Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fourteen.Six weeks had flown away, and Amine, restored to health, wandered over the country, hanging on the arm of her adored Philip, or nestled by his side in their comfortable home. Father Mathias still remained their guest; the masses for the repose of the soul of Vanderdecken had been paid for, and more money had been confided to the care of Father Seysen to relieve the sufferings of the afflicted poor. It may be easily supposed that one of the chief topics of conversation between Philip and Amine, was the decision of the two priests, relative to the conduct of Philip. He had been absolved from his oath, but, at the same time that he submitted to his clerical advisers, he was by no means satisfied. His love for Amine, her wishes for his remaining at home, certainly added weight to the fiat of Father Seysen; but, although he in consequence obeyed it more willingly, his doubts of the propriety of his conduct remained the same. The arguments of Amine, who, now that she was supported by the opinion of the priests, had become opposed to Philip’s departure; even her caresses, with which those arguments were mingled were effective but for the moment. No sooner was Philip left to himself no sooner was the question, for a time, dismissed, than he felt an inward accusation that he was neglecting a sacred duty. Amine perceived how often the cloud was upon his brow; she knew too well the cause, and constantly did she recommence her arguments and caresses, until Philip forgot that there was aught but Amine in the world.One morning, as they were seated upon a green bank, picking the flowers that blossomed round them, and tossing them away in pure listlessness, Amine took the opportunity, that she had often waited for, to enter upon a subject hitherto unmentioned.“Philip,” said she, “do you believe in dreams? think you that we may have supernatural communications by such means?”“Of course we may,” replied Philip; “we have proof abundant of it in the holy writings.”“Why, then, do you not satisfy your scruples by a dream?”“My dearest Amine, dreams come unbidden; we cannot command or prevent them.”“We can command them, Philip: say that you would dream upon the subject nearest to your heart, and youshall.”“I shall?”“Yes! I have that power, Philip, although I have not spoken of it. I had it from my mother, with much more that of late I have never thought of. You know, Philip, I never say that which is not. I tell you, that, if you choose, you shall dream upon it.”“And to what good, Amine? If you have power to make me dream, that power must be from somewhere.”“It is, of course: there are agencies you little think of, which, in my country, are still called into use. I have a charm, Philip, which never fails.”“A charm, Amine! do you, then, deal in sorcery? for such powers cannot be from Heaven.”“I cannot tell. I only know the power is given.”“It must be from the devil, Amine.”“And why so, Philip? May I not use the argument of your own priests, who say, ‘that the power of the devil is only permitted to be used by Divine intelligence, and that it cannot used without that permission?’ Allow it then to be sorcery, or what you please, unless by Heaven permitted, it would fail. But I cannot see why we should suppose that it is from an evil source. We ask for a warning in a dream to guide our conduct in doubtful circumstances. Surely the evil one would rather lead us wrong than right!”“Amine, we may be warned in a dream, as the patriarchs were of old; but to use mystic or unholy charms to procure a vision, is making a compact with the devil.”“Which compact the evil could not fulfil if not permitted by a higher power. Philip, your reasoning is false. We are told that, by certain means, duly observed, we may procure the dreams we wish. Our observance of these means is certainly the least we can attend to, to prove our sincerity. Forgive me, Philip, but are not observances as necessary in your religion—which I have embraced? Are we not told that the omission of the mere ceremony of water to the infant will turn all future chance of happiness to misery eternal.”Philip answered not for some time. “I am afraid, Amine,” said he, at last, in a low tone; “I—”“I fear nothing, Philip, when my intentions are good,” replied Amine. “I follow certain means to obtain an end. What is that end? It is to find out (if possible) what may be the will of Heaven in this perplexing case. If it should be through the agency of the devil, what then? He becomes my servant, and not my master; he is permitted by Heaven to act against himself;” and Amine’s eyes darted fire, as she thus boldly expressed herself.“Did your mother often exercise her art?” inquired Philip, after a pause.“Not to my knowledge; but it was said that she was most expert. She died young (as you know), or I should have known much more. Think you, Philip, that this world is solely peopled by such dross as we are?—things of clay—perishable and corruptible? Lords over beasts—and ourselves but little better. Have you not, from your own sacred writings, repeated acknowledgments and proofs of higher intelligences mixing up with mankind and acting here below? Why should what was then, not be now! and what more harm is there to apply for their aid now, than a few thousand years ago? Why should you suppose that they were permitted on the earth then—and not permitted now? What has become of them? Have they perished? have they been ordered back—to where—to heaven? If to heaven—the world and mankind have been left to the mercy of the devil and his agents. Do you suppose that we, poor mortals, have been thus abandoned? I tell you plainly, I think not. We no longer have the communications with those intelligences that we once had, because, as we become more enlightened, we become more proud, and seek them not: but that they still exist—a host of good against a host of evil, invisibly opposing each other—is my conviction. But, tell me, Philip, do you in your conscience believe that all that has been revealed to you is a mere dream of the imagination?”“I do not believe so, Amine: you know well I wish I could.”“Then is my reasoning proved; for if such communications can be made to you, why cannot others? You cannot tell by what agency; your priests say it is that of the evil one; you think it is from on high. By the same rule who is to decide from whence the dream shall come?”“’Tis true, Amine, but are you certain of your power?”“Certain of this; but if it pleases superior intelligence to communicate with you,thatcommunication may be relied upon. Either you will not dream, but pass away the hours in deep sleep, or what you dream will be connected with the question at issue.”“Then, Amine, I have made my mind up—I will dream: for at present my mind is racked by contending and perplexing doubts. I would know whether I am right or wrong. This night your art shall be employed.”“Not this night, nor yet to-morrow night, Philip. Think you one moment that, in proposing this, I serve you against my own wishes? I feel as if the dream will decide against me, and that you will be commanded to return to your duty; for I tell you honestly, I think not with the priests; but I am your wife, Philip, and it is my duty that you should not be deceived. Having the means, as I suppose, to decide your conduct, I offer them. Promise me that, if I do this, you will grant me a favour which I shall ask as my reward.”“It is promised, Amine, without its being known,” replied Philip, rising from the turf; “and now let us go home.”We observed that Philip, previous to his sailing in the Batavia, had invested a large proportion of his funds in Dutch East India stock: the interest of the money was more than sufficient for the wants of Amine, and, on his return, he found that the funds left in her charge had accumulated. After paying to Father Seysen the sums for the masses, and for the relief of the poor, there was a considerable residue, and Philip had employed this in the purchase of more shares in the India Stock.The subject of their conversation was not renewed. Philip was rather averse to Amine practising those mystical arts, which, if known to the priests, would have obtained for her in all probability the anathema of the Church. He could not but admire the boldness and power of Amine’s reasonings, but still he was averse to reduce them into practice. The third day had passed away, and no more had been said upon the subject. Philip retired to bed, and was soon fast asleep; but Amine slept not. So soon as she was convinced that Philip would not be awakened, she slipped from the bed and dressed herself. She left the room, and in a quarter of an hour returned, bringing in her hand a small brazier of lighted charcoal, and two small pieces of parchment, rolled up and fixed by a knot to the centre of a narrow fillet. They exactly resembled the philacteries that were once worn by the Jewish nation, and were similarly applied. One of them she gently bound upon the forehead of her husband, and the other upon his left arm. She threw perfumes into the brazier, and as the form of her husband was becoming indistinct, from the smoke which filled the room, she muttered a few sentences, waved over him a small sprig of some shrub which she held in her white hand, and then closing the curtains and removing the brazier, she sat down by the side of the bed.“If there be harm,” thought Amine, “at least the deed is not his—’tis mine; they cannot say that he has practised arts that are unlawful and forbidden by his priests. On my head be it!” And there was a contemptuous curl on Amine’s beautiful arched lip, which did not say much for her devotion to her new creed.Morning dawned, and Philip still slumbered. “’Tis enough,” said Amine, who had been watching the rising of the sun, as she beheld his upper limb a pear above the horizon. Again she waved her arm over Philip, holding the sprig in her hand, and cried, “Philip, awake!”Philip started up, opened his eyes, and shut them again to avoid the glare of the broad daylight, rested upon his elbow, and appeared to be collecting his thoughts.