, or any one else, and she loaded him with presents.

One afternoon when his mother was gone out, Pedro came in, and asked
Amine "whether they should not have the play over again?"

Amine, who was anxious to know more, was glad of the boy's request,
and soon had everything prepared. Again was her chamber filled
with the smoke of the frankincense: again was she muttering her
incantations: the magic mirror was on the boy's hand, and once more
had Pedro cried out, "Philip Vanderdecken, appear!" when the door
burst open, and Father Mathias, the widow, and several other people
made their appearance. Amine started up--Pedro screamed and ran to his
mother.

"Then I was not mistaken at what I saw in the cottage at Terneuse,"
cried Father Mathias, with his arms folded over his breast, and with
looks of indignation; "accursed sorceress! you are detected."

Amine returned his gaze with scorn, and coolly replied, "I am not of
your creed--you know it. Eaves-dropping appears to be a portion of
your religion. This is my chamber--it is not the first time I have had
to request you to leave it--I do so now--you--and those who have come
in with you."

"Take up all those implements of sorcery first," said Father Mathias
to his companions. The chafing dish, and other articles used by Amine,
were taken away; and Father Mathias and the others quitting the room,
Amine was left alone.

Amine had a foreboding that she was lost; she knew that magic was a
crime of the highest degree in Catholic countries, and that she had
been detected in the very act. "Well, well;" thought Amine; "it is my
destiny, and I can brave the worst."

To account for the appearance of Father Mathias and the witnesses, it
must be observed, that the little boy Pedro had, the day after Amine's
first attempt, forgotten his promise, and narrated to his mother all
that had passed. The widow, frightened at what the boy had told her,
thought it right to go to Father Mathias, and confide to him what her
son had told her, as it was, in her opinion, sorcery. Father Mathias
questioned Pedro closely, and, convinced that such was the case,
determined to have witnesses to confront Amine. He therefore proposed
that the boy should appear to be willing to try again, and had
instructed him for the purpose, having previously arranged that they
should break in upon Amine, as we have described.

About half-an-hour afterwards, two men dressed in black gowns came
into Amine's room, and requested that she would follow them, or that
force would be used. Amine made no resistance; they crossed the
square; the gate of a large building was opened; they desired her to
walk in, and, in a few seconds, Amine found herself in one of the
dungeons of the Inquisition.




Chapter XXXVI


Previous to continuing our narrative, it may be as well to give
our readers some little insight into the nature, ceremonies, and
regulations of the Inquisition; and in describing that of Goa, we may
be said to describe all others, with very trifling, if any, variation.

The Santa Casa, or Inquisition of Goa, is situated on one side of a
large square, called the Terra di Sabaio. It is a massive handsome
pile of stone buildings, with three doors in the front: the centre one
is larger than the two lateral, and it is through the centre door that
you go into the Hall of Judgment. The side-doors lead to spacious and
handsome apartments for the Inquisitors, and officers attached to the
establishment.

Behind these apartments are the cells and dungeons of the Inquisition;
they are in two long galleries, with double doors to each, and are
about ten feet square. There are about two hundred of them; some are
much more comfortable than the others, as light and air are admitted
into them: others are wholly dark. In the galleries the keepers watch,
and not a word or a sound can proceed from any cell without their
being able to overhear it. The treatment of those confined is, as
far as respects their food, very good: great care is taken that the
nourishment is of that nature that the prisoners may not suffer from
the indigestion arising from want of exercise. Surgical attendance
is also permitted them; but, unless on very particular occasions,
no priests are allowed to enter. Any consolation to be derived from
religion, even the office of confessor and extreme unction, in case
of dissolution, are denied them. Should they die during their
confinement, whether proved guilty or not of the crime of which they
are accused, they are buried without any funeral ceremony, and tried
afterwards, if then found guilty, their bones are disinterred, and the
execution of their sentence is passed upon their remains.

There are two Inquisitors at Goa: one the Grand Inquisitor, and
the other his second, who are invariably chosen from the order
of St-Dominique; these two are assisted in their judgment and
examinations by a large number selected from the religious orders,
who are termed deputies of the Holy Office, but who only attend when
summoned: they have other officers, whose duty it is to examine all
published books, and ascertain if there is anything in their pages
contrary to the holy religion. There is also a public accuser, a
procureur of the Inquisition, and lawyers, who are permitted to plead
the case of the prisoners, but whose chief business and interest it is
to obtain their secrets and betray them. What are termed _Familiars_
of the Inquisition, are, in fact, nothing but this description of
people: but this disgraceful office is taken upon themselves by the
highest nobility, who think it an honour as well as a security, to be
enrolled among the Familiars of the Inquisition, who are thus to
be found dispersed throughout society; and every careless word, or
expression, is certain to be repeated to the Holy Office. A summons
to attend at the Inquisition is never opposed; if it were, the whole
populace would rise and enforce it. Those who are confined in the
dungeons of the Inquisition are kept separate; it is a very uncommon
thing to put two together: it is only done when it is considered that
the prolonged solitude of the dungeon has created such a depression
of spirits as to endanger the life of the party. Perpetual silence is
enjoined and strictly kept. Those who wail or weep, or even pray, in
their utter darkness, are forced by blows to be quiet. The cries
and shrieks of those who suffer from this chastisement, or from
the torture, are carried along the whole length of the corridors,
terrifying those who, in solitude and darkness, are anticipating the
same fate.

The first question put to a person arrested by the Inquisition, is
a demand, "What is his property?" He is desired to make an exact
declaration of everything that he is worth, and swear to the truth of
his assertions; being informed that, if there is any reservation on
his part (although he may be at that time innocent of the charges
produced against him),--he will, by his concealment, have incurred the
wrath of the Inquisition; and that, if discharged for the crime he is
accused of, he will again be arrested for having taken a false oath to
the Inquisition; that, if innocent, his property will be safe, and not
interfered with. It is not without reason that this demand is made. If
a person accused confesses his crime, he is, in most cases, eventually
allowed to go free, but all his property becomes confiscated.

By the rules of the Inquisition, it is made to appear as if those
condemned have the show of justice; for, although two witnesses are
sufficient to warrant the apprehension of any individual, seven are
necessary to convict him; but as the witnesses are never confronted
with the prisoners, and torture is often applied to the witnesses, it
is not difficult to obtain the number required. Many a life is falsely
sworn away by the witness, that he may save his own. The chief crimes
which are noticed by the Inquisition are those of sorcery, heresy,
blasphemy, and what is called Judaism.

To comprehend the meaning of this last crime, for which more people
have suffered from the Inquisition than for any other, the reader must
be informed, that when Ferdinand and Isabella of Castile drove all the
Jews out of Spain, they fled to Portugal, where they were received on
the sole condition that they should embrace Christianity: this they
consented, or appeared to consent, to do; but these converts were
despised by the Portuguese people, who did not believe them to
be sincere. They obtained the title of _New_ Christians, in
contradistinction to that of _Old_ Christians. After a time the two
were occasionally intermingled in marriage; but when so, it was always
a reproach to the old families; and descendants from these alliances
were long termed, by way of reproach, as having a portion of the New
Christians in them.

The descendants of the old families thus intermingled, not only lost
_caste_, but, as the genealogy of every family was well known, they
were looked upon with suspicion, and were always at the mercy of the
Holy Office, when denounced for Judaism,--that is, for returning
to the old Jewish practices of keeping the Passover, and the other
ceremonies enforced by Moses.

Let us see how an accusation of this kind works in the hands of the
Inquisition. A really sincere Catholic, descended from one of these
unhappy families, is accused and arrested by the orders of the
Inquisition; he is ordered to declare his property, which,--convinced
of his innocence, and expecting soon to be released, he does without
reservation. But hardly has the key of the dungeon turned upon him,
when all his effects are seized and sold by public auction; it being
well understood that they never will be restored to him. After some
months' confinement, he is called into the Hall of Justice, and asked
if he knows why he is in prison; they advise him earnestly to confess
and to conceal nothing, as it is the only way by which he can obtain
his liberty. He declares his ignorance, and being sent for several
times, persists in it. The period of the _Auto da Fé_, or Act of
Faith, which takes place every two or three years (that is, the public
execution of those who have been found guilty by the Inquisition),
approaches. The public accuser then comes forward, stating that the
prisoner has been accused by a number of witnesses of Judaism. They
persuade him to acknowledge his guilt; he persists in his innocence;
they then pass a sentence on him, which they term _Convicto Invotivo_,
which means "found guilty, but will not confess his crime;" and he is
sentenced to be burnt at the approaching celebration. After this they
follow him to his cell, and exhort him to confess his guilt, and
promise that if he does confess he shall be pardoned; and these
appeals are continued until the evening of the day before his
execution. Terrified at the idea of a painful death, the wretch,
at last, to save his life, consents. He is called into the Hall of
Judgment, confesses the crime that he has not committed, and imagines
that he is now saved.--Alas! no; he has entangled himself, and cannot
escape.

"You acknowledge that you have been guilty of observing the laws of
Moses. These ceremonies cannot be performed alone; you cannot have
eaten the Paschal lamb _alone_; tell us immediately, who were those
who assisted at those ceremonies, or your life is still forfeited, and
the stake is prepared for you."

Thus has he accused himself without gaining anything, and if he wishes
to save his life he must accuse others; and who can be accused but
his own friends and acquaintances? nay, in all probability, his own
relations--his brothers, sisters, wife, sons or daughters--for it is
natural to suppose that in all such practices a man will trust only
his own family. Whether a man confesses his guilt, or dies asserting
his innocence, his worldly property is in either case confiscated; but
it is of great consequence to the Inquisition that he should confess,
as his act of confession, with his signature annexed, is publicly
read, and serves to prove to the world that the Inquisition is
impartial and just; nay, more, even merciful, as it pardons those who
have been proved to be guilty.

At Goa the accusations of sorcery and magic were much more frequent
than at the Inquisitions at other places, arising from the customs
and ceremonies of the Hindoos being very much mixed up with absurd
superstitions. These people, and the slaves from other parts, very
often embraced Christianity to please their masters; but since, if
they had been baptised and were afterwards convicted of any crime,
they were sentenced to the punishment by fire; whereas, if they had
not been baptised, they were only punished by whipping, imprisonment,
or the galleys; upon this ground alone many refused to embrace
Christianity.

We have now detailed all that we consider, up to the present,
necessary for the information of the reader; all that is omitted he
will gather as we proceed with our history.




Chapter XXXVII


A few hours after Amine had been in the dungeon, the jailors entered:
without speaking to her they let down her soft silky hair, and cut
it close off. Amine, with her lip curled in contempt, and without
resistance and expostulation, allowed them to do their work. They
finished, and she was again left to her solitude.

The next day the jailors entered her cell, and ordered her to bare her
feet, and follow them. She looked at them, and they at her. "If you do
not, we must," observed one of the men, who was moved by her youth
and beauty. Amine did as she was desired and was led into the Hall of
Justice, where she found only the Grand Inquisitor and the Secretary.

The Hall of Justice was a long room with lofty windows on each side,
and also at the end opposite to the door through which she had been
led in. In the centre, on a raised dais, was a long table covered with
a cloth of alternate blue and fawn-coloured stripes; and at the
end opposite to where Amine was brought in was raised an enormous
crucifix, with a carved image of our Saviour. The jailor pointed to a
small bench, and intimated to Amine that she was to sit down.

After a scrutiny of some moments, the Secretary spoke:--

"What is your name?"

"Amine Vanderdecken."

"Of what country?"

"My husband is of the Low Countries; I am from the East."

"What is your husband?"

"The captain of a Dutch Indiaman."

"How came you here?"

"His vessel was wrecked, and we were separated."

"Whom do you know here?"

"Father Mathias."

"What property have you?"

"None; it is my husband's."

"Where is it?"

"In the custody of Father Mathias."

"Are you aware why you are brought here?"

"How should I be?" replied Amine, evasively; "tell me what I am
accused of."

"You must know whether you have done wrong or not. You had better
confess all your conscience accuses you of."

"My conscience does not accuse me of doing wrong."

"Then you will confess nothing?"

"By your own showing, I have nothing to confess."

"You say you are from the East: are you a Christian?"

"I reject your creed."

"You are married to a Catholic?"

"Yes! a true Catholic."

"Who married you?"

"Father Seysen, a Catholic priest."

"Did you enter into the bosom of the church?--did he venture to marry
you without your being baptised?"

"Some ceremony did take place which I consented to."

"It was baptism, was it not?"

"I believe it was so termed."

"And now you say that you reject the creed?"

"Since I have witnessed the conduct of those who profess it, I do: at
the time of my marriage I was disposed towards it."

"What is the amount of your property in the Father Mathias's hands?"

"Some hundreds of dollars--he knows exactly."

The Grand Inquisitor rang a bell; the jailors entered, and Amine was
led back to her dungeon.

"Why should they ask so often about my money?" mused Amine; "If they
require it, they may take it. What is their power? What would they do
with me? Well, well, a few days will decide." A few days!--no, no,
Amine; years perhaps would have passed without decision, but that in
four months from the date of your incarceration, the _Auto da Fé_,
which had not been celebrated for upwards of three years, was to take
place, and there was not a sufficient number of those who were to
undergo the last punishment to render the ceremony imposing. A few
more were required for the stake, or you would not have escaped from
those dungeons so soon. As it was, a month of anxiety and suspense,
almost insupportable, had to be passed away, before Amine was again
summoned to the Hall of Justice.

Amine, at the time we have specified, was again introduced to the Hall
of Justice, and was again asked if she would confess. Irritated at her
long confinement, and the injustice of the proceedings, she replied,
"I have told you once for all, that I have nothing to confess; do with
me as you will; but be quick."

"Will torture oblige you to confess?"

"Try me," replied Amine, firmly--"try me, cruel men; and if you gain
but one word from me, then call me craven: I am but a woman--but I
dare you--I defy you."

