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.”