“Where am I?” exclaimed he. “In my own bed? Yes!” He passed his hand across his forehead, and felt the scroll.“What is this,” continued he, pulling it off and examining it. “And Amine, where is she? Good Heavens, what a dream! Another?” cried he, perceiving the scroll tied to his arm. “I see it now. Amine, this is your doing.” And Philip threw himself down, and buried his face in the pillow.Amine, in the mean time, had slipped into bed, and had taken her place by Philip’s side. “Sleep, Philip, dear: sleep!” said she, putting her arms round him; “we will talk when we wake again.”“Are you there, Amine?” replied Philip, confused. “I thought I was alone; I have dreamed.” And Philip again was fast asleep before he could complete his sentence. Amine, too, tired with watching, slumbered, and was happy.Father Mathias had to wait a long while for his breakfast that morning; it was not till two hours later than usual that Philip and Amine made their appearance.“Welcome my children,” said he; “you are late.”“We are, Father,” replied Amine; “for Philip slept, and I watched till break of day.”“He hath not been ill, I trust,” replied the priest.“No not ill; but I could not sleep,” replied Amine.“Then didst thou do well to pass the night—as I doubt not thou hast done, my child, in holy watchings.”Philip shuddered; he knew that the watching, had its cause been known, would have been, in the priest’s opinion, anything but holy. Amine quickly replied—“I have, indeed, communed with higher powers, as far as my poor intellect hath been able.”“The blessing of our holy Church upon thee, my child!” said the old man, putting his hand upon her head; “and on thee, too, Philip.”Philip, confused, sat down to the table; Amine was collected as ever. She spoke little, it is true, and appeared to commune with her own thoughts.As soon as the repast was finished, the old priest took up his breviary, and Amine beckoning to Philip, they went out together. They walked in silence until they arrived at the green spot where Amine had first proposed to him that she should use her mystic power. She sat sown, an Philip, fully aware of her purpose, took his seat by her in silence.“Philip,” said Amine, taking his hand, and looking earnestly in his face, “last night you dreamed.”“I did indeed, Amine,” replied Philip, gravely.“Tell me your dream, for it will be for me to expound it.”“I fear it needs but little exposition, Amine. All I would know is, from what intelligence the dream has been received?”“Tell me your dream,” replied Amine, calmly.“I thought,” replied Philip, mournfully, “that I was sailing as captain of a vessel round the Cape; the sea was calm and the breeze light; I was abaft; the sun went down, and the stars were more than usually brilliant; the weather was warm, and I lay down on my cloak, with my face to the heavens, watching the gems twinkling in the sky and the occasionally falling meteors. I thought that I fell asleep, and awoke with a sensation as if sinking down. I looked around me; the masts; the rigging, the hull of the vessel—allhad disappeared, and I was floating by myself upon a large, beautifully-shaped shell on the wide waste of waters. I was alarmed, and afraid to move, lest I should overturn my frail bark and perish. At last I perceived the fore-part of the shell pressed down, as if a weight were hanging to it; and soon afterwards, a small white hand, which grasped it. I remained motionless, and would have called out that my little bark would sink, but I could not. Gradually a figure raised itself from the waters and leaned with both arms over the fore-part of the shell, where I first had seen but the hand. It was a female, in form beautiful to excess; the skin was white as driven snow; her long loose hair covered her, and the ends floated in the water; her arms were rounded and like ivory; she said, in a soft sweet voice—“‘Philip Vanderdecken, what do you fear? Have you not a charmed life?’“‘I know not,’ replied I, ‘whether my life be charmed or not; but this I know, that it is in danger.’“‘In danger!’ replied she; ‘it might have been in danger when you were trusting to the frail works of men, which the waves love to rend to fragments—yourgoodships, as you call them, which but float about upon sufferance; but where can be the danger when in a mermaid’s shell, which the mountain wave respects, and upon which the cresting surge dare not throw its spray? Philip Vanderdecken, you have come to seek your father!’“‘I have,’ replied I; ‘is it not the will of Heaven?’“‘It is your destiny—and destiny rules all above and below. Shall we seek him together? This shell is mine; you know not how to navigate it; shall I assist you?’“‘Will it bear us both?’“‘You will see,’ replied she, laughing, as she sank down from the fore-part of the shell, and immediately afterwards appeared at the side, which was not more than three inches above the water. To my alarm, she raised herself up, and sat upon the edge, but her weight appeared to have no effect. As soon as she was seated in this way—for her feet still remained in the water—the shell moved rapidly along, and each moment increased its speed, with no other propelling power than that of her volition.“‘Do you fear now, Philip Vanderdecken?’“‘No!’ replied I.“She passed her hands across her forehead, threw aside the tresses which had partly concealed her face, and said—‘Then look at me.’“I looked, Amine, and I beheld you!”“Me!” observed Amine, with a smile upon her lips.“Yes, Amine, it was you. I called you by your name, and threw my arms round you. I felt that I could remain with you, and sail about the world for ever.”“Proceed, Philip,” said Amine, calmly.“I thought we ran thousands and thousands of miles—we passed by beautiful islands, set like gems on the ocean-bed; at one time bounding against the rippling current, at others close to the shore—skimming on the murmuring wave which rippled on the sand, whilst the cocoa-tree on the beach waved to the cooling breeze.“‘It is not in smooth seas that your father must be sought,’ said she; ‘we must try elsewhere.’“By degrees the waves rose, until at last they were raging in their fury, and the shell was tossed by the tumultuous waters; but still not a drop entered, and we sailed in security over billows which would have swallowed up the proudest vessel.“‘Do you fear now, Philip?’ said you to me.“‘No’ replied I; ‘with you, Amine, I fear nothing.’“‘We are now off the Cape again,’ said she; ‘and here you may find your father. Let us look well round us, for if we meet a ship it must behis. None but the Phantom Ship could swim in a gale like this.’“Away we flew over the mountainous waves—skimming from crest to crest between them, our little bark sometimes wholly out of the water; now east, now west, north, south, in every quarter of the compass, changing our course each minute. We passed over hundreds of miles: at last we saw a vessel tossed by the furious gale.“‘There,’ cried she, pointing with her finger, ‘there is your father’s vessel, Philip.’“Rapidly did we approach—they saw us from on board, and brought the vessel to the wind. We were alongside—the gangway was clearing away—for though no boat could have boarded, our shell was safe. I looked up. I saw my father, Amine! Yes, saw him, and heard him as he gave his orders. I pulled the relic from my bosom, and held it out to him. He smiled as he stood on the gunnel, holding on by the main shrouds. I was just rising to mount on board, for they had handed to me the man-ropes, when there was a loud yell, and a man jumped from the gangway into the shell. You shrieked, slipped from the side and disappeared under the wave, and in a moment the shell, guided by the man who had taken your place, flew away from the vessel with the rapidity of thought. I felt a deadly chill pervade my frame. I turned round to look at my new companion—it was the pilot Schriften!—the one-eyed wretch who was drowned when we were wrecked in Table Bay!“‘No! no! not yet!’ cried he.“In an agony of despair and rage, I hurled him off his seat on the shell, and he floated on the wild waters.“‘Philip Vanderdecken,’ said he, as he swam, ‘we shall meet again!’“I turned away my head in disgust, when a wave filled my bark, and down it sank. I was struggling under the water sinking still deeper and deeper, but without pain, when I awoke.”“Now, Amine,” said Philip, after a pause, “what think you I of my dream?”“Does it not point out that I am your friend, Philip, and that the pilot Schriften is your enemy?”“I grant it; but he is dead.”“Is that so certain?”“He hardly could have escaped without my knowledge.”“That is true, but the dream would imply otherwise. Philip, it is my opinion that the only way in which this dream is to be expounded is—that you remain on shore for the present. The advice is that of the priests. In either case you require some further intimation. In your dreamIwas your safe guide—be guided now by me again.”“Be it so, Amine. If your strange art be in opposition to our holy faith, you expound the dream in conformity with the advice of its ministers.”“I do. And now, Philip, let us dismiss the subject from our thoughts. Should the time come, your Amine will not persuade you from your duty; but recollect, you have promised to grantonefavour when I ask it.”“I have: say, then, Amine what may be your wish?”“O! nothing at present. I have no wish on earth but what is gratified. Have I not you, dear Philip?” replied Amine, fondly throwing herself on her husband’s shoulder.

