“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?”