It was seldom that such expressions fell upon the ears of her judges,
and still more seldom that a countenance was lighted up with such
determination. But the torture was never applied until after the
accusation had been made and answered.

"We shall see," said the Grand Inquisitor: "take her away."

Amine was led back to her cell. In the meantime, Father Mathias had
had several conferences with the Inquisitor. Although, in his wrath he
had accused Amine, and had procured the necessary witnesses against
her, he now felt uneasy and perplexed. His long residence with
her--her invariable kindness till the time of his dismissal--his
knowledge that she had never embraced the faith--her boldness and
courage, nay, her beauty and youth--all worked strongly in her favour.
His only object now was, to persuade her to confess that she was
wrong, induce her to embrace the faith, and save her. With this view
he had obtained permission from the Holy Office to enter her dungeon,
and reason with her--a special favour which for many reasons they
could not well refuse him. It was on the third day after her second
examination, that the bolts were removed at an unusual hour, and
Father Mathias entered the cell, which was again barred, and he was
left alone with Amine. "My child! my child!" exclaimed Father Mathias,
with sorrow in his countenance.

"Nay, Father, this is mockery. It is you who brought me here--leave
me."

"I brought you here, 'tis true; but I would now remove you, if you
will permit me, Amine."

"Most willingly; I'll follow you."

"Nay, nay! there is much to talk over, much to be done. This is not a
dungeon from which people can escape so easily."

"Then tell me what have you to say; and what is it must be done?"

"I will."

"But, stop; before you say one word answer me one question as you hope
for bliss: have you heard aught of Philip?"

"Yes, I have. He is well."

"And where is he?"

"He will soon be here."

"God, I thank you! Shall I see him, Father?"

"That must depend upon yourself."

"Upon myself. Then tell me, quickly, what would they have me do?"

"Confess your sins--your crimes."

"What sins?--what crimes?"

"Have you not dealt with evil beings, invoked the spirits, and gained
the assistance of those who are not of this world?"

Amine made no reply.

"Answer me. Do you not confess?"

"I do not confess to have done anything wrong."

"This is useless. You were seen by me and others. What will avail your
denial? Are you aware of the punishment, which most surely awaits you,
if you do not confess, and become a member of our church?"

"Why am I to become a member of your church? Do you, then, punish
those who refuse?"

"No: had you not already consented to receive baptism, you would not
have been asked to become so; but having been baptised, you must now
become a member, or be supposed to fall back into heresy."

"I knew not the nature of your baptism at that time."

"Granted: but you consented to it."

"Be it so. But, pray, what may be the punishment, if I refuse?"

"You will be burnt alive at the stake; nothing can save you. Hear me,
Amine Vanderdecken: when next summoned, you must confess all; and,
asking pardon, request to be received into the church; then will you
be saved, and you will--"

"What?"

"Again be clasped in Philip's arms."

"My Philip! my Philip! you, indeed, press me hard; but, Father, if I
confess I am wrong, when I feel that I am not"

"Feel that you are not!"

"Yes. I invoked my mother's assistance; she gave it me in a dream.
Would a mother have assisted her daughter, if it were wrong?"

"It was not your mother, but a fiend who took the likeness."

"It was my mother. Again you ask me to say that I believe that which I
cannot."

"That which you cannot! Amine Vanderdecken, be not obstinate."

"I am not obstinate, good Father. Have you not offered me, what is to
me beyond all price, that I should again be in the arms of my husband?
Can I degrade myself to a lie? not for life, or liberty or even for my
Philip."

"Amine Vanderdecken, if you will confess your crime, before you are
accused, you will have done much; after your accusation has been made,
it will be of little avail."

"It will not be done either before or after, Father. What I have done
I have done, but a crime it is not to me and mine; with you it may be,
but I am not of yours."

"Recollect also that you peril your husband, for having wedded with a
sorceress. Forget not: to-morrow I will see you again."

"My mind is troubled," replied Amine. "Leave me, Father, it will be a
kindness."

Father Mathias quitted the cell, pleased with the last words of Amine.
The idea of her husband's danger seemed to have startled her.

Amine threw herself down on the mattress, in the corner of the cell,
and hid her face.

"Burnt alive!" exclaimed she after a time, sitting up, and passing her
hands over her forehead. "Burnt alive! and these are Christians.
This, then, was the cruel death foretold by that creature,
Schriften--foretold--yes, and therefore must be: it is my destiny:
I cannot save myself. If I confess, then, I confess that Philip is
wedded to a sorceress, and he will be punished too. No, never--never:
I can suffer, 'tis cruel--'tis horrible to think of--but 'twill soon
be over. God of my fathers, give me strength against these wicked men,
and enable me to bear all, for my dear Philip's sake."

The next evening Father Mathias again made his appearance. He found
Amine calm and collected: she refused to listen to his advice, or
follow his injunctions. His last observation, that "her husband would
be in peril, if she was found guilty of sorcery," had steeled her
heart, and she had determined that neither torture nor the stake
should make her confess the act. The priest left the cell, sick at
heart; he now felt miserable at the idea of Amine's perishing by so
dreadful a death; accused himself of precipitation, and wished that he
had never seen Amine, whose constancy and courage, although in error,
excited his admiration and his pity. And then he thought of Philip,
who had treated him so kindly--how could he meet him? And if he asked
for his wife--what answer could he give?

Another fortnight passed, when Amine was again summoned to the Hall
of Judgment, and again asked if she confessed her crimes. Upon her
refusal, the accusations against her were read. She was accused by
Father Mathias with practising forbidden arts, and the depositions of
the boy Pedro, and the other witnesses, were read. In his zeal, Father
Mathias also stated that he had found her guilty of the same practices
at Terneuse; and moreover, that in the violent storm when all expected
to perish, she had remained calm and courageous, and told the captain
that they would be saved; which could only have been known by an undue
spirit of prophecy, given by evil spirits. Amine's lip curled in
derision when she heard the last accusation. She was asked if she had
any defence to make.

"What defence can be offered," replied she, "to such accusations
as these? Witness the last--because I was not so craven as the
Christians, I am accused of sorcery. The old dotard! but I will expose
him. Tell me, if one knows that sorcery is used, and conceals or
allows it, is he not a participator and equally guilty?"

"He is," replied the Inquisitor, anxiously awaiting the result.

"Then I denounce" And Amine was about to reveal that Philip's mission
was known, and not forbidden by Fathers Mathias and Seysen; when
recollecting that Philip would be implicated, she stopped.

"Denounce whom?" inquired the Inquisitor.

"No one," replied Amine, folding her arms and drooping her head.

"Speak, woman."

Amine made no answer.

"The torture will make you speak."

"Never!" replied Amine. "Never! Torture me to death, if you choose; I
prefer it to a public execution."

The Inquisitor and the Secretary consulted a short time. Convinced
that Amine would adhere to her resolution, and requiring her for
public execution, they abandoned the idea of the torture.

"Do you confess?" inquired the Inquisitor.

"No," replied Amine, firmly.

"Then take her away."

The night before the _Auto da Fé_, Father Mathias again entered the
cell of Amine, but all his endeavours to convert her were useless.

"To-morrow will end it all, Father," replied Amine; "leave me--I would
be alone."




Chapter XXXVIII


We must now return to Philip and Krantz. When the latter retired from
the presence of the Portuguese Commandant, he communicated to Philip
what had taken place, and the fabulous tale which he had invented to
deceive the Commandant. "I said that you alone knew where the treasure
was concealed," continued Krantz, "that you might be sent for, for in
all probability he will keep me as a hostage: but never mind that, I
must take my chance. Do you contrive to escape somehow or another, and
rejoin Amine."

"Not so," replied Philip, "you must go with me, my friend: I feel that
should I part with you, happiness would no longer be in store for me."

"Nonsense--that is but an idle feeling; besides, I will evade him
somehow or another."

"I will not show the treasure, unless you go with me."

"Well--you may try it at all events."

A low tap at the door was heard. Philip rose and opened it (for they
had retired to rest), and Pedro came in. Looking carefully round him,
and then shutting the door softly, he put his finger on his lips to
enjoin them to silence. He then in a whisper told them what he had
overheard. "Contrive, if possible, that I go with you," continued he;
"I must leave you now; he still paces his room." And Pedro slipped out
of the door, and crawled stealthily away along the ramparts.

"The treacherous little rascal! But we will circumvent him, if
possible," said Krantz, in a low tone. "Yes, Philip, you are right, we
must both go, for you will require my assistance. I must persuade him
to go himself. I'll think of it--so Philip, good-night."

The next morning Philip and Krantz were summoned to breakfast; the
Commandant received them with smiles and urbanity. To Philip he
was peculiarly courteous. As soon as the repast was over, he thus
communicated to him his intentions and wishes:--

"Signor, I have been reflecting upon what your friend told me, and the
appearance of the spectre yesterday, which created such confusion; it
induced me to behave with a rashness for which I must now offer my
most sincere apologies. The reflections which I have made, joined with
the feelings of devotion which must be in the heart of every true
Catholic, have determined me, with your assistance, to obtain this
treasure dedicated to the holy church. It is my proposal that you
should take a party of soldiers under your orders, proceed to the
island on which it is deposited, and having obtained it, return here.
I will detain any vessel which may in the meantime put into the
roadstead, and you shall then be the bearers of the treasure and of my
letters to Goa. This will give you an honourable introduction to the
authorities, and enable you to pass away your time there in the most
agreeable manner. You will also, signor, be restored to your wife,
whose charms had such an effect upon me; and for mention of whose name
in the very unceremonious manner which I did, I must excuse myself
upon the ground of total ignorance of who she was, or of her being in
any way connected with your honourable person. If these measures suit
you, signor, I shall be most happy to give orders to that effect."

"As a good Catholic myself," replied Philip, "I shall be most happy to
point out the spot where the treasure is concealed, and restore it to
the church. Your apologies relative to my wife I accept with pleasure,
being aware that your conduct proceeded from ignorance of her
situation and rank; but I do not exactly see my way clear. You propose
a party of soldiers. Will they obey me?--Are they to be trusted?--I
shall, have only myself and friend against them, and will they be
obedient?"

"No fear of that, signor, they are well disciplined; there is not even
occasion for your friend to go with you. I wish to retain him with me,
to keep me company during your absence."

"Nay! that I must object to," replied Philip; "I will not trust myself
alone."

"Perhaps I may be allowed to give an opinion on this subject,"
observed Krantz; "I see no reason, if my friend goes accompanied with
a party of soldiers only, why I should not go with him; but I consider
it would be unadvisable that he proceed in the way the Commandant
proposes, either with or without me. You must recollect, Commandant,
that it is no trifling sum which is to be carried away; that it will
be open to view, and will meet the eyes of your men; that these men
have been detained many years in this country, and are anxious to
return home. When, therefore, they find themselves with only two
strangers with them--away from your authority, and in possession of a
large sum of money--will not the temptation be too strong? They will
only have to run down the southern channel, gain the port of Bantam,
and they will be safe; having obtained both freedom and wealth. To
send, therefore, my friend and me, would be to send us to almost
certain death; but if you were to go, Commandant, then the danger
would no longer exist. Your presence and your authority would control
them; and, whatever their wishes or thoughts might be, they would
quail before the flash of your eye."

"Very true--very true," replied Philip--"all this did not occur to
me."

Nor had it occurred to the Commandant, but when pointed out, the force
of these suggestions immediately struck him, and long before Krantz
had finished speaking, he had resolved to go himself.

"Well, signors," replied he; "I am always ready to accede to your
wishes; and since you consider my presence necessary, and as I do not
think there is any chance of another attack from the Ternate people
just now, I will take upon myself the responsibility of leaving the
fort for a few days under the charge of my lieutenant, while we do
this service to Holy Mother Church. I have already sent for one of the
native vessels, which are large and commodious, and will, with your
permission, embark to-morrow."

"Two vessels will be better," observed Krantz; "in the first place, in
case of an accident; and next because we can embark all the treasure
in one with ourselves, and put a portion of the soldiers in the other;
so that we may be in greater force, in case of the sight of so much
wealth stimulating them to insubordination."

"True, signor, we will have two vessels; your advice is good."

Everything was thus satisfactorily arranged, with the exception of
their wish that Pedro should, accompany them on their expedition.
They were debating how this should be brought on the tapis, when the
soldier came to them, and stated that the Commandant had ordered him
to be of the party, and that he was to offer his services to the two
strangers.

On the ensuing day everything was prepared. Ten soldiers and a
corporal had been selected by the Commandant; and it required but
little time to put into the vessels the provisions and other articles
which were required. At daylight they embarked--the Commandant and
Philip in one boat; Krantz, with the corporal and Pedro, in the
other. The men, who had been kept in ignorance of the object of the
expedition, were now made acquainted with it by Pedro, and a long
whispering took place between them, much to the satisfaction of
Krantz, who was aware that the mutiny would soon be excited, when
it was understood that those who composed the expedition were to be
sacrificed to the avarice of the Commandant. The weather being fine,
they sailed on during the night: passed the island of Ternate at ten
leagues' distance; and before morning were among the cluster of isles,
the southernmost of which was the one on which the treasure had been
buried. On the second night the vessels were beached upon a small
island; and then, for the first time, a communication took place
between the soldiers who had been in the boat with Pedro and Krantz,
and those who had been embarked with the Commandant. Philip and Krantz
had also an opportunity of communicating apart for a short time.

When they made sail the next morning, Pedro spoke openly; he told
Krantz that the soldiers in the boat had made up their minds, and that
he had no doubt that the others would do so before night; although
they had not decidedly agreed upon joining them in the morning when
they had re-embarked. That they would despatch the Commandant, and
then proceed to Batavia, and from thence obtain a passage home to
Europe.

"Cannot you accomplish your end without murder?"

"Yes, we could; but not our revenge. You do not know the treatment
which we have received from his hands; and sweet as the money will be
to us, his death will be even sweeter. Besides, has he not determined
to murder us all in some way or another? It is but justice. No, no; if
there was no other knife ready--mine is."