Six weeks had flown away, and Amine, restored to health, wandered over the country, hanging on the arm of her adored Philip, or nestled by his side in their comfortable home. Father Mathias still remained their guest; the masses for the repose of the soul of Vanderdecken had been paid for, and more money had been confided to the care of Father Seysen to relieve the sufferings of the afflicted poor. It may be easily supposed that one of the chief topics of conversation between Philip and Amine, was the decision of the two priests, relative to the conduct of Philip. He had been absolved from his oath, but, at the same time that he submitted to his clerical advisers, he was by no means satisfied. His love for Amine, her wishes for his remaining at home, certainly added weight to the fiat of Father Seysen; but, although he in consequence obeyed it more willingly, his doubts of the propriety of his conduct remained the same. The arguments of Amine, who, now that she was supported by the opinion of the priests, had become opposed to Philip’s departure; even her caresses, with which those arguments were mingled were effective but for the moment. No sooner was Philip left to himself no sooner was the question, for a time, dismissed, than he felt an inward accusation that he was neglecting a sacred duty. Amine perceived how often the cloud was upon his brow; she knew too well the cause, and constantly did she recommence her arguments and caresses, until Philip forgot that there was aught but Amine in the world.

One morning, as they were seated upon a green bank, picking the flowers that blossomed round them, and tossing them away in pure listlessness, Amine took the opportunity, that she had often waited for, to enter upon a subject hitherto unmentioned.

“Philip,” said she, “do you believe in dreams? think you that we may have supernatural communications by such means?”

“Of course we may,” replied Philip; “we have proof abundant of it in the holy writings.”

“Why, then, do you not satisfy your scruples by a dream?”

“My dearest Amine, dreams come unbidden; we cannot command or prevent them.”

“We can command them, Philip: say that you would dream upon the subject nearest to your heart, and youshall.”

