t 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?"

Philip waited no longer; in three bounds he was on the landing-place
above, and pushing by the person who had spoken, he opened the door of
Amine's room.

A floating wick in a tumbler of oil gave but a faint and glimmering
light; the curtains of the bed were drawn, and by the side of it was
kneeling a figure which was well known to Philip--that of Father Seysen.
Philip recoiled; the blood retreated to his heart; he could not speak:
panting for breath, he supported himself against the wall, and at last
vented his agony of feeling by a deep groan, which aroused the priest,
who turned his head, and perceiving who it was, rose from his knees, and
extended his hand in silence.

"She is dead, then!" at last exclaimed Philip.

"No! my son, not dead; there is yet hope. The crisis is at hand; in one
more hour her fate will be decided: then, either will she be restored to
your arms, or follow the many hundreds whom this fatal epidemic has
consigned to the tomb."

Father Seysen then led Philip to the side of the bed, and withdrew the
curtain. Amine lay insensible, but breathing heavily; her eyes were
closed. Philip seized her burning hand, knelt down, pressed it to his
lips, and burst into a paroxysm of tears. As soon as he had become
somewhat composed, Father Seysen persuaded him to rise and sit with him
by the side of the bed.

"This is a melancholy sight to witness at your return, Philip," said he;
"and to you who are so ardent, so impetuous, it must be doubly so; but
God's will be done. Remember, there is yet hope--not strong hope, I
grant; but still, there is hope, for so told me the medical man who has
attended her, and who will return,