"And so are all ours!" cried the other soldiers, putting their hands
to their weapons.

One more day's sail brought them within twenty miles of the island;
for Philip knew his landmarks well. Again they landed, and all retired
to rest, the Commandant dreaming of wealth and revenge; while it was
arranging that the digging up of the treasure which he coveted should
be the signal for his death.

Once more did they embark, and the Commandant heeded not the dark and
lowering faces with which he was surrounded. He was all gaiety and
politeness. Swiftly did they skim over the dark blue sea, between the
beautiful islands with which it was studded, and before the sun was
three hours high, Philip recognised the one sought after, and pointed
out to the Commandant the notched cocoa-nut tree, which served as a
guide to the spot where the money had been concealed. They landed on
the sandy beach, and the shovels were ordered to be brought on shore
by the impatient little officer; who little thought that every moment
of time gained was but so much _time_ lost to him, and that while he
was smiling and meditating treachery, that others could do the same.

The party arrived under the tree--the shovels soon removed the light
sand, and, in a few minutes, the treasure was exposed to view. Bag
after bag was handed up, and the loose dollars collected into heaps.
Two of the soldiers had been sent to the vessels for sacks to put the
loose dollars in, and the men had desisted from their labour; they
laid aside their spades, looks were exchanged, and all were ready.

The Commandant turned round to call to and hasten the movements of
the men who had been sent for the sacks, when three or four knives
simultaneously pierced him through the back; he fell, and was
expostulating when they were again buried in his bosom, and he lay a
corpse. Philip and Krantz remained silent spectators--the knives were
drawn out, wiped, and replaced in their sheathes.

"He has met his reward," said Krantz.

"Yes," exclaimed the Portuguese soldiers--"justice, nothing but
justice."

"Signors, you shall have your share," observed Pedro. "Shall they not,
my men?"

"Yes! yes!"

"Not one dollar, my good friends," replied Philip; "take all the
money, and may you be happy; all we ask is, your assistance to proceed
on our way to where we are about to go. And now before you divide your
money, oblige me by burying the body of that unfortunate man."

The soldiers obeyed. Resuming their shovels, they soon scooped out a
shallow grave; the Commandant's body was thrown in, and covered up
from sight.




Chapter XXXIX


Scarcely had the soldiers performed their task, and thrown down their
shovels, when they commenced an altercation. It appeared that this
money was to be again the cause of slaughter and bloodshed. Philip
and Krantz determined to sail immediately in one of the peroquas,
and leave them to settle their disputes as they pleased. He asked
permission of the soldiers to take from the provisions and water,
of which there was ample supply, a larger proportion than was their
share; stating, that he and Krantz had a long voyage and would require
it, and pointing out to them that there were plenty of cocoa-nuts
for their support. The soldiers, who thought of nothing but their
newly-acquired wealth, allowed him to do as he pleased; and having
hastily collected as many cocoa-nuts as they could, to add to their
stock of provisions, before noon Philip and Krantz had embarked, and
made sail in the peroqua, leaving the soldiers with their knives again
drawn, and so busy in their angry altercation as to be heedless of
their departure.

"There will be the same scene over again, I expect," observed Krantz,
as the vessel parted swiftly from the shore.

"I have little doubt of it; observe, even now they are at blows and
stabs."

"If I were to name that spot, it should be the '_Accursed Isle_.'"

"Would not any other be the same, with so much to inflame the passions
of men?"

"Assuredly: what a curse is gold!"

"And what a blessing!" replied Krantz. "I am sorry Pedro is left with
them."

"It is their destiny," replied Philip; "so let's think no more of
them. Now what do you propose? With this vessel, small as she is, we
may sail over these seas in safety; and we have, I imagine, provisions
sufficient for more than a month."

"My idea is to run into the track of the vessels going to the
westward, and obtain a passage to Goa."

"And if we do not meet with any, we can at all events proceed up the
Straits as far as Pulo Penang without risk. There we may safely remain
until a vessel passes."

"I agree with you; it is our best, nay our only place; unless, indeed,
we were to proceed to Cochin, where junks are always leaving for Goa."

"But that would be out of our way, and the junks cannot well pass us
in the Straits without their being seen by us."

They had no difficulty in steering their course; the islands by day,
and the clear stars by night, were their compass. It is true that
they did not follow the more direct track, but they followed the more
secure, working up through the smooth waters, and gaining to the
northward more than to the west. Many times were they chased by the
Malay proas, which infested the islands, but the swiftness of their
little peroqua was their security; indeed the chase was, generally
speaking, abandoned, as soon as the smallness of the vessel was made
out by the pirates, who expected that little or no booty was to be
gained.

That Amine and Philip's mission was the constant theme of their
discourse, may easily be imagined. One morning, as they were sailing
between the isles, with less wind than usual, Philip observed:--

"Krantz, you said that there were events in your own life, or
connected with it, which would corroborate the mysterious tale I
confided to you. Will you now tell me to what you referred?"

"Certainly," replied Krantz; "I have often thought of doing so, but
one circumstance or another has hitherto prevented me; this is,
however, a fitting opportunity. Prepare therefore to listen to a
strange story, quite as strange, perhaps, as your own.

"I take it for granted, that you have heard people speak of the Hartz
Mountains," observed Krantz.

"I have never heard people speak of them that I can recollect,"
replied Philip; "but I have read of them in some book, and of the
strange things which have occurred there."

"It is indeed a wild region," rejoined Krantz, "and many strange tales
are told of it; but, strange as they are, I have good reason for
believing them to be true. I have told you, Philip, that I fully
believe in your communion with the other world--that I credit the
history of your father, and the lawfulness of your mission; for that
we are surrounded, impelled, and worked upon by beings different in
their nature from ourselves, I have had full evidence, as you will
acknowledge, when I state what has occurred in my own family. Why such
malevolent beings as I am about to speak of should be permitted to
interfere with us, and punish, I may say, comparatively unoffending
mortals, is beyond my comprehension; but that they are so permitted is
most certain."

"The great principle of all evil fulfils his work of evil; why, then,
not the other minor spirits of the same class?" inquired Philip. "What
matters it to us, whether we are tried by, and have to suffer from,
the enmity of our fellow-mortals, or whether we are persecuted by
beings more powerful and more malevolent than ourselves? We know
that we have to work out our salvation, and that we shall be judged
according to our strength; if then there be evil spirits who delight
to oppress man, there surely must be, as Amine asserts, good spirits,
whose delight is to do him service. Whether, then, we have to struggle
against our passions only, or whether we have to struggle not only
against our passions, but also the dire influence of unseen enemies,
we ever struggle with the same odds in our favour, as the good are
stronger than the evil which we combat. In either case we are on the
'vantage ground, whether, as in the first, we fight the good cause
single-handed, or as in the second, although opposed, we have the host
of Heaven ranged on our side. Thus are the scales of Divine Justice
evenly balanced, and man is still a free agent, as his own virtuous or
vicious propensities must ever decide whether he shall gain or lose
the victory."

"Most true," replied Krantz, "and now to my history.

"My father was not born, or originally a resident, in the Hartz
Mountains; he was the serf of an Hungarian nobleman, of great
possessions, in Transylvania; but, although a serf, he was not by
any means a poor or illiterate man. In fact, he was rich, and his
intelligence and respectability were such, that he had been raised
by his lord to the stewardship; but, whoever may happen to be born a
serf, a serf must he remain, even though he become a wealthy man; such
was the condition of my father. My father had been married for about
five years; and, by his marriage, had three children--my eldest
brother Caesar, myself (Hermann), and a sister named Marcella. You
know, Philip, that Latin is still the language spoken in that country;
and that will account for our high sounding names. My mother was a
very beautiful woman, unfortunately more beautiful than virtuous: she
was seen and admired by the lord of the soil; my father was sent away
upon some mission; and, during his absence, my mother, flattered by
the attentions, and won by the assiduities, of this nobleman,
yielded to his wishes. It so happened that my father returned very
unexpectedly, and discovered the intrigue. The evidence of my mother's
shame was positive: he surprised her in the company of her seducer!
Carried away by the impetuosity of his feelings, he watched the
opportunity of a meeting taking place between them, and murdered both
his wife and her seducer. Conscious that, as a serf, not even the
provocation which he had received would be allowed as a justification
of his conduct, he hastily collected together what money he could lay
his hands upon, and, as we were then in the depth of winter, he put
his horses to the sleigh, and taking his children with him, he set
off in the middle of the night, and was far away before the tragical
circumstance had transpired. Aware that he would be pursued, and that
he had no chance of escape if he remained in any portion of his native
country (in which the authorities could lay hold of him), he continued
his flight without intermission until he had buried himself in the
intricacies and seclusion of the Hartz Mountains. Of course, all that
I have now told you I learned afterwards. My oldest recollections are
knit to a rude, yet comfortable cottage, in which I lived with my
father, brother, and sister. It was on the confines of one of those
vast forests which cover the northern part of Germany; around it were
a few acres of ground, which, during the summer months, my father
cultivated, and which, though they yielded a doubtful harvest, were
sufficient for our support. In the winter we remained much in doors,
for, as my father followed the chase, we were left alone, and the
wolves, during that season, incessantly prowled about. My father
had purchased the cottage, and land about it, of one of the rude
foresters, who gain their livelihood partly by hunting, and partly
by burning charcoal, for the purpose of smelting the ore from the
neighbouring mines; it was distant about two miles from any other
habitation. I can call to mind the whole landscape now: the tall pines
which rose up on the mountain above us, and the wide expanse of forest
beneath, on the topmost boughs and heads of whose trees we looked down
from our cottage, as the mountain below us rapidly descended into the
distant valley. In summertime the prospect was beautiful; but during
the severe winter, a more desolate scene could not well be imagined.

"I said that, in the winter, my father occupied himself with the
chase; every day he left us, and often would he lock the door, that we
might not leave the cottage. He had no one to assist him, or to take
care of us--indeed, it was not easy to find a female servant who would
live in such a solitude; but, could he have found one, my father would
not have received her, for he had imbibed a horror of the sex, as the
difference of his conduct towards us, his two boys, and my poor little
sister, Marcella, evidently proved. You may suppose we were sadly
neglected; indeed, we suffered much, for my father, fearful that we
might come to some harm, would not allow us fuel, when he left the
cottage; and we were obliged, therefore, to creep under the heaps of
bears'-skins, and there to keep ourselves as warm as we could until he
returned in the evening, when a blazing fire was our delight. That my
father chose this restless sort of life may appear strange, but the
fact was that he could not remain quiet; whether from remorse for
having committed murder, or from the misery consequent on his change
of situation, or from both combined, he was never happy unless he
was in a state of activity. Children, however, when left much to
themselves, acquire a thoughtfulness not common to their age. So it
was with us; and during the short cold days of winter we would sit
silent, longing for the happy hours when the snow would melt, and the
leaves burst out, and the birds begin their songs, and when we should
again be set at liberty.

"Such was our peculiar and savage sort of life until my brother Caesar
was nine, myself seven, and my sister five, years old, when the
circumstances occurred on which is based the extraordinary narrative
which I am about to relate.

"One evening my father returned home rather later than usual; he had
been unsuccessful, and, as the weather was very severe, and many feet
of snow were upon the ground, he was not only very cold, but in a very
bad humour. He had brought in wood, and we were all three of us gladly
assisting each other in blowing on the embers to create the blaze,
when he caught poor little Marcella by the arm and threw her aside;
the child fell, struck her mouth, and bled very much. My brother ran
to raise her up. Accustomed to ill usage, and afraid of my father,
she did not dare to cry, but looked up in his face very piteously.
My father drew his stool nearer to the hearth, muttered something
in abuse of women, and busied himself with the fire, which both my
brother and I had deserted when our sister was so unkindly treated. A
cheerful blaze was soon the result of his exertions; but we did not,
as usual, crowd round it. Marcella, still bleeding, retired to a
corner, and my brother and I took our seats beside her, while my
father hung over the fire gloomily and alone. Such had been our
position for about half-an-hour, when the howl of a wolf, close under
the window of the cottage, fell on our ears. My father started up, and
seized his gun: the howl was repeated, he examined the priming, and
then hastily left the cottage, shutting the door after him. We all
waited (anxiously listening), for we thought that if he succeeded in
shooting the wolf, he would return in a better humour; and although
he was harsh to all of us, and particularly so to our little sister,
still we loved our father, and loved to see him cheerful and happy,
for what else had we to look up to? And I may here observe, that
perhaps there never were three children who were fonder of each other;
we did not, like other children, fight and dispute together; and if,
by chance, any disagreement did arise between my elder brother and me,
little Marcella would run to us, and kissing us both, seal, through
her entreaties, the peace between us. Marcella was a lovely, amiable
child; I can recall her beautiful features even now--Alas! poor little
Marcella."

"She is dead then?" observed Philip.

"Dead! yes, dead!--but how did she die?--But I must not anticipate,
Philip; let me tell my story.

"We waited for some time, but the report of the gun did not reach us,
and my elder brother then said, 'Our father has followed the wolf, and
will not be back for some time. Marcella, let us wash the blood from
your mouth, and then we will leave this corner, and go to the fire and
warm ourselves.'

"We did so, and remained there until near midnight, every minute
wondering, as it grew later, why our father did not return. We had
no idea that he was in any danger, but we thought that he must have
chased the wolf for a very long time. 'I will look out and see if
father is coming,' said my brother Caesar, going to the door. 'Take
care,' said Marcella, 'the wolves must be about now, and we cannot
kill them, brother.' My brother opened the door very cautiously, and
but a few inches; he peeped out.--'I see nothing,' said he, after a
time, and once more he joined us at the fire. 'We have had no supper,'
said I, for my father usually cooked the meat as soon as he came
home; and during his absence we had nothing but the fragments of the
preceding day.