“I shall?”

“Yes! I have that power, Philip, although I have not spoken of it. I had it from my mother, with much more that of late I have never thought of. You know, Philip, I never say that which is not. I tell you, that, if you choose, you shall dream upon it.”

“And to what good, Amine? If you have power to make me dream, that power must be from somewhere.”

“It is, of course: there are agencies you little think of, which, in my country, are still called into use. I have a charm, Philip, which never fails.”

“A charm, Amine! do you, then, deal in sorcery? for such powers cannot be from Heaven.”

“I cannot tell. I only know the power is given.”

“It must be from the devil, Amine.”

“And why so, Philip? May I not use the argument of your own priests, who say, ‘that the power of the devil is only permitted to be used by Divine intelligence, and that it cannot used without that permission?’ Allow it then to be sorcery, or what you please, unless by Heaven permitted, it would fail. But I cannot see why we should suppose that it is from an evil source. We ask for a warning in a dream to guide our conduct in doubtful circumstances. Surely the evil one would rather lead us wrong than right!”

“Amine, we may be warned in a dream, as the patriarchs were of old; but to use mystic or unholy charms to procure a vision, is making a compact with the devil.”

“Which compact the evil could not fulfil if not permitted by a higher power. Philip, your reasoning is false. We are told that, by certain means, duly observed, we may procure the dreams we wish. Our observance of these means is certainly the least we can attend to, to prove our sincerity. Forgive me, Philip, but are not observances as necessary in your religion—which I have embraced? Are we not told that the omission of the mere ceremony of water to the infant will turn all future chance of happiness to misery eternal.”

Philip answered not for some time. “I am afraid, Amine,” said he, at last, in a low tone; “I—”

“I fear nothing, Philip, when my intentions are good,” replied Amine. “I follow certain means to obtain an end. What is that end? It is to find out (if possible) what may be the will of Heaven in this perplexing case. If it should be through the agency of the devil, what then? He becomes my servant, and not my master; he is permitted by Heaven to act against himself;” and Amine’s eyes darted fire, as she thus boldly expressed herself.

“Did your mother often exercise her art?” inquired Philip, after a pause.

“Not to my knowledge; but it was said that she was most expert. She died young (as you know), or I should have known much more. Think you, Philip, that this world is solely peopled by such dross as we are?—things of clay—perishable and corruptible? Lords over beasts—and ourselves but little better. Have you not, from your own sacred writings, repeated acknowledgments and proofs of higher intelligences mixing up with mankind and acting here below? Why should what was then, not be now! and what more harm is there to apply for their aid now, than a few thousand years ago? Why should you suppose that they were permitted on the earth then—and not permitted now? What has become of them? Have they perished? have they been ordered back—to where—to heaven? If to heaven—the world and mankind have been left to the mercy of the devil and his agents. Do you suppose that we, poor mortals, have been thus abandoned? I tell you plainly, I think not. We no longer have the communications with those intelligences that we once had, because, as we become more enlightened, we become more proud, and seek them not: but that they still exist—a host of good against a host of evil, invisibly opposing each other—is my conviction. But, tell me, Philip, do you in your conscience believe that all that has been revealed to you is a mere dream of the imagination?”

“I do not believe so, Amine: you know well I wish I could.”

“Then is my reasoning proved; for if such communications can be made to you, why cannot others? You cannot tell by what agency; your priests say it is that of the evil one; you think it is from on high. By the same rule who is to decide from whence the dream shall come?”

“’Tis true, Amine, but are you certain of your power?”

“Certain of this; but if it pleases superior intelligence to communicate with you,thatcommunication may be relied upon. Either you will not dream, but pass away the hours in deep sleep, or what you dream will be connected with the question at issue.”

“Then, Amine, I have made my mind up—I will dream: for at present my mind is racked by contending and perplexing doubts. I would know whether I am right or wrong. This night your art shall be employed.”

“Not this night, nor yet to-morrow night, Philip. Think you one moment that, in proposing this, I serve you against my own wishes? I feel as if the dream will decide against me, and that you will be commanded to return to your duty; for I tell you honestly, I think not with the priests; but I am your wife, Philip, and it is my duty that you should not be deceived. Having the means, as I suppose, to decide your conduct, I offer them. Promise me that, if I do this, you will grant me a favour which I shall ask as my reward.”

“It is promised, Amine, without its being known,” replied Philip, rising from the turf; “and now let us go home.”

We observed that Philip, previous to his sailing in the Batavia, had invested a large proportion of his funds in Dutch East India stock: the interest of the money was more than sufficient for the wants of Amine, and, on his return, he found that the funds left in her charge had accumulated. After paying to Father Seysen the sums for the masses, and for the relief of the poor, there was a considerable residue, and Philip had employed this in the purchase of more shares in the India Stock.

The subject of their conversation was not renewed. Philip was rather averse to Amine practising those mystical arts, which, if known to the priests, would have obtained for her in all probability the anathema of the Church. He could not but admire the boldness and power of Amine’s reasonings, but still he was averse to reduce them into practice. The third day had passed away, and no more had been said upon the subject. Philip retired to bed, and was soon fast asleep; but Amine slept not. So soon as she was convinced that Philip would not be awakened, she slipped from the bed and dressed herself. She left the room, and in a quarter of an hour returned, bringing in her hand a small brazier of lighted charcoal, and two small pieces of parchment, rolled up and fixed by a knot to the centre of a narrow fillet. They exactly resembled the philacteries that were once worn by the Jewish nation, and were similarly applied. One of them she gently bound upon the forehead of her husband, and the other upon his left arm. She threw perfumes into the brazier, and as the form of her husband was becoming indistinct, from the smoke which filled the room, she muttered a few sentences, waved over him a small sprig of some shrub which she held in her white hand, and then closing the curtains and removing the brazier, she sat down by the side of the bed.

“If there be harm,” thought Amine, “at least the deed is not his—’tis mine; they cannot say that he has practised arts that are unlawful and forbidden by his priests. On my head be it!” And there was a contemptuous curl on Amine’s beautiful arched lip, which did not say much for her devotion to her new creed.

