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 Fe; 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 Fe,—­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.