"'And if our father comes home after his hunt, Caesar,' said Marcella,
'he will be pleased to have some supper; let us cook it for him and
for ourselves.' Caesar climbed upon the stool, and reached down some
meat--I forget now whether it was venison or bear's meat; but we cut
off the usual quantity, and proceeded to dress it, as we used to do
under our father's superintendence. We were all busied putting it into
the platters before the fire, to await his coming, when we heard the
sound of a horn. We listened--there was a noise outside, and a minute
afterwards my father entered, ushering in a young female, and a large
dark man in a hunter's dress.

"Perhaps I had better now relate, what was only known to me many years
afterwards. When my father had left the cottage, he perceived a large
white wolf about thirty yards from him; as soon as the animal saw
my father, it retreated slowly, growling and snarling. My father
followed; the animal did not run, but always kept at some distance;
and my father did not like to fire until he was pretty certain that
his ball would take effect: thus they went on for some time, the wolf
now leaving my father far behind, and then stopping and snarling
defiance at him, and then again, on his approach, setting off at
speed.

"Anxious to shoot the animal (for the white wolf is very rare), my
father continued the pursuit for several hours, during which he
continually ascended the mountain.

"You must know, Philip, that there are peculiar spots on those
mountains which are supposed, and, as my story will prove, truly
supposed, to be inhabited by the evil influences; they are well known
to the huntsmen, who invariably avoid them. Now, one of these spots,
an open space in the pine forests above us, had been pointed out to my
father as dangerous on that account. But, whether he disbelieved
these wild stories, or whether, in his eager pursuit of the chase, he
disregarded them, I know not; certain, however, it is, that he was
decoyed by the white wolf to this open space, when the animal appeared
to slacken her speed. My father approached, came close up to her,
raised his gun to his shoulder, and was about to fire; when the wolf
suddenly disappeared. He thought that the snow on the ground must have
dazzled his sight, and he let down his gun to look for the beast--but
she was gone; how she could have escaped over the clearance, without
his seeing her, was beyond his comprehension. Mortified at the ill
success of his chase, he was about to retrace his steps, when he heard
the distant sound of a horn. Astonishment at such a sound--at such
an hour--in such a wilderness, made him forget for the moment his
disappointment, and he remained riveted to the spot. In a minute the
horn was blown a second time, and at no great distance; my father
stood still, and listened: a third time it was blown. I forget the
term used to express it, but it was the signal which, my father well
knew, implied that the party was lost in the woods. In a few minutes
more my father beheld a man on horseback, with a female seated on the
crupper, enter the cleared space, and ride up to him. At first, my
father called to mind the strange stories which he had heard of the
supernatural beings who were said to frequent these mountains; but the
nearer approach of the parties satisfied him that they were mortals
like himself. As soon as they came up to him, the man who guided the
horse accosted him. 'Friend Hunter, you are out late, the better
fortune for us: we have ridden far, and are in fear of our lives,
which are eagerly sought after. These mountains have enabled us to
elude our pursuers; but if we find not shelter and refreshment, that
will avail us little, as we must perish from hunger and the inclemency
of the night. My daughter, who rides behind me, is now more dead than
alive,--say, can you assist us in our difficulty?'

"'My cottage is some few miles distant,' replied my father, 'but I
have little to offer you besides a shelter from the weather; to the
little I have you are welcome. May I ask whence you come?'

"'Yes, friend, it is no secret now; we have escaped from Transylvania,
where my daughter's honour and my life were equally in jeopardy!'

"This information was quite enough to raise an interest in my father's
heart. He remembered his own escape: he remembered the loss of
his wife's honour, and the tragedy by which it was wound up. He
immediately, and warmly, offered all the assistance which he could
afford them.

"'There is no time to be lost, then, good sir,' observed the horseman;
'my daughter is chilled with the frost, and cannot hold out much
longer against the severity of the weather.'

"'Follow me,' replied my father, leading the way towards his home.

"'I was lured away in pursuit of a large white wolf,' observed my
father; 'it came to the very window of my hut, or I should not have
been out at this time of night.'

"'The creature passed by us just as we came out of the wood,' said the
female in a silvery tone.

"I was nearly discharging my piece at it,' observed the hunter; 'but
since it did us such good service, I am glad that I allowed it to
escape.'

"In about an hour and a half, during which my father walked at a rapid
pace, the party arrived at the cottage, and, as I said before, came
in.

"'We are in good time, apparently,' observed the dark hunter, catching
the smell of the roasted meat, as he walked to the fire and surveyed
my brother and sister, and myself. 'You have young cooks here,
Mynheer.' 'I am glad that we shall not have to wait,' replied my
father. 'Come, mistress, seat yourself by the fire; you require warmth
after your cold ride.' 'And where can I put up my horse, Mynheer?'
observed the huntsman.' 'I will take care of him,' replied my father,
going out of the cottage door.

"The female must, however, be particularly described. She was young,
and apparently twenty years of age. She was dressed in a travelling
dress, deeply bordered with white fur, and wore a cap of white ermine
on her head. Her features were very beautiful, at least I thought so,
and so my father has since declared. Her hair was flaxen, glossy and
shining, and bright as a mirror; and her mouth, although somewhat
large when it was open, showed the most brilliant teeth I have ever
beheld. But there was something about her eyes, bright as they were,
which made us children afraid; they were so restless, so furtive; I
could not at that time tell why, but I felt as if there was cruelty in
her eye; and when she beckoned us to come to her, we approached her
with fear and trembling. Still she was beautiful, very beautiful. She
spoke kindly to my brother and myself, patted our heads, and caressed
us; but Marcella would not come near her; on the contrary, she slunk
away, and hid herself in the bed, and would not wait for the supper,
which half an hour before she had been so anxious for.

"My father, having put the horse into a close shed, soon returned,
and supper was placed upon the table. When it was over, my father
requested that the young lady would take possession of his bed, and
he would remain at the fire, and sit up with her father. After some
hesitation on her part, this arrangement was agreed to, and I and my
brother crept into the other bed with Marcella, for we had as yet
always slept together.

"But we could not sleep; there was something so unusual, not only
in seeing strange people, but in having those people sleep at the
cottage, that we were bewildered. As for poor little Marcella, she was
quiet, but I perceived that she trembled during the whole night, and
sometimes I thought that she was checking a sob. My father had brought
out some spirits, which he rarely used, and he and the strange hunter
remained drinking and talking before the fire. Our ears were ready to
catch the slightest whisper--so much was our curiosity excited.

"'You said you came from Transylvania?' observed my father.

"'Even so, Mynheer,' replied the hunter. 'I was a serf to the noble
house of ----; my master would insist upon my surrendering up my fair
girl to his wishes; it ended in my giving him a few inches of my
hunting-knife.'

"'We are countrymen, and brothers in misfortune,' replied my father,
taking the huntsman's hand, and pressing it warmly.

"'Indeed! Are you, then, from that country?'

"'Yes; and I too have fled for my life. But mine is a melancholy
tale.'

"'Your name?' inquired the hunter.

"'Krantz.'

"'What! Krantz of ---- I have heard your tale; you need not renew your
grief by repeating it now. Welcome, most welcome, Mynheer, and, I
may say, my worthy kinsman. I am your second cousin, Wilfred of
Barnsdorf,' cried the hunter, rising up and embracing my father.

"They filled their horn mugs to the brim, and drank to one another,
after the German fashion. The conversation was then carried on in a
low tone; all that we could collect from it was, that our new relative
and his daughter were to take up their abode in our cottage, at least
for the present. In about an hour they both fell back in their chairs,
and appeared to sleep.

"'Marcella, dear, did you hear?' said my brother in a low tone.

"'Yes,' replied Marcella, in a whisper; 'I heard all. Oh! brother, I
cannot bear to look upon that woman--I feel so frightened.'

"My brother made no reply, and shortly afterwards we were all three
fast asleep.

"When we awoke the next morning, we found that the hunter's daughter
had risen before us. I thought she looked more beautiful than ever.
She came up to little Marcella and caressed her; the child burst into
tears, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

"But, not to detain you with too long a story, the huntsman and his
daughter were accommodated in the cottage. My father and he went
out hunting daily, leaving Christina with us. She performed all the
household duties; was very kind to us children; and, gradually, the
dislike even of little Marcella wore away. But a great change took
place in my father; he appeared to have conquered his aversion to the
sex, and was most attentive to Christina. Often, after her father and
we were in bed, would he sit up with her, conversing in a low tone by
the fire. I ought to have mentioned, that my father and the huntsman
Wilfred, slept in another portion of the cottage, and that the bed
which he formerly occupied, and which was in the same room as ours,
had been given up to the use of Christina. These visitors had been
about three weeks at the cottage, when, one night, after we children
had been sent to bed, a consultation was held. My father had asked
Christina in marriage, and had obtained both her own consent and that
of Wilfred; after this a conversation took place, which was, as nearly
as I can recollect, as follows:--

"'You may take my child, Mynheer Krantz, and my blessing with her,
and I shall then leave you and seek some other habitation--it matters
little where.'

"'Why not remain here, Wilfred?'

"'No, no, I am called elsewhere; let that suffice, and ask no more
questions. You have my child.'

"'I thank you for her, and will duly value her; but there is one
difficulty.'

"'I know what you would say; there is no priest here in this wild
country: true; neither is there any law to bind; still must some
ceremony pass between you, to satisfy a father. Will you consent to
marry her after my fashion? if so, I will marry you directly.'

"'I will,' replied my father.

"'Then take her by the hand. Now, Mynheer, swear.'

"'I swear,' repeated my father.

"'By all the spirits of the Hartz Mountains--'

"'Nay, why not by Heaven?' interrupted my father.

"'Because it is not my humour,' rejoined Wilfred; 'if I prefer that
oath, less binding perhaps, than another, surely you will not thwart
me.'

"'Well, be it so then; have your humour. Will you make me swear by
that in which I do not believe?'

"'Yet many do so, who in outward appearance are Christians,' rejoined
Wilfred; 'say, will you be married, or shall I take my daughter away
with me?'

"'Proceed,' replied my father, impatiently.

"'I swear by all the spirits of the Hartz Mountains, by all their
power for good or for evil, that I take Christina for my wedded wife;
that I will ever protect her, cherish her, and love her; that my hand
shall never be raised against her to harm her.'

"My father repeated the words after Wilfred.

"'And if I fail in this my vow, may all the vengeance of the spirits
fall upon me and upon my children; may they perish by the vulture, by
the wolf, or other beasts of the forest; may their flesh be torn from
their limbs, and their bones blanch in the wilderness; all this I
swear.'

"My father hesitated, as he repeated the last words; little Marcella
could not restrain herself, and as my father repeated the last
sentence, she burst into tears. This sudden interruption appeared to
discompose the party, particularly my father; he spoke harshly to the
child, who controlled her sobs, burying her face under the bedclothes.

"Such was the second marriage of my father. The next morning, the
hunter Wilfred mounted his horse, and rode away.

"My father resumed his bed, which was in the same room as ours; and
things went on much as before the marriage, except that our new
mother-in-law did not show any kindness towards us; indeed, during
my father's absence, she would often beat us, particularly little
Marcella, and her eyes would flash fire, as she looked eagerly upon
the fair and lovely child.

"One night, my sister awoke me and my brother.

"'What is the matter?' said Caesar.

"'She has gone out,' whispered Marcella.

"'Gone out!'

"'Yes, gone out at the door, in her night-clothes,' replied the child;
'I saw her get out of bed, look at my father to see if he slept, and
then she went out at the door.'

"What could induce her to leave her bed, and all undressed to go out,
in such bitter wintry weather, with the snow deep on the ground, was
to us incomprehensible; we lay awake, and in about an hour we heard
the growl of a wolf, close under the window.

"'There is a wolf,' said Caesar; 'she will be torn to pieces.'

"'Oh, no!' cried Marcella.

"In a few minutes afterwards our mother-in-law appeared; she was in
her night-dress, as Marcella had stated. She let down the latch of the
door, so as to make no noise, went to a pail of water, and washed her
face and hands, and then slipped into the bed where my father lay.

"We all three trembled, we hardly knew why, but we resolved to watch
the next night: we did so--and not only on the ensuing night, but
on many others, and always at about the same hour, would our
mother-in-law rise from her bed, and leave the cottage--and after she
was gone, we invariably heard the growl of a wolf under our window,
and always saw her, on her return, wash herself before she retired to
bed. We observed, also, that she seldom sat down to meals, and that
when she did, she appeared to eat with dislike; but when the meat was
taken down, to be prepared for dinner, she would often furtively put a
raw piece into her mouth.

"My brother Caesar was a courageous boy; he did not like to speak to
my father until he knew more. He resolved that he would follow her
out, and ascertain what she did. Marcella and I endeavoured to
dissuade him from this project; but he would not be controlled, and,
the very next night he lay down in his clothes, and as soon as our
mother-in-law had left the cottage, he jumped up, took down my
father's gun, and followed her.

"You may imagine in what a state of suspense Marcella and I remained,
during his absence. After a few minutes, we heard the report of a gun.
It did not awaken my father, and we lay trembling with anxiety. In
a minute afterwards we saw our mother-in-law enter the cottage--her
dress was bloody. I put my hand to Marcella's mouth to prevent her
crying out, although I was myself in great alarm. Our mother-in-law
approached my father's bed, looked to see if he was asleep, and then
went to the chimney, and blew up the embers into a blaze.

"'Who is there?' said my father, waking up.

"'Lie still, dearest,' replied my mother-in-law, 'it is only me; I
have lighted the fire to warm some water; I am not quite well.'

"My father turned round and was soon asleep; but we watched our
mother-in-law. She changed her linen, and threw the garments she had
worn into the fire; and we then perceived that her right leg was
bleeding profusely, as if from a gun-shot wound. She bandaged it up,
and then dressing herself, remained before the fire until the break of
day.

"Poor little Marcella, her heart beat quick as she pressed me to her
side--so indeed did mine. Where was our brother, Caesar? How did my
mother-in-law receive the wound unless from his gun? At last my father
rose, and then, for the first time I spoke, saying, 'Father, where is
my brother, Caesar?'