Morning dawned, and Philip still slumbered. “’Tis enough,” said Amine, who had been watching the rising of the sun, as she beheld his upper limb a pear above the horizon. Again she waved her arm over Philip, holding the sprig in her hand, and cried, “Philip, awake!”

Philip started up, opened his eyes, and shut them again to avoid the glare of the broad daylight, rested upon his elbow, and appeared to be collecting his thoughts.

“Where am I?” exclaimed he. “In my own bed? Yes!” He passed his hand across his forehead, and felt the scroll.

“What is this,” continued he, pulling it off and examining it. “And Amine, where is she? Good Heavens, what a dream! Another?” cried he, perceiving the scroll tied to his arm. “I see it now. Amine, this is your doing.” And Philip threw himself down, and buried his face in the pillow.

Amine, in the mean time, had slipped into bed, and had taken her place by Philip’s side. “Sleep, Philip, dear: sleep!” said she, putting her arms round him; “we will talk when we wake again.”

“Are you there, Amine?” replied Philip, confused. “I thought I was alone; I have dreamed.” And Philip again was fast asleep before he could complete his sentence. Amine, too, tired with watching, slumbered, and was happy.

Father Mathias had to wait a long while for his breakfast that morning; it was not till two hours later than usual that Philip and Amine made their appearance.

“Welcome my children,” said he; “you are late.”

“We are, Father,” replied Amine; “for Philip slept, and I watched till break of day.”

“He hath not been ill, I trust,” replied the priest.

“No not ill; but I could not sleep,” replied Amine.

“Then didst thou do well to pass the night—as I doubt not thou hast done, my child, in holy watchings.”

Philip shuddered; he knew that the watching, had its cause been known, would have been, in the priest’s opinion, anything but holy. Amine quickly replied—

“I have, indeed, communed with higher powers, as far as my poor intellect hath been able.”

“The blessing of our holy Church upon thee, my child!” said the old man, putting his hand upon her head; “and on thee, too, Philip.”

Philip, confused, sat down to the table; Amine was collected as ever. She spoke little, it is true, and appeared to commune with her own thoughts.

As soon as the repast was finished, the old priest took up his breviary, and Amine beckoning to Philip, they went out together. They walked in silence until they arrived at the green spot where Amine had first proposed to him that she should use her mystic power. She sat sown, an Philip, fully aware of her purpose, took his seat by her in silence.

“Philip,” said Amine, taking his hand, and looking earnestly in his face, “last night you dreamed.”

“I did indeed, Amine,” replied Philip, gravely.

“Tell me your dream, for it will be for me to expound it.”

“I fear it needs but little exposition, Amine. All I would know is, from what intelligence the dream has been received?”

“Tell me your dream,” replied Amine, calmly.

“I thought,” replied Philip, mournfully, “that I was sailing as captain of a vessel round the Cape; the sea was calm and the breeze light; I was abaft; the sun went down, and the stars were more than usually brilliant; the weather was warm, and I lay down on my cloak, with my face to the heavens, watching the gems twinkling in the sky and the occasionally falling meteors. I thought that I fell asleep, and awoke with a sensation as if sinking down. I looked around me; the masts; the rigging, the hull of the vessel—allhad disappeared, and I was floating by myself upon a large, beautifully-shaped shell on the wide waste of waters. I was alarmed, and afraid to move, lest I should overturn my frail bark and perish. At last I perceived the fore-part of the shell pressed down, as if a weight were hanging to it; and soon afterwards, a small white hand, which grasped it. I remained motionless, and would have called out that my little bark would sink, but I could not. Gradually a figure raised itself from the waters and leaned with both arms over the fore-part of the shell, where I first had seen but the hand. It was a female, in form beautiful to excess; the skin was white as driven snow; her long loose hair covered her, and the ends floated in the water; her arms were rounded and like ivory; she said, in a soft sweet voice—

“‘Philip Vanderdecken, what do you fear? Have you not a charmed life?’

“‘I know not,’ replied I, ‘whether my life be charmed or not; but this I know, that it is in danger.’

“‘In danger!’ replied she; ‘it might have been in danger when you were trusting to the frail works of men, which the waves love to rend to fragments—yourgoodships, as you call them, which but float about upon sufferance; but where can be the danger when in a mermaid’s shell, which the mountain wave respects, and upon which the cresting surge dare not throw its spray? Philip Vanderdecken, you have come to seek your father!’

“‘I have,’ replied I; ‘is it not the will of Heaven?’

“‘It is your destiny—and destiny rules all above and below. Shall we seek him together? This shell is mine; you know not how to navigate it; shall I assist you?’

“‘Will it bear us both?’

“‘You will see,’ replied she, laughing, as she sank down from the fore-part of the shell, and immediately afterwards appeared at the side, which was not more than three inches above the water. To my alarm, she raised herself up, and sat upon the edge, but her weight appeared to have no effect. As soon as she was seated in this way—for her feet still remained in the water—the shell moved rapidly along, and each moment increased its speed, with no other propelling power than that of her volition.

“‘Do you fear now, Philip Vanderdecken?’

“‘No!’ replied I.

“She passed her hands across her forehead, threw aside the tresses which had partly concealed her face, and said—‘Then look at me.’

“I looked, Amine, and I beheld you!”

“Me!” observed Amine, with a smile upon her lips.

“Yes, Amine, it was you. I called you by your name, and threw my arms round you. I felt that I could remain with you, and sail about the world for ever.”

“Proceed, Philip,” said Amine, calmly.

“I thought we ran thousands and thousands of miles—we passed by beautiful islands, set like gems on the ocean-bed; at one time bounding against the rippling current, at others close to the shore—skimming on the murmuring wave which rippled on the sand, whilst the cocoa-tree on the beach waved to the cooling breeze.

“‘It is not in smooth seas that your father must be sought,’ said she; ‘we must try elsewhere.’

“By degrees the waves rose, until at last they were raging in their fury, and the shell was tossed by the tumultuous waters; but still not a drop entered, and we sailed in security over billows which would have swallowed up the proudest vessel.

“‘Do you fear now, Philip?’ said you to me.

“‘No’ replied I; ‘with you, Amine, I fear nothing.’

