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