"'Your brother!' exclaimed he, 'why, where can he be?'

"'Merciful Heaven! I thought as I lay very restless last night,'
observed our mother-in-law, 'that I heard somebody open the latch of
the door; and, dear me, husband, what has become of your gun?'

"My father cast his eyes up above the chimney, and perceived that his
gun was missing. For a moment he looked perplexed, then seizing a
broad axe, he went out of the cottage without saying another word.

"He did not remain away from us long: in a few minutes he returned,
bearing in his arms the mangled body of my poor brother; he laid it
down, and covered up his face.

"My mother-in-law rose up, and looked at the body, while Marcella and
I threw ourselves by its side wailing and sobbing bitterly.

"'Go to bed again, children,' said she sharply. 'Husband,' continued
she, 'your boy must have taken the gun down to shoot a wolf, and the
animal has been too powerful for him. Poor boy! he has paid dearly for
his rashness.'

"My father made no reply; I wished to speak--to tell all--but
Marcella, who perceived my intention, held me by the arm, and looked
at me so imploringly, that I desisted.

"My father, therefore, was left in his error; but Marcella and
I, although we could not comprehend it, were conscious that our
mother-in-law was in some way connected with my brother's death.

"That day my father went out and dug a grave, and when he laid the
body in the earth, he piled up stones over it, so that the wolves
should not be able to dig it up. The shock of this catastrophe was
to my poor father very severe; for several days he never went to the
chase, although at times he would utter bitter anathemas and vengeance
against the wolves.

"But during this time of mourning on his part, my mother-in-law's
nocturnal wanderings continued with the same regularity as before.

"At last, my father took down his gun, to repair to the forest; but he
soon returned, and appeared much annoyed.

"'Would you believe it, Christina, that the wolves--perdition to the
whole race--have actually contrived to dig up the body of my poor boy,
and now there is nothing left of him but his bones?'

"'Indeed!' replied my mother-in-law. Marcella looked at me, and I saw
in her intelligent eye all she would have uttered.

"'A wolf growls under our window every night, father,' said I.

"'Aye, indeed?--why did you not tell me, boy?--wake me the next time
you hear it.'

"I saw my mother-in-law turn away; her eyes flashed fire, and she
gnashed her teeth.

"My father went out again, and covered up with a larger pile of stones
the little remnants of my poor brother which the wolves had spared.
Such was the first act of the tragedy.

"The spring now came on: the snow disappeared, and we were permitted
to leave the cottage; but never would I quit, for one moment, my dear
little sister, to whom, since the death of my brother, I was more
ardently attached than ever; indeed I was afraid to leave her alone
with my mother-in-law, who appeared to have a particular pleasure in
ill-treating the child. My father was now employed upon his little
farm, and I was able to render him some assistance.

"Marcella used to sit by us while we were at work, leaving my
mother-in-law alone in the cottage. I ought to observe that, as the
spring advanced, so did my mother-in-law decrease her nocturnal
rambles, and that we never heard the growl of the wolf under the
window after I had spoken of it to my father.

"One day, when my father and I were in the field, Marcella being with
us, my mother-in-law came out, saying that she was going into the
forest, to collect some herbs my father wanted, and that Marcella
must go to the cottage and watch the dinner. Marcella went, and my
mother-in-law soon disappeared in the forest, taking a direction quite
contrary to that in which the cottage stood, and leaving my father and
I, as it were, between her and Marcella.

"About an hour afterwards we were startled by shrieks from the
cottage, evidently the shrieks of little Marcella. 'Marcella has burnt
herself, father,' said I, throwing down my spade. My father threw down
his, and we both hastened to the cottage. Before we could gain the
door, out darted a large white wolf, which fled with the utmost
celerity. My father had no weapon; he rushed into the cottage, and
there saw poor little Marcella expiring: her body was dreadfully
mangled, and the blood pouring from it had formed a large pool on the
cottage floor. My father's first intention had been to seize his gun
and pursue, but he was checked by this horrid spectacle; he knelt down
by his dying child, and burst into tears: Marcella could just look
kindly on us for a few seconds, and then her eyes were closed in
death.

"My father and I were still hanging over my poor sister's body, when
my mother-in-law came in. At the dreadful sight she expressed much
concern, but she did not appear to recoil from the sight of blood, as
most women do.

"'Poor child!' said she, 'it must have been that great white wolf
which passed me just now, and frightened me so--she's quite dead,
Krantz.'

"I know it--I know it!' cried my father in agony.

"I thought my father would never recover from the effects of this
second tragedy: he mourned bitterly over the body of his sweet child,
and for several days would not consign it to its grave, although
frequently requested by my mother-in-law to do so. At last he yielded,
and dug a grave for her close by that of my poor brother, and took
every precaution that the wolves should not violate her remains.

"I was now really miserable, as I lay alone in the bed which I had
formerly shared with my brother and sister. I could not help thinking
that my mother-in-law was implicated in both their deaths, although I
could not account for the manner; but I no longer felt afraid of her:
my little heart was full of hatred and revenge.

"The night after my sister had been buried, as I lay awake, I
perceived my mother-in-law get up and go out of the cottage. I waited
some time, then dressed myself, and looked out through the door, which
I half opened. The moon shone bright, and I could see the spot where
my brother and my sister had been buried; and what was my horror,
when I perceived my mother-in-law busily removing the stones from
Marcella's grave.

"She was in her white night-dress, and the moon shone full upon her.
She was digging with her hands, and throwing away the stones behind
her with all the ferocity of a wild beast. It was some time before
I could collect my senses and decide what I should do. At last, I
perceived that she had arrived at the body, and raised it up to the
side of the grave. I could bear it no longer; I ran to my father and
awoke him.

"'Father! father!' cried I, 'dress yourself, and get your gun.'

"'What!' cried my father, 'the wolves are there, are they?'

"He jumped out of bed, threw on his clothes, and in his anxiety did
not appear to perceive the absence of his wife. As soon as he was
ready, I opened the door, he went out, and I followed him.

"Imagine his horror, when (unprepared as he was for such a sight) he
beheld, as he advanced towards the grave, not a wolf, but his wife, in
her night-dress, on her hands and knees, crouching by the body of my
sister, and tearing off large pieces of the flesh, and devouring them
with all the avidity of a wolf. She was too busy to be aware of our
approach. My father dropped his gun, his hair stood on end; so did
mine; he breathed heavily, and then his breath for a time stopped. I
picked up the gun and put it into his hand. Suddenly he appeared as if
concentrated rage had restored him to double vigour; he levelled his
piece, fired, and with a loud shriek, down fell the wretch whom he had
fostered in his bosom.

"'God of Heaven!' cried my father, sinking down upon the earth in a
swoon, as soon as he had discharged his gun.

"I remained some time by his side before he recovered. 'Where am I?'
said he, 'what has happened?--Oh!--yes, yes! I recollect now. Heaven
forgive me!'

"He rose and we walked up to the grave; what again was our
astonishment and horror to find that instead of the dead body of my
mother-in-law, as we expected, there was lying over the remains of my
poor sister, a large, white she wolf.

"'The white wolf!' exclaimed my father, 'the white wolf which decoyed
me into the forest--I see it all now--I have dealt with the spirits of
the Hartz Mountains.'

"For some time my father remained in silence and deep thought. He then
carefully lifted up the body of my sister, replaced it in the grave,
and covered it over as before, having struck the head of the dead
animal with the heel of his boot, and raving like a madman. He walked
back to the cottage, shut the door, and threw himself on the bed; I
did the same, for I was in a stupor of amazement.

"Early in the morning we were both roused by a loud knocking at the
door, and in rushed the hunter Wilfred.

"'My daughter!--man--my daughter!--where is my daughter!' cried he in
a rage.

"'Where the wretch, the fiend, should be, I trust,' replied my father,
starting up and displaying equal choler; 'where she should be--in
hell!--Leave this cottage or you may fare worse.'

"'Ha--ha!' replied the hunter, 'would you harm a potent spirit of the
Hartz Mountains. Poor mortal, who must needs wed a weir wolf.'

"'Out demon! I defy thee and thy power.'

"'Yet shall you feel it; remember your oath--your solemn oath--never
to raise your hand against her to harm her.'

"'I made no compact with evil spirits.'

"'You did; and if you failed in your vow, you were to meet the
vengeance of the spirits. Your children were to perish by the vulture,
the wolf--'

"'Out, out, demon!'

"'And their bones blanch in the wilderness. Ha!--ha!'

"My father, frantic with rage, seized his axe, and raised it over
Wilfred's head to strike.

"'All this I swear,' continued the huntsman, mockingly.

"The axe descended; but it passed through the form of the hunter, and
my father lost his balance, and fell heavily on the floor.

"'Mortal!' said the hunter, striding over my father's body, 'we have
power over those only who have committed murder. You have been guilty
of a double murder--you shall pay the penalty attached to your
marriage vow. Two of your children are gone; the third is yet to
follow--and follow them he will, for your oath is registered. Go--it
were kindness to kill thee--your punishment is--that you live!'

"With these words the spirit disappeared. My father rose from the
floor, embraced me tenderly, and knelt down in prayer.

"The next morning he quitted the cottage for ever. He took me with him
and bent his steps to Holland, where we safely arrived. He had some
little money with him; but he had not been many days in Amsterdam
before he was seized with a brain fever, and died raving mad. I was
put into the Asylum, and afterwards was sent to sea before the mast.
You now know all my history. The question is, whether I am to pay the
penalty of my father's oath? I am myself perfectly convinced that, in
some way or another, I shall."

On the twenty-second day the high land of the south of Sumatra was in
view; as there were no vessels in sight, they resolved to keep their
course through the Straits, and run for Pulo Penang, which they
expected, as their vessel laid so close to the wind, to reach in seven
or eight days. By constant exposure, Philip and Krantz were now so
bronzed, that with their long beards and Mussulman dresses, they might
easily have passed off for natives. They had steered during the whole
of the days exposed to a burning sun; they had lain down and slept in
the dew of night, but their health had not suffered. But for several
days, since he had confided the history of his family to Philip,
Krantz had become silent and melancholy; his usual flow of spirits had
vanished, and Philip had often questioned him as to the cause. As they
entered the Straits, Philip talked of what they should do upon their
arrival at Goa. When Krantz gravely replied, "For some days, Philip, I
have had a presentiment that I shall never see that city."

"You are out of health, Krantz," replied Philip.

"No; I am in sound health, body and mind. I have endeavoured to shake
off the presentiment, but in vain; there is a warning voice that
continually tells me that I shall not be long with you. Philip, will
you oblige me by making me content on one point: I have gold about
my person which may be useful to you; oblige me by taking it, and
securing it on your own."

"What nonsense, Krantz."

"It is no nonsense, Philip. Have you not had your warnings? Why should
I not have mine? You know that I have little fear in my composition,
and that I care not about death; but I feel the presentiment which I
speak of more strongly every hour. It is some kind spirit who would
warn me to prepare for another world. Be it so. I have lived long
enough in this world to leave it without regret; although to part
with you and Amine, the only two now dear to me, is painful, I
acknowledge."

"May not this arise from over-exertion and fatigue, Krantz? consider
how much excitement you have laboured under within these last four
months. Is not that enough to create a corresponding depression?
Depend upon it, my dear friend, such is the fact."

"I wish it were--but I feel otherwise, and there is a feeling of
gladness connected with the idea that I am to leave this world,
arising from another presentiment, which equally occupies my mind."

"Which is?"

"I hardly can tell you; but Amine and you are connected with it. In my
dreams I have seen you meet again; but it has appeared to me, as if a
portion of your trial was purposely shut from my sight in dark clouds;
and I have asked, 'May not I see what is there concealed?'--and an
invisible has answered, 'No! 'twould make you wretched. Before these
trials take place, you will be summoned away'--and then I have thanked
Heaven, and felt resigned."

"These are the imaginings of a disturbed brain, Krantz; that I am
destined to suffering may be true; but why Amine should suffer, or why
you, young, in full health and vigour, should not pass your days in
peace, and live to a good old age, there is no cause for believing.
You will be better to-morrow."

"Perhaps so," replied Krantz;--"but still you must yield to my whim,
and take the gold. If I am wrong, and we do arrive safe, you know,
Philip, you can let me have it back," observed Krantz, with a faint
smile--"but you forget, our water is nearly out, and we must look out
for a rill on the coast to obtain a fresh supply."

"I was thinking of that when you commenced this unwelcome topic. We
had better look out for the water before dark, and as soon as we have
replenished our jars, we will make sail again."

At the time that this conversation took place, they were on the
eastern side of the Strait, about forty miles to the northward.
The interior of the coast was rocky and mountainous, but it slowly
descended to low land of alternate forest and jungles, which continued
to the beach: the country appeared to be uninhabited. Keeping close in
to the shore, they discovered, after two hours' run, a fresh stream
which burst in a cascade from the mountains, and swept its devious
course through the jungle, until it poured its tribute into the waters
of the Strait.

They ran close in to the mouth of the stream, lowered the sails, and
pulled the peroqua against the current, until they had advanced far
enough to assure them that the water was quite fresh. The jars were
soon filled, and they were again thinking of pushing off; when,
enticed by the beauty of the spot, the coolness of the fresh water,
and wearied with their long confinement on board of the peroqua, they
proposed to bathe--a luxury hardly to be appreciated by those who
have not been in a similar situation. They threw off their Mussulman
dresses, and plunged into the stream, where they remained for some
time. Krantz was the first to get out; he complained of feeling
chilled, and he walked on to the banks where their clothes had been
laid. Philip also approached nearer to the beach, intending to follow
him.

"And now, Philip," said Krantz, "this will be a good opportunity for
me to give you the money. I will open my sash, and pour it out, and
you can put it into your own before you put it on."

Philip was standing in the water, which was about level with his
waist.