“‘We are now off the Cape again,’ said she; ‘and here you may find your father. Let us look well round us, for if we meet a ship it must behis. None but the Phantom Ship could swim in a gale like this.’

“Away we flew over the mountainous waves—skimming from crest to crest between them, our little bark sometimes wholly out of the water; now east, now west, north, south, in every quarter of the compass, changing our course each minute. We passed over hundreds of miles: at last we saw a vessel tossed by the furious gale.

“‘There,’ cried she, pointing with her finger, ‘there is your father’s vessel, Philip.’

“Rapidly did we approach—they saw us from on board, and brought the vessel to the wind. We were alongside—the gangway was clearing away—for though no boat could have boarded, our shell was safe. I looked up. I saw my father, Amine! Yes, saw him, and heard him as he gave his orders. I pulled the relic from my bosom, and held it out to him. He smiled as he stood on the gunnel, holding on by the main shrouds. I was just rising to mount on board, for they had handed to me the man-ropes, when there was a loud yell, and a man jumped from the gangway into the shell. You shrieked, slipped from the side and disappeared under the wave, and in a moment the shell, guided by the man who had taken your place, flew away from the vessel with the rapidity of thought. I felt a deadly chill pervade my frame. I turned round to look at my new companion—it was the pilot Schriften!—the one-eyed wretch who was drowned when we were wrecked in Table Bay!

“‘No! no! not yet!’ cried he.

“In an agony of despair and rage, I hurled him off his seat on the shell, and he floated on the wild waters.

“‘Philip Vanderdecken,’ said he, as he swam, ‘we shall meet again!’

“I turned away my head in disgust, when a wave filled my bark, and down it sank. I was struggling under the water sinking still deeper and deeper, but without pain, when I awoke.”

“Now, Amine,” said Philip, after a pause, “what think you I of my dream?”

“Does it not point out that I am your friend, Philip, and that the pilot Schriften is your enemy?”

“I grant it; but he is dead.”

“Is that so certain?”

“He hardly could have escaped without my knowledge.”

“That is true, but the dream would imply otherwise. Philip, it is my opinion that the only way in which this dream is to be expounded is—that you remain on shore for the present. The advice is that of the priests. In either case you require some further intimation. In your dreamIwas your safe guide—be guided now by me again.”

“Be it so, Amine. If your strange art be in opposition to our holy faith, you expound the dream in conformity with the advice of its ministers.”

“I do. And now, Philip, let us dismiss the subject from our thoughts. Should the time come, your Amine will not persuade you from your duty; but recollect, you have promised to grantonefavour when I ask it.”

“I have: say, then, Amine what may be your wish?”

“O! nothing at present. I have no wish on earth but what is gratified. Have I not you, dear Philip?” replied Amine, fondly throwing herself on her husband’s shoulder.

