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 i