"Well, Krantz," said he, "I suppose if it must be so, it must; but it
appears to me an idea so ridiculous--however, you shall have your own
way."

Philip quitted the run, and sat down by Krantz, who was already busy
in shaking the doubloons out of the folds of his sash; at last he
said--

"I believe, Philip, you have got them all, now?--I feel satisfied."

"What danger there can be to you, which I am not equally exposed to, I
cannot conceive," replied Philip; "however--"

Hardly had he said these words, when there was a tremendous roar--a
rush like a mighty wind through the air--a blow which threw him on
his back--a loud cry--and a contention. Philip recovered himself, and
perceived the naked form of Krantz carried off with the speed of
an arrow by an enormous tiger through the jungle. He watched with
distended eyeballs; in a few seconds the animal and Krantz had
disappeared!

"God of Heaven! would that Thou hadst spared me this," cried Philip,
throwing himself down in agony on his face. "Oh! Krantz, my friend--my
brother--too sure was your presentiment. Merciful God! have pity--but
Thy will be done;" and Philip burst into a flood of tears.

For more than an hour did he remain fixed upon the spot, careless
and indifferent to the danger by which he was surrounded. At last,
somewhat recovered, he rose, dressed himself, and then again sat
down--his eyes fixed upon the clothes of Krantz, and the gold which
still lay on the sand.

"He would give me that gold. He foretold his doom. Yes! yes! it was
his destiny, and it has been fulfilled. _His bones will bleach in
the wilderness_, and the spirit-hunter and his wolfish daughter are
avenged."

The shades of evening now set in, and the low growling of the beasts
of the forest recalled Philip to a sense of his own danger. He thought
of Amine; and hastily making the clothes of Krantz and the doubloons
into a package, he stepped into the peroqua, with difficulty shoved it
off, and with a melancholy heart, and in silence, hoisted the sail,
and pursued his course.

"Yes, Amine," thought Philip, as he watched the stars twinkling and
corruscating. "Yes, you are right, when you assert that the destinies
of men are foreknown, and may by some be read. My destiny is, alas!
that I should be severed from all I value upon earth, and die
friendless and alone. Then welcome death, if such is to be the case;
welcome a thousand welcomes! what a relief wilt thou be to me! what
joy to find myself summoned to where the weary are at rest! I have my
task to fulfil. God grant that it may soon be accomplished, and let
not my life be embittered by any more trials such as this."

Again did Philip weep, for Krantz had been his long-tried, valued
friend, his partner in all his dangers and privations, from the period
that they had met when the Dutch fleet attempted the passage round
Cape Horn.

After seven days of painful watching and brooding over bitter
thoughts, Philip arrived at Pulo Penang, where he found a vessel about
to sail for the city to which he was destined. He ran his peroqua
alongside of her, and found that she was a brig under the Portuguese
flag, having, however, but two Portuguese on board, the rest of the
crew being natives. Representing himself as an Englishman in the
Portuguese service, who had been wrecked, and offering to pay for
his passage, he was willingly received, and in a few days the vessel
sailed.

Their voyage was prosperous; in six weeks they anchored in the roads
of Goa; the next day they went up the river. The Portuguese captain
informed Philip where he might obtain lodging; and passing him off as
one of his crew, there was no difficulty raised as to his landing.
Having located himself at his new lodging, Philip commenced some
inquiries of his host relative to Amine, designating her merely as a
young woman who had arrived there in a vessel some weeks before; but
he could obtain no information concerning her. "Signor," said the
host, "to-morrow is the grand _Auto da Fé_; we can do nothing until
that is over; afterwards, I will put you in the way to find out what
you wish. In the meantime, you can walk about the town; to-morrow I
will take you to where you can behold the grand procession, and then
we will try what we can do to assist you in your search."

Philip went out, procured a suit of clothes, removed his beard, and
then walked about the town, looking up at every window to see if he
could perceive Amine. At a corner of one of the streets, he thought he
recognised Father Mathias, and ran up to him; but the monk had drawn
his cowl over his head, and when addressed by that name, made no
reply.

"I was deceived," thought Philip; "but I really thought it was him."
And Philip was right; it was Father Mathias, who thus screened himself
from Philip's recognition.

Tired, at last he returned to his hotel, just before it was dark. The
company there were numerous; everybody for miles distant had come to
Goa to witness the _Auto da Fé_,--and everybody was discussing the
ceremony.

"I will see this grand procession," said Philip to himself, as he
threw himself on his bed. "It will drive thought from me for a time,
and God knows how painful my thoughts have now become. Amine, dear
Amine, may angels guard thee!"




Chapter XL


Although to-morrow was to end all Amine's hopes and fears--all her
short happiness--her suspense and misery--yet Amine slept until
her last slumber in this world was disturbed by the unlocking and
unbarring of the doors of her cell, and the appearance of the head
jailor with a light. Amine started up--she had been dreaming of her
husband--of happiness! She awoke to the sad reality. There stood the
jailor, with a dress in his hand, which he desired she would put on.
He lighted a lamp for her, and left her alone. The dress was of black
serge, with white stripes.

Amine put on the dress, and threw herself down on the bed, trying if
possible to recall the dream from which she had been awakened, but
in vain. Two hours passed away, and the jailor again entered, and
summoned her to follow him. Perhaps one of the most appalling customs
of the Inquisition is, that after accusation, whether the accused
parties confess their guilt or not, they return to their dungeons,
without the least idea of what may have been their sentence, and when
summoned on the morning of the execution they are equally kept in
ignorance.

The prisoners were all summoned by the jailors, from the various
dungeons, and led into a large hall, where they found their
fellow-sufferers collected.

In this spacious, dimly lighted hall were to be seen about two hundred
men, standing up as if for support, against the walls, all dressed in
the same black and white serge; so motionless, so terrified were they,
that if it had not been for the rolling of their eyes, as they watched
the jailors, who passed and repassed, you might have imagined them to
be petrified. It was the agony of suspense, worse than the agony of
death. After a time, a wax candle, about five feet long, was put into
the hands of each prisoner, and then some were ordered to put on
over their dress the _Sanbenitos_--others the _Samarias_! Those who
received these dresses, with flames painted on them, gave themselves
up for lost; and it was dreadful to perceive the anguish of each
individual as the dresses were one by one brought forward, and with
the heavy drops of perspiration on his brows, he watched with terror
lest one should be presented to him. All was doubt, fear, and horror!

But the prisoners in this hall were not those who were to suffer
death. Those who wore the Sanbenitos had to walk in the procession and
receive but slight punishment; those who wore the Samarias had
been condemned, but had been saved from the consuming fire, by an
acknowledgment of their offence; the flames painted on their dresses
were _reversed_, and signified that they were not to suffer; but this
the unfortunate wretches did not know, and the horrors of a cruel
death stared them in the face!

Another hall, similar to the one in which the men had been
collected, was occupied by female culprits. The same ceremonies were
observed--the same doubt, fear, and agony were depicted upon every
countenance. But there was a third chamber, smaller than the other
two, and this chamber was reserved for those who had been sentenced,
and who were to suffer at the stake. It was into this chamber that
Amine was led, and there she found seven other prisoners dressed in
the same manner as herself: two only were Europeans, the other five
were negro slaves. Each of these had their confessor with them, and
were earnestly listening to his exhortation. A monk approached Amine,
but she waved him away with her hand: he looked at her, spat on the
floor, and cursed her. The head jailor now made his appearance with
the dresses for those who were in this chamber; these were Samarias,
only different from the others, inasmuch as the flames were painted on
them _upwards_ instead of down. These dresses were of grey stuff, and
loose, like a waggoner's frock; at the lower part of them, both before
and behind, was painted the likeness of the wearer, that is, the face
only, resting upon a burning faggot, and surrounded with flames and
demons. Under the portrait was written the crime for which the party
suffered. Sugar-loaf caps, with flames painted on them, were also
brought and put on their heads, and the long wax candles were placed
into their hands.

Amine and the others condemned being arrayed in these dresses,
remained in the chambers, for some hours before it was time for the
procession to commence, for they had been all summoned up by the
jailors at about two o'clock in the morning.

The sun rose brilliantly, much to the joy of the members of the Holy
Office, who would not have had the day obscured on which they were to
vindicate the honour of the church, and prove how well they acted up
to the mild doctrines of the Saviour--those of charity, good-will,
forbearing one another, forgiving one another. God of Heaven! And not
only did those of the Holy Inquisition rejoice, but thousands and
thousands more who had flocked from all parts to witness the dreadful
ceremony, and to hold a jubilee--many indeed actuated by fanaticism,
superstition, but more attended from thoughtlessness and the love of
pageantry. The streets and squares through which the procession was
to pass were filled at an early hour. Silks, tapestries, and cloth of
gold and silver were hung over the balconies, and out of the windows,
in honour of the procession. Every balcony and window was thronged
with ladies and cavaliers in their gayest attire, all waiting
anxiously to see the wretches paraded before they suffered; but the
world is fond of excitement, and where is anything so exciting to a
superstitious people as an _Auto da Fé_?

As the sun rose, the heavy bell of the Cathedral tolled, and all the
prisoners were led down to the Grand Hall, that the order of the
procession might be arranged. At the large entrance door, on a raised
throne, sat the Grand Inquisitor, encircled by many of the most
considerable nobility and gentry of Goa. By the Grand Inquisitor stood
his Secretary, and as the prisoners walked past the throne, and their
names were mentioned, the Secretary, after each, called out the names
of one of those gentlemen, who immediately stepped forward, and took
his station by the prisoner. These people are termed the godfathers;
their duty is to accompany and be answerable for the prisoner, who is
under their charge, until the ceremony is over. It is reckoned a high
honour conferred on those whom the Grand Inquisitor appoints to this
office.

At last the procession commenced. First was raised on high the
standard of the Dominican Order of Monks, for the Dominican Order
were the founders of the Inquisition, and claimed this privilege, by
prescriptive right. After the banner the monks themselves followed,
in two lines. And what was the motto of their banner? "Justitia et
Misericordia!" Then followed the culprits, to the number of three
hundred, each with his godfather by his side, and his large wax candle
lighted in his hand. Those whose offences have been most venial walk
first; all are bareheaded, and barefooted. After this portion, who
wore only the dress of black and white serge, came those who carried
the Sanbenitos; then those who wore the Samarias, with the flames
reversed. Here there was a separation in the procession, caused by a
large cross, with the carved image of Our Saviour nailed to it, the
face of the image carried forward. This was intended to signify, that
those in advance of the Crucifix, and upon whom the Saviour looked
down, were not to suffer; and that those who were behind, and upon
whom his back was turned, were cast away, to perish for ever in this
world, and the next. Behind the Crucifix followed the seven condemned;
and, as the greatest criminal, Amine walked the last. But the
procession did not close here. Behind Amine were five effigies, raised
high on poles, clothed in the same dresses, painted with flames and
demons. Behind each effigy was borne a coffin, containing a skeleton;
the effigies were of those who had died in their dungeon, or expired
under the torture, and who had been tried and condemned after their
death, and sentenced to be burnt. These skeletons had been dug up,
and were to suffer the same sentence as, had they still been living
beings, they would have undergone. The effigies were to be tied to the
stakes, and the bones were to be consumed. Then followed the members
of the Inquisition; the familiars, monks, priests, and hundreds of
penitents, in black dresses, which concealed their faces, all with the
lighted tapers in their hands.

It was two hours before the procession, which had paraded through
almost every important street in Goa, arrived at the Cathedral in
which the further ceremonies were to be gone through. The barefooted
culprits could now scarcely walk, the small sharp flints having so
wounded their feet, that their tracks up the steps of the Cathedral
were marked with blood.

The grand altar of the Cathedral was hung with black cloth, and
lighted up with thousands of tapers. On one side of it was a throne
for the Grand Inquisitor, on the other, a raised platform for the
Viceroy of Goa, and his suite. The centre aisle had benches for the
prisoners, and their godfathers; the other portions of the procession
falling off to the right and left, to the side aisles, and mixing for
the time with the spectators. As the prisoners entered the Cathedral,
they were led into their seats, those least guilty sitting nearest to
the altar, and those who were condemned to suffer at the stake being
placed the farthest from it.

The bleeding Amine tottered to her seat, and longed for the hour which
was to sever her from a Christian world. She thought not of herself,
nor of what she was to suffer; she thought but of Philip; of his being
safe from these merciless creatures--of the happiness of dying first,
and of meeting him again in bliss.

Worn with long confinement, with suspense and anxiety, fatigued and
suffering from her painful walk, and the exposure to the burning sun,
after so many months' incarceration in a dungeon, she no longer shone
radiant with beauty; but still there was something even more touching
in her care-worn, yet still perfect features. The object of universal
gaze, she had walked with her eyes cast down, and nearly closed; but
occasionally, when she did look up, the fire that flashed from them
spoke the proud soul within, and many feared and wondered, while more
pitied that one so young, and still so lovely, should be doomed to
such an awful fate. Amine had not taken her seat in the Cathedral more
than a few seconds, when, overpowered by her feelings and by fatigue,
she fell back in a swoon.

Did no one step forward to assist her? to raise her up, and offer her
restoratives? No--not one. Hundreds would have done so, but they dared
not: she was an outcast, excommunicated, abandoned, and lost; and
should any one, moved by compassion for a suffering fellow-creature,
have ventured to raise her up, he would have been looked upon with
suspicion, and most probably have been arraigned, and have had to
settle the affair of conscience with the Holy Inquisition.

After a short time two of the officers of the Inquisition went to
Amine and raised her again in her seat, and she recovered sufficiently
to enable her to retain her posture.

A sermon was then preached by a Dominican monk, in which he pourtrayed
the tender mercies, the paternal love of the Holy Office. He compared
the Inquisition to the ark of Noah, out of which all the animals
walked after the deluge; but with this difference, highly in favour of
the Holy Office, that the animals went forth from the ark no better
than they went in, whereas those who had gone into the Inquisition
with all the cruelty of disposition, and with the hearts of wolves,
came out as mild and patient as lambs.