Chapter Fifteen.It was about three months after this conversation that Amine and Philip were again seated upon the mossy bank which we have mentioned, and which had become their favourite resort. Father Mathias had contracted a great intimacy with Father Seysen, and the two priests were almost as inseparable as were Philip and Amine. Having determined to wait a summons previous to Philip’s again entering upon his strange and fearful task; and, happy in the possession of each other, the subject was seldom revived. Philip, who had, on his return, expressed his wish to the Directors of the Company for immediate employment, and, if possible, to have the command of a vessel, had, since that period, taken no further steps, nor had had any communication with Amsterdam.“I am fond of this bank, Philip,” said Amine; “I appear to have formed an intimacy with it. It was here, if you recollect, that we debated the subject of the lawfulness of inducing dreams; and it was here, dear Philip, that you told me your dream, and that I expounded it.”“You did so, Amine; but if you ask the opinion of Father Seysen, you will find that he would give rather a strong decision against you—he would call it heretical and damnable.”“Let him, if he pleases. I have no objection to tell him.”“I pray not, Amine; let the secret remain with ourselves only.”“Think you Father Mathias would blame me?”“I certainly do.”“Well, I do not; there is a kindness and liberality about the old man that I admire. I should like to argue the question with him.”As Amine spoke, Philip felt something touch his shoulder, and a sudden chill ran through his frame. In a moment his ideas reverted to the probable cause: he turned round his head, and, to his amazement, beheld the (supposed to be drowned) mate of the Ter Schilling, the one-eyed Schriften, who stood behind him with a letter in his hand. The sudden appearance of this malignant wretch induced Philip to exclaim, “Merciful Heaven! is it possible?”Amine, who had turned her head round at the exclamation of Philip, covered up her face, and burst into tears. It was not I fear that caused this unusual emotion on her part, but the conviction that her husband was never to be at rest but in the grave.“Philip Vanderdecken,” said Schriften, “he! he! I’ve a letter for you—it is from the Company.”Philip took the letter, but, previous to opening it, he fixed his eyes upon Schriften. “I thought,” said he, “that you were drowned when the ship was wrecked in False Bay. How did you escape?”“How did I escape?” replied Schriften. “Allow me to ask, how did you escape?”“I was thrown up by the waves,” replied Philip; “but—”“But,” interrupted Schriften, “he! he! the waves oughtnotto have thrown me up.”“And why not, pray? I did not say that.”“No! but I presume you wish it had been so; but, on the contrary, I escaped in the same way that you did—I was thrown up by the waves—he! he! but I can’t wait here. I have done my bidding.”“Stop,” replied Philip; “answer me one question. Do you sail in the same vessel with me this time?”“I’d rather be excused,” replied Schriften; “I am not looking for the Phantom Ship, Mynheer Vanderdecken;” and, with this reply, the little man turned round, and went away at a rapid pace.“Is not this a summons, Amine?” said Philip, after a pause, still holding the letter in his hand, with the seal unbroken.“I will not deny it, dearest Philip. It is most surely so; the hateful messenger appears to have risen from the grave that he might deliver it. Forgive me, Philip; but I was taken by surprise. I will not again annoy you with a woman’s weakness.”“My poor Amine,” replied Philip, mournfully. “Alas! why did I not perform my pilgrimage alone? It was selfish of me to link you with so much wretchedness, and join you with me in bearing the fardel of never-ending anxiety and suspense.”“And who should bear it with you, my dearest Philip, if it is not the wife of your bosom? You little know my heart if you think I shrink from the duty. No, Philip, it is a pleasure, even in its most acute pangs; for I consider that I am, by partaking with, relieving you of a portion of your sorrow, and I am proud that I am the wife of one who has been selected to be so peculiarly tried. But, dearest, no more of this. You must read the letter.”Philip did not answer. He broke the seal, and found that the letter intimated to him that he was appointed as first mate to the Vrow Katerina, a vessel which sailed with the next fleet; and requesting he would join as quickly as possible, as she would soon be ready to receive her cargo. The letter, which was from the secretary, further informed him that, after this voyage, he might be certain of having the command of a vessel as captain, upon conditions which would be explained when he called upon the Board.“I thought, Philip, that you had requested the command of a vessel for this voyage,” observed Amine, mournfully.“I did,” replied Philip; “but not having followed up my application, it appears not to have been attended to. It has been my own fault.”“And now it is too late.”“Yes, dearest, most assuredly so: but it matters not; I would as willingly, perhaps rather, sail this voyage as first mate.”“Philip, I may as well speak now. That I am disappointed, I must confess; I fully expected that you would have had the command of a vessel, and you may remember that I exacted a promise from you on this very bank upon which we now sit, at the time that you told me your dream. That promise I shall still exact, and I now tell you what I had intended to ask. It was, my dear Philip, permission to sail with you. With you, I care for nothing. I can be happy under every privation or danger; but to be left alone for so long, brooding over my painful thoughts, devoured by suspense, impatient, restless, and incapable of applying to any one thing—that, dear Philip, is the height of misery, and that is what I feel when you are absent. Recollect, I have your promise, Philip. As captain, you have the means of receiving your wife on board. I am bitterly disappointed in being left this time; do, therefore, to a certain degree, console me by promising that I shall sail with you next voyage, if Heaven permit your return.”“I promise it, Amine, since you are so earnest. I can refuse you nothing; but I have a foreboding that yours and my happiness will be wrecked for ever. I am not a visionary, but it does appear to me that, strangely mixed up as I am, at once with this world and the next, some little portion of futurity is opened to me. I have given my promise, Amine, but from it I would fain be released.”“And if illdocome, Philip, it is our destiny. Who can avert fate?”“Amine, we are free agents, and to a certain extent are permitted to direct our own destinies.”“Ay, so would Father Seysen fain have made me believe; but what he said in support of his assertion was to me incomprehensible. And yet he said that it was a part of the Catholic faith. It may be so—I am unable to understand many other points. I wish your faith were made more simple. As yet the good man—for good he really is—has only led me into doubt.”“Passing through doubt, you will arrive at conviction, Amine.”“Perhaps so,” replied Amine; “but it appears to me that I am as yet but on the outset of my journey. But come, Philip; let us return. You must to Amsterdam, and I will go with you. After your labours of the day, at least until you sail, your Amine’s smiles must still enliven you. Is it not so?”“Yes, dearest, I would have proposed it. I wonder much how Schriften could come here. I did not see his body it is certain, but his escape is to me miraculous. Why did he not appear when saved? where could he have been? What think you, Amine?”“What I have long thought, Philip. He is a Ghoul with evil eye, permitted for some cause to walk the earth in human form; and is certainly, in some way, connected with your strange destiny. If it requires anything to convince me of the truth of all that has passed, it is his appearance—the wretched Afrit! Oh, that I had my mother’s powers!—but I forget, it displeases you, Philip, that I ever talk of such things, and I am silent.”Philip replied not; and, absorbed in their own meditations, they walked back in silence to the cottage. Although Philip had made up his own mind, he immediately sent the Portuguese priest to summon Father Seysen, that he might communicate with them and take their opinion as to the summons he had received. Having entered into a fresh detail of the supposed death of Schriften, and his reappearance as a messenger, he then left the two priests to consult together, and went upstairs to Amine. It was more than two hours before Philip was called down, and Father Seysen appeared to be in a state of great perplexity.“My son,” said he, “we are much perplexed. We had hoped that our ideas upon this strange communication were correct, and that, allowing all that you have obtained from your mother and have seen yourself to have been no deception, still that it was the work of the evil one, and, if so, our prayers and masses would have destroyed this power. We advised you to wait another summons, and you have received it. The letter itself is of course nothing, but the reappearance of the bearer of the letter is the question to be considered. Tell me, Philip, what is your opinion on this point? It is possible he might have been saved—why not as well as yourself?”“I acknowledge the possibility, Father,” replied Philip; “he may have been cast on shore and have wandered in another direction. It is possible, although anything but probable; but since you ask me my opinion, I must say candidly that I consider he is no earthly messenger—nay, I am sure of it. That he is mysteriously connected with my destiny is certain. But who he is, and what he is, of course I cannot tell.”“Then, my son, we have come to the determination, in this instance not to advise. You must act now upon your own responsibility and your own judgment. In what way soever you may decide, we shall not blame you. Our prayers shall be, that Heaven may still have you in its holy keeping.”“My decision, holy Father is to obey the summons.”“Be it so, my son; something may occur which may assist to work out the mystery,—a mystery which I acknowledge to be beyond my comprehension, and of too painful a nature for me to dwell upon.”Philip said no more, for he perceived that the priest was not at all inclined to converse. Father Mathias took this opportunity of thanking Philip for his hospitality and kindness, and stated his intention of returning to Lisbon by the first opportunity that might offer.In a few days Amine and Philip took leave of the priests and quitted for Amsterdam—Father Seysen taking charge of the cottage until Amine’s return. On his arrival, Philip called upon, the Directors of the Company, who promised him a ship on his return from the voyage he was about to enter upon, making a condition that he should become part owner of the vessel. To this Philip consented, and then went down to visit the Vrow Katerina, the ship to which he had been appointed as first mate. She was still unrigged, and the fleet was not expected to sail for two months. Only part of the crew were on board, and the captain, who lived in Dort, had not yet arrived.So far as Philip could judge, the Vrow Katerina was a very inferior vessel; she was larger than many of the others, but old, and badly constructed; nevertheless, as she had been several voyages to the Indies, and had returned in safety, it was to be presumed that she could not have been taken up by the Company if they had not been satisfied as to her seaworthiness. Having given a few directions to the men who were on board, Philip returned to the hostelrie where he had secured apartments for himself and Amine.The next day, as Philip was superintending the fitting of the rigging, the captain of the Vrow Katerina arrived, and stepping on board of her by the plank which communicated with the quay, the first thing that he did was to run to the mainmast and embrace it with both arms, although there was no small portion of tallow on it to smear the cloth of his coat. “Oh! my dear Vrow, my Katerina!” cried he, as if he were speaking to a female. “How do you do? I’m glad to see you again—you have been quite well, I hope? You do not like being laid up in this way. Never mind, my dear creature! you shall soon be handsome again.”The name of this personage who thus made love to his vessel was Wilhelm Barentz. He was a young man, apparently not thirty years of age, of diminutive stature and delicate proportions. His face was handsome, but womanish. His movements were rapid and restless, and there was that appearance in his eye which would have warranted the supposition that he was a little flighty, even if his conduct had not fully proved the fact.No sooner were the ecstasies of the captain over, than Philip introduced himself to him, and informed him of his appointment. “Oh! you are the first mate of the Vrow Katerina Sir, you are a very fortunate man. Next to being captain of her, first mate is the most enviable situation in the world.”“Certainly not on account of her beauty,” observed Philip; “she may have many other good qualities.”“Not on account of her beauty! Why, sir, I say (as my father has said before me, and it was his Vrow before it was mine) that she is the handsomest vessel in the world. At present you cannot judge; and besides being the handsomest vessel, she has every good quality under the sun.”“I am glad to hear it, sir,” replied Philip; “it proves that one should never judge by appearances. But is she not very old?”“Old! not more than twenty-eight years—just in her prime. Stop, my dear sir, till you see her dancing on the waters, and then you will do nothing all day but discourse with me upon her excellence, and I have no doubt that we shall have a very happy time together.”“Provided the subject be not exhausted,” replied Philip.“That it never will be on my part: and allow me to observe, Mr Vanderdecken, that any officer who finds fault with the Vrow Katerina quarrels with me. I am her knight, and I have already fought three men in her defence,—I trust I shall not have to fight a fourth.”Philip smiled: he thought that she was not worth fighting for; but he acted upon the suggestion, and, from that time forward, he never ventured to express an opinion against the beautiful Vrow Katerina.The crew were soon complete, the vessel rigged, her sails bent, and she was anchored in the stream, surrounded by the other ships composing the fleet about to be despatched. The cargo was then received on board, and, as soon as her hold was full, there came, to Philip’s great vexation, an order to receive on board 150 soldiers and other passengers, many of whom were accompanied by their wives and families. Philip worked hard, for the captain did nothing but praise the vessel, and at last they had embarked everything, and the fleet was ready to sail.It was now time to part with Amine, who had remained at the hostelrie, and to whom Philip had dedicated every spare moment that he could obtain. The fleet was expected to sail in two days, and it was decided that on the morrow they should part. Amine was cool and collected. She felt convinced that she should see her husband again, and with that feeling she embraced him as they separated on the beach, and he stepped into the boat in which he was to be pulled on board.“Yes,” thought Amine, as she watched the form of her husband, as the distance between them increased—“yes, I know that we shall meet again. It is not this voyage which is to be fatal to you or me; but I have a dark foreboding that the next, in which I shall join you, will separate us for ever—in which way I know not—but it is destined. The priests talk of free will. Is it free-will which takes him away from me? Would he not rather remain on shore with me? Yes. But he is not permitted, for he must fulfil his destiny. Free-will? Why, if it were not destiny it were tyranny. I feel, and have felt, as if these priests are my enemies; but why I know not: they are both good men, and the creed they teach is good. Goodwill and charity love to all, forgiveness of injuries, not judging others. All this is good; and yet my heart whispers to me that—but the boat is alongside, and Philip is climbing up the vessel. Farewell, farewell, my dearest husband. I would I were a man! No, no! ’tis better as it is.”Amine watched till she could no longer perceive Philip, and then walked slowly to the hostelrie. The next day, when she arose, she found that the fleet had sailed at daylight, and the channel, which had been so crowded with vessels, was now untenanted.“He is gone,” muttered Amine; “now, for many months of patient, calm enduring,—I cannot say of living, for I exist but in his presence.”