The public accuser then mounted the pulpit, and read from it all the
crimes of those who had been condemned, and the punishments which they
were to undergo. Each prisoner, as the sentence was read, was brought
forward to the pulpit by the officers, to hear their sentence,
standing up, with their wax candles lighted in their hands. As soon as
the sentences of all those whose lives had been spared were read, the
Grand Inquisitor put on his priestly robes and, followed by several
others, took off from them the ban of excommunication (which they were
supposed to have fallen under), by throwing holy water on them with a
small broom.

As soon as this portion of the ceremony was over, those who were
condemned to suffer, and the effigies of those who had escaped by
death, were brought up one by one, and their sentences read; the
winding up of the condemnation of all was in the same words, "that the
Holy Inquisition found it impossible on account of the hardness of
their hearts and the magnitude of their crimes, to pardon them. With
great concern it handed them over to Secular Justice to undergo the
penalty of the laws; exhorting the authorities at the same time to
show clemency and mercy towards the unhappy wretches, and if they
_must_ suffer death, that at all events it might be without the
_spilling of blood_." What mockery was this apparent intercession, not
to shed blood, when to comply with their request, they substituted the
torment and the agony of the stake!

Amine was the last who was led forward to the pulpit, which was fixed
against one of the massive columns of the centre aisle, close to the
throne occupied by the Grand Inquisitor. "You, Amine Vanderdecken,"
cried the public accuser. At this moment an unusual bustle was heard
in the crowd under the pulpit, there was struggling and expostulation,
and the officers raised their wands for silence and decorum--but it
continued.

"You, Amine Vanderdecken, being accused--"

Another violent struggle; and from the crowd darted a young man, who
rushed to where Amine was standing, and caught her in his arms.

"Philip! Philip!" screamed Amine, falling on his bosom; as he caught
her, the cap of flames fell off her head and rolled along the marble
pavement. "My Amine--my wife--my adored one--is it thus we meet? My
lord, she is innocent. Stand off, men," continued he to the officers
of the Inquisition, who would have torn them asunder. "Stand off, or
your lives shall answer for it."

This threat to the officers, and the defiance of all rules, were not
to be borne; the whole Cathedral was in a state of commotion, and the
solemnity of the ceremony was about to be compromised. The Viceroy and
his followers had risen from their chairs to observe what was passing,
and the crowd was pressing on, when the Grand Inquisitor gave his
directions, and other officers hastened to the assistance of the
two who had led Amine forward, and proceeded to disengage her from
Philip's arms. The struggle was severe. Philip appeared to be endued
with the strength of twenty men; and it was some minutes before they
could succeed in separating him, and when they had so done, his
struggles were dreadful.

Amine, also, held by two of the familiars, shrieked, as she attempted
once more, but in vain, to rush into her husband's arms. At last, by
a tremendous effort, Philip released himself, but as soon as he was
released, he sank down helpless on the pavement; the exertion had
caused the bursting of a blood-vessel, and he lay without motion.

"Oh God! Oh God! they have killed him--monsters--murderers--let me
embrace him but once more," cried Amine, frantically.

A priest now stepped forward--it was Father Mathias--with sorrow in
his countenance; he desired some of the bystanders to carry out Philip
Vanderdecken, and Philip, in a state of insensibility, was borne away
from the sight of Amine, the blood streaming from his mouth.

Amine's sentence was read--she heard it not, her brain was bewildered.
She was led back to her seat, and then it was that all her courage,
all her constancy and fortitude gave way; and during the remainder
of the ceremony, she filled the Cathedral with her wild hysterical
sobbing; all entreaties or threats being wholly lost upon her.

All was now over, except the last and most tragical scene of the
drama. The culprits who had been spared were led back to the
Inquisition by their godfathers, and those who had been sentenced were
taken down to the banks of the river to suffer. It was on a large open
space, on the left of the Custom-house, that this ceremony was to be
gone through. As in the Cathedral, raised thrones were prepared for
the Grand Inquisitor and the Viceroy, who, in state, headed the
procession, followed by an immense concourse of people. Thirteen
stakes had been set up, eight for the living, five for the dead. The
executioners were sitting on, or standing by, the piles of wood and
faggots, waiting for their victims. Amine could not walk; she was at
first supported by the familiars, and then carried by them, to the
stake which had been assigned for her. When they put her on her feet
opposite to it, her courage appeared to revive, she walked boldly up,
folded her arms, and leant against it.

The executioners now commenced their office: the chains were passed
round Amine's body--the wood and faggots piled around her. The same
preparations had been made with all the other culprits, and the
confessors stood by the side of each victim. Amine waved her hand
indignantly to those who approached her, when Father Mathias, almost
breathless, made his appearance from the crowd, through which he had
forced his way.

"Amine Vanderdecken--unhappy woman! had you been counselled by me this
would not have been. Now it is too late, but not too late to save your
soul. Away then with this obstinacy--this hardness of heart; call upon
the blessed Saviour, that He may receive your spirit--call upon His
wounds for mercy. It is the eleventh hour, but not too late. Amine,"
continued the old man, with tears, "I implore, I conjure you. At
least, may this load of trouble be taken from my heart."

"'Unhappy woman!' you say?" replied she, "say rather, 'unhappy
priest:' for Amine's sufferings will soon be over, while you must
still endure the torments of the damned. Unhappy was the day when my
husband rescued you from death. Still more unhappy the compassion
which prompted him to offer you an asylum and a refuge. Unhappy the
knowledge of you from the _first_ day to the _last_. I leave you to
your conscience--if conscience you retain--nor would I change this
cruel death for the pangs which you in your future life will suffer.
Leave me--_I die in the faith of my forefathers_, and scorn a creed
that warrants such a scene as this."

"Amine Vanderdecken," cried the priest on his knees, clasping his
hands in agony.

"Leave me, Father."

"There is but a minute left--for the love of God--"

"I tell you then, leave me--that minute is my own."

Father Mathias turned away in despair, and the tears coursed down the
old man's cheeks. As Amine said, his misery was extreme.

The head executioner now inquired of the confessors whether the
culprits died in the _true_ faith? If answered in the affirmative, a
rope was passed round their necks and twisted to the stake, so that
they were strangled before the fire was kindled. All the other
culprits had died in this manner; and the head executioner inquired of
Father Mathias, whether Amine had a claim to so much mercy. The old
priest answered not, but shook his head.

The executioner turned away. After a moment's pause, Father Mathias
followed him, and seized him by the arm, saying, in a faltering voice,
"Let her not suffer long."

The Grand Inquisitor gave the signal, and the fires were all lighted
at the same moment. In compliance with the request of the priest, the
executioner had thrown a quantity of wet straw upon Amine's pile,
which threw up a dense smoke before it burnt into flames.

"Mother! mother! I come to thee!" were the last words heard from
Amine's lips.

The flames soon raged furiously, ascending high above the top of the
stake to which she had been chained. Gradually they sunk down; and
only when the burning embers covered the ground, a few fragments of
bones hanging on the chain were all that remained of the once peerless
and high-minded Amine.




Chapter XLI


Years have passed away since we related Amine's sufferings and cruel
death; and now once more we bring Philip Vanderdecken on the scene.
And during this time, where has he been? A lunatic--at one time
frantic, chained, coerced with blows; at others, mild and peaceable.
Reason occasionally appeared to burst out again, as the sun on a
cloudy day, and then it was again obscured. For many years there was
one who watched him carefully, and lived in hope to witness his return
to a sane mind; he watched in sorrow and remorse,--he died without his
desires being gratified. This was Father Mathias!

The cottage at Terneuse had long fallen into ruin; for many years it
waited the return of its owners, and at last the heirs-at-law claimed
and recovered the substance of Philip Vanderdecken. Even the fate of
Amine had passed from the recollection of most people; although her
portrait, over burning coals, with her crime announced beneath it, still
hangs--as is the custom in the church of the Inquisition--attracting,
from its expressive beauty, the attention of the most careless
passers-by.

But many, many years have rolled away--Philip's hair is white--his
once-powerful frame is broken down--and he appears much older than he
really is. He is now sane; but his vigour is gone. Weary of life, all
he wishes for is to execute his mission--and then to welcome death.

The relic has never been taken from him: he has been discharged from
the lunatic asylum, and has been provided with the means of returning
to his country. Alas! he has now no country--no home--nothing in the
world to induce him to remain in it. All he asks is--to do his duty
and to die.

The ship was ready to sail for Europe; and Philip Vanderdecken went on
board--hardly caring whither he went. To return to Terneuse was not
his object; he could not bear the idea of revisiting the scene of so
much happiness and so much misery. Amine's form was engraven on his
heart, and he looked forward with impatience to the time when he
should be summoned to join her in the land of spirits.

He had awakened as from a dream, after so many years of aberration of
intellect. He was no longer the sincere Catholic that he had been;
for he never thought of religion without his Amine's cruel fate being
brought to his recollection. Still he clung on to the relic--he
believed in that--and that only. It was his god--his creed--his
everything--the passport for himself and for his father into the next
world--the means whereby he should join his Amine--and for hours would
he remain holding in his hand that object so valued--gazing upon
it--recalling every important event in his life, from the death of his
poor mother, and his first sight of Amine; to the last dreadful scene.
It was to him a journal of his existence, and on it were fixed all his
hopes for the future.

"When! oh when is it to be accomplished!" was the constant subject
of his reveries. "Blessed, indeed, will be the day when I leave this
world of hate, and seek that other in which 'the weary are at rest.'"

The vessel on board of which Philip was embarked as a passenger was
the _Nostra Señora da Monte_, a brig of three hundred tons, bound for
Lisbon. The captain was an old Portuguese, full of superstition, and
fond of arrack--a fondness rather unusual with the people of his
nation. They sailed from Goa, and Philip was standing abaft, and sadly
contemplating the spire of the Cathedral, in which he had last parted
with his wife, when his elbow was touched, and he turned round.

"Fellow-passenger, again!" said a well-known voice--it was that of the
pilot Schriften.

There was no alteration in the man's appearance; he showed no marks of
declining years; his one eye glared as keenly as ever.

Philip started, not only at the sight of the man, but at the
reminiscences which his unexpected appearance brought to his mind. It
was but for a second, and he was again calm and pensive.

"You here again, Schriften?" observed Philip. "I trust your appearance
forebodes the accomplishment of my task."

"Perhaps it does," replied the pilot; "we both are weary."

Philip made no reply; he did not even ask Schriften in what manner he
had escaped from the fort; he was indifferent about it; for he felt
that the man had a charmed life.

"Many are the vessels that have been wrecked, Philip Vanderdecken, and
many the souls summoned to their account by meeting with your father's
ship, while you have been so long shut up," observed the pilot.

"May our next meeting with him be more fortunate--may it be the last!"
replied Philip.

"No, no! rather may he fulfil his doom, and sail till the day of
judgment," replied the pilot with emphasis.

"Vile caitiff! I have a foreboding that you will not have your
detestable wish. Away!--leave me! or you shall find, that although
this head is blanched by misery, this arm has still some power."

Schriften scowled as he walked away; he appeared to have some fear
of Philip, although it was not equal to his hate. He now resumed his
former attempts of stirring up the ship's company against Philip,
declaring that he was a Jonas, who would occasion the loss of the
ship, and that he was connected with the _Flying Dutchman_.
Philip very soon observed that he was avoided; and he resorted to
counter-statements, equally injurious to Schriften, whom he declared
to be a demon. The appearance of Schriften was so much against him,
while that of Philip, on the contrary, was so prepossessing, that the
people on board hardly knew what to think. They were divided: some
were on the side of Philip--some on that of Schriften; the captain and
many others looking with equal horror upon both, and longing for the
time when they could be sent out of the vessel.

The captain, as we have before observed, was very superstitious, and
very fond of his bottle. In the morning he would be sober and pray; in
the afternoon he would be drunk, and swear at the very saints whose
protection he had invoked but a few hours before.

"May Holy Saint Antonio preserve us, and keep us from temptation,"
said he, on the morning after a conversation with the passengers about
the Phantom Ship. "All the saints protect us from harm," continued he,
taking off his hat reverentially, and crossing himself. "Let me but
rid myself of these two dangerous men without accident, and I will
offer up a hundred wax candles, of three ounces each, to the shrine
of the Virgin, upon my safe anchoring off the tower of Belem." In the
evening he changed his language.

"Now, if that Maldetto Saint Antonio don't help us, may he feel the
coals of hell yet; damn him and his pigs too; if he has the courage to
do his duty, all will be well; but he is a cowardly wretch, he cares
for nobody, and will not help those who call upon him in trouble.
Carambo! that for you," exclaimed the captain, looking at the small
shrine of the saint at the bittacle, and snapping his fingers at the
image--"that for you, you useless wretch, who never help us in our
trouble. The Pope must canonise some better saints for us, for all we
have now are worn out. They could do something formerly, but now I
would not give two ounces of gold for the whole calendar; as for you,
you lazy old scoundrel,"--continued the captain, shaking his fist at
poor Saint Antonio.

The ship had now gained off the southern coast of Africa, and was
about one hundred miles from the Lagullas coast; the morning was
beautiful, a slight ripple only turned over the waves, the breeze was
light and steady, and the vessel was standing on a wind, at the rate
of about four miles an hour.

"Blessed be the holy saints," said the captain, who had just gained
the deck; "another little slant in our favour, and we shall lay our
course.--Again I say, blessed be the holy saints, and particularly
our worthy patron Saint Antonio, who has taken under his peculiar
protection the _Nostra Señora da Monte_. We have a prospect of fine
weather; come, signors, let us down to breakfast, and after breakfast
we will enjoy our cigarros upon the deck."

But the scene was soon changed; a bank of clouds rose up from the
eastward, with a rapidity that, to the seamen's eyes, was unnatural,
and it soon covered the whole firmament; the sun was obscured, and all
was one deep and unnatural gloom; the wind subsided, and the ocean was
hushed. It was not exactly dark, but the heavens were covered with one
red haze, which gave an appearance as if the world was in a state of
conflagration.

In the cabin the increased darkness was first observed by Philip, who
went on deck; he was followed by the captain and passengers, who were
in a state of amazement. It was unnatural and incomprehensible. "Now,
holy Virgin, protect us--what can this be?" exclaimed the captain in a
fright. "Holy Saint Antonio, protect us--but this is awful."

"There! there!" shouted the sailors, pointing to the beam of the
vessel. Every eye looked over the gunnel to witness what had
occasioned such exclamations. Philip, Schriften, and the captain were
side by side. On the beam of the ship, not more than two cables'
length distant, they beheld, slowly rising out of the water, the
tapering mast-head and spars of another vessel. She rose, and rose
gradually; her topmasts and top-sail yards, with the sails set, next
made their appearance; higher and higher she rose up from the element.
Her lower masts and rigging, and, lastly, her hull showed itself above
the surface. Still she rose up till her ports, with her guns, and at
last the whole of her floatage was above water, and there she remained
close to them, with her main-yard squared, and hove-to.

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the captain, breathless; "I have known ships
to _go down_, but never to _come up_ before. Now will I give one
thousand candles, of ten ounces each, to the shrine of the Virgin to
save us in this trouble. One thousand wax candles! Hear me, blessed
lady; ten ounces each. Gentlemen," cried the captain to the
passengers, who stood aghast--"why don't you promise?--promise, I say;
_promise_, at all events."

"The Phantom Ship--_The Flying Dutchman_" shrieked Schriften; "I told
you so, Philip Vanderdecken; there is your father--He! he!"

Philip's eyes had remained fixed on the vessel; he perceived that they
were lowering down a boat from her quarter. "It is possible," thought
he, "I shall now be permitted!" and Philip put his hand into his bosom
and grasped the relic.

The gloom now increased, so that the strange vessel's hull could
but just be discovered through the murky atmosphere. The seamen and
passengers threw themselves down on their knees, and invoked their
saints. The captain ran down for a candle, to light before the image
of St Antonio, which he took out of its shrine, and kissed with much
apparent affection and devotion, and then replaced.

Shortly afterwards the splash of oars was heard alongside, and a voice
calling out, "I say, my good people, give us a rope from forward."

No one answered, or complied with the request. Schriften only went up
to the captain, and told him that if they offered to send letters they
must not be received or the vessel would be doomed, and all would
perish.

A man now made his appearance from over the gunnel, at the gangway.
"You might as well have let me had a side rope, my hearties," said he,
as he stepped on deck; "where is the captain?"

"Here," replied the captain, trembling from head to foot. The man who
accosted him appeared a weather-beaten seaman, dressed in a fur cap
and canvas petticoats; he held some letters in his hand.

"What do you want?" at last screamed the captain.

"Yes--what do you want?" continued Schriften. "He! he!"

"What, you here, pilot?" observed the man; "well--I thought you had
gone to Davy's locker, long enough ago."

"He! he!" replied Schriften, turning away.

"Why the fact is, captain, we have had very foul weather, and we wish
to send letters home; I do believe that we shall never get round this
Cape."

"I can't take them," cried the captain.

"Can't take them! well, it's very odd--but every ship refuses to
take our letters; it's very unkind--seamen should have a feeling for
brother seamen, especially in distress. God knows, we wish to see our
wives and families again; and it would be a matter of comfort to them,
if they only could hear from us."

"I cannot take your letters--the saints preserve us;" replied the
captain.

"We have been a long while out," said the seaman, shaking his head.

"How long?" inquired the captain, not knowing what to say.

"We can't tell; our almanack was blown overboard, and we have lost our
reckoning. We never have our latitude exact now, for we cannot tell
the sun's declination for the right day."

"Let _me_ see your letters," said Philip, advancing, and taking them
out of the seaman's hands.

"They must not be touched," screamed Schriften.

"Out, monster!" replied Philip, "who dares interfere with me?"

"Doomed--doomed--doomed!" shrieked Schriften, running up and down the
deck, and then breaking into a wild fit of laughter.

"Touch not the letters," said the captain, trembling as if in an ague
fit.

Philip made no reply, but held his hand out for the letters.

"Here is one from our second mate, to his wife at Amsterdam, who lives
on Waser Quay."

"Waser Quay has long been gone, my good friend; there is now a large
dock for ships where it once was," replied Philip.

"Impossible!" replied the man; "here is another from the boatswain to
his father, who lives in the old market-place."

"The old market-place has long been pulled down, and there now stands
a church upon the spot."

"Impossible!" replied the seaman; "here is another from myself to my
sweetheart, Vrow Ketser--with money to buy her a new brooch."

Philip shook his head--"I remember seeing an old lady of that name
buried some thirty years ago."

"Impossible! I left her young and blooming. Here's one for the house
of Slutz & Co., to whom the ship belongs."

"There's no such house now," replied Philip; "but I have heard, that
many years ago there was a firm of that name."

"Impossible! you must be laughing at me. Here is a letter from our
captain to his son"

"Give it me," cried Philip, seizing the letter, he was about to break
the seal, when Schriften snatched it out of his hand, and threw it
over the lee gunnel.

"That's a scurvy trick for an old shipmate," observed the seaman.
Schriften made no reply, but catching up the other letters which
Philip had laid down on the capstan, he hurled them after the first.

The strange seaman shed tears, and walked again to the side:--"It is
very hard--very unkind," observed he, as he descended; "the time may
come when you may wish that your family should know your situation;"
so saying, he disappeared: in a few seconds was heard the sound of the
oars, retreating from the ship.

"Holy St Antonio!" exclaimed the captain, "I am lost in wonder and
fright. Steward, bring me up the arrack."

The steward ran down for the bottle; being as much alarmed as his
captain, he helped himself before he brought it up to his commander.
"Now," said the captain, after keeping his mouth for two minutes to
the bottle, and draining it to the bottom, "what is to be done next?"

"I'll tell you," said Schriften, going up to him. "That man there has
a charm hung round his neck; take it from him and throw it overboard,
and your ship will be saved; if not, it will be lost, with every soul
on board."

"Yes, yes, it's all right depend upon it;" cried the sailors.

"Fools," replied Philip, "do you believe that wretch? Did you not hear
the man who came on board recognise him, and call him shipmate? He is
the party whose presence on board will prove so unfortunate."

"Yes, yes," cried the sailors, "it's all right, the man did call him
shipmate."

"I tell you it's all wrong," cried Schriften; "that is the man, let
him give up the charm."

"Yes, yes; let him give up the charm," cried the sailors, and they
rushed upon Philip.

Philip started back to where the captain stood. "Mad-men, know ye what
ye are about? It is the holy cross that I wear round my neck. Throw it
overboard if you dare, and your souls are lost for ever;" and Philip
took the relic from his bosom and showed it to the captain.

"No, no, men;" exclaimed the captain, who was now more settled in his
nerves; "that won't do--the saints protect us."

The seamen, however, became clamorous; one portion were for throwing
Schriften overboard, the other for throwing Philip; at last, the point
was decided by the captain, who directed the small skiff, hanging
astern, to be lowered down, and ordered both Philip and Schriften to
get into it. The seamen approved of this arrangement, as it satisfied
both parties. Philip made no objection; Schriften screamed and fought,
but he was tossed into the boat. There he remained trembling in the
stern sheets, while Philip, who had seized the sculls, pulled away
from the vessel in the direction of the Phantom Ship.




Chapter XLII


In a few minutes the vessel which Philip and Schriften had left was no
longer to be discerned through the thick haze; the Phantom Ship was
still in sight, but at a much greater distance from them than she was
before. Philip pulled hard towards her, but although hove-to, she
appeared to increase her distance from the boat. For a short time he
paused on his oars, to regain his breath, when Schriften rose up and
took his seat in the stern sheets of the boat. "You may pull and pull,
Philip Vanderdecken," observed Schriften; "but you will not gain that
ship--no, no, that cannot be--we may have a long cruise together, but
you will be as far from your object at the end of it, as you are now
at the commencement.--Why don't you throw me overboard again? You
would be all the lighter--He! he!"

"I threw you overboard in a state of frenzy," replied Philip, "when
you attempted to force from me my relic."

"And have I not endeavoured to make others take it from you this very
day?--Have I not--He! he!"

"You have," rejoined Philip; "but I am now convinced, that you are
as unhappy as myself, and that in what you are doing, you are only
following your destiny, as I am mine. Why, and wherefore I cannot
tell, but we are both engaged in the same mystery;--if the success of
my endeavours depends upon guarding the relic, the success of yours
depends upon your obtaining it, and defeating my purpose by so doing.
In this matter we are both agents, and you have been, as far as my
mission is concerned, my most active enemy. But, Schriften, I have
not forgotten, and never will, that you kindlily _did advise_ my poor
Amine; that you prophesied to her what would be her fate, if she did
not listen to your counsel; that you were no enemy of hers, although
you have been, and are still mine. Although my enemy, for her sake _I
forgive you_, and will not attempt to harm you."

"You do then _forgive your enemy_, Philip Vanderdecken?" replied
Schriften, mournfully, "for such, I acknowledge myself to be."

"I do, with _all my heart, with all my soul_," replied Philip.

"Then have you conquered me, Philip Vanderdecken; you have now made me
your friend, and your wishes are about to be accomplished. You would
know who I am. Listen:--when your Father, defying the Almighty's will,
in his rage took my life, he was vouchsafed a chance of his doom being
cancelled, through the merits of his son. I had also my appeal, which
was for _vengeance_; it was granted that I should remain on earth,
and thwart your will. That as long as we were enemies, you should not
succeed; but that when you had conformed to the highest attribute
of Christianity, proved on the holy cross, that of _forgiving your
enemy_, your task should be fulfilled. Philip Vanderdecken, you have
forgiven your enemy, and both our destinies are now accomplished."

As Schriften spoke, Philip's eyes were fixed upon him. He extended his
hand to Philip--it was taken; and as it was pressed, the form of the
pilot wasted as it were into the air, and Philip found himself alone.

"Father of Mercy, I thank Thee," said Philip, "that my task is done,
and that I again may meet my Amine."

Philip then pulled towards the Phantom Ship, and found that she no
longer appeared to leave him; on the contrary, every minute he was
nearer and nearer, and at last he threw in his oars, climbed up her
sides, and gained her deck.

The crew of the vessel crowded round him.

"Your captain," said Philip; "I must speak with your captain."

"Who shall I say, sir?" demanded one, who appeared to be the first
mate.

"Who?" replied Philip; "tell him his son would speak to him, his son
Philip Vanderdecken."

Shouts of laughter from the crew, followed this answer of Philip's;
and the mate, as soon as they ceased, observed with a smile,

"You forget, sir, perhaps you would say his father."

"Tell him his son, if you please," replied Philip, "take no note of
grey hairs."

"Well, sir, here he is coming forward," replied the mate, stepping
aside, and pointing to the captain.

"What is all this?" inquired the captain.

"Are you Philip Vanderdecken, the captain of this vessel?"

"I am, sir," replied the other.

"You appear not to know me! But how can you? you saw me but when I was
only three years old; yet may you remember a letter which you gave to
your wife."

"Ha!" replied the captain; "and who then are you?"

"Time has stopped with you, but with those who live in the world he
stops not! and for those who pass a life of misery, he hurries on
still faster. In me, behold your son, Philip Vanderdecken, who has
obeyed your wishes; and after a life of such peril and misery as few
have passed, has at last fulfilled his vow, and now offers to his
father the precious relic that he required to kiss."

Philip drew out the relic, and held it towards his father. As if a
flash of lightning had passed through his mind, the captain of the
vessel started back, clasped his hands, fell on his knees, and wept.

"My son, my son!" exclaimed he, rising, and throwing himself into
Philip's arms, "my eyes are opened--the Almighty knows how long they
have been obscured." Embracing each other, they walked aft, away from
the men, who were still crowded at the gangway.

"My son, my noble son, before the charm is broken--before we resolve,
as we must, into the elements, oh! let me kneel in thanksgiving
and contrition: my son, my noble son, receive a father's thanks,"
exclaimed Vanderdecken. Then with tears of joy and penitence he humbly
addressed himself to that Being, whom he once so awfully defied.

The elder Vanderdecken knelt down: Philip did the same; still
embracing each other with one arm, while they raised on high the
other, and prayed.

For the last time the relic was taken from the bosom of Philip and
handed to his father--and his father raised his eyes to heaven and
kissed it. And as he kissed it, the long tapering upper spars of the
Phantom vessel, the yards and sails that were set, fell into dust,
fluttered in the air and sank upon the wave. Then mainmast, foremast,
bowsprit, everything above the deck, crumbled into atoms and
disappeared.

Again he raised the relic to his lips, and the work of destruction
continued, the heavy iron guns sank through the decks and disappeared;
the crew of the vessel (who were looking on) crumbled down into
skeletons, and dust, and fragments of ragged garments; and there were
none left on board the vessel in the semblance of life but the father
and the son.

Once more did he put the sacred emblem to his lips, and the beams
and timbers separated, the decks of the vessel slowly sank, and the
remnants of the hull floated upon, the water; and as the father and
son--the one young and vigorous, the other old and decrepit--still
kneeling, still embracing, with their hands raised to heaven, sank
slowly under the deep blue wave, the lurid sky was for a moment
illumined by a lightning cross.

Then did the clouds which obscured the heavens roll away swift as
thought--the sun again burst out in all his splendour--the rippling
waves appeared to dance with joy. The screaming sea-gull again whirled
in the air, and the scared albatross once more slumbered on the wing.
The porpoise tumbled and tossed in his sportive play, the albicore and
dolphin leaped from the sparkling sea.--All nature smiled as if it
rejoiced that the charm was dissolved for ever, and that "THE PHANTOM
SHIP" WAS NO MORE.