It was about three months after this conversation that Amine and Philip were again seated upon the mossy bank which we have mentioned, and which had become their favourite resort. Father Mathias had contracted a great intimacy with Father Seysen, and the two priests were almost as inseparable as were Philip and Amine. Having determined to wait a summons previous to Philip’s again entering upon his strange and fearful task; and, happy in the possession of each other, the subject was seldom revived. Philip, who had, on his return, expressed his wish to the Directors of the Company for immediate employment, and, if possible, to have the command of a vessel, had, since that period, taken no further steps, nor had had any communication with Amsterdam.

“I am fond of this bank, Philip,” said Amine; “I appear to have formed an intimacy with it. It was here, if you recollect, that we debated the subject of the lawfulness of inducing dreams; and it was here, dear Philip, that you told me your dream, and that I expounded it.”

“You did so, Amine; but if you ask the opinion of Father Seysen, you will find that he would give rather a strong decision against you—he would call it heretical and damnable.”

“Let him, if he pleases. I have no objection to tell him.”

“I pray not, Amine; let the secret remain with ourselves only.”

“Think you Father Mathias would blame me?”

“I certainly do.”

“Well, I do not; there is a kindness and liberality about the old man that I admire. I should like to argue the question with him.”

As Amine spoke, Philip felt something touch his shoulder, and a sudden chill ran through his frame. In a moment his ideas reverted to the probable cause: he turned round his head, and, to his amazement, beheld the (supposed to be drowned) mate of the Ter Schilling, the one-eyed Schriften, who stood behind him with a letter in his hand. The sudden appearance of this malignant wretch induced Philip to exclaim, “Merciful Heaven! is it possible?”

Amine, who had turned her head round at the exclamation of Philip, covered up her face, and burst into tears. It was not I fear that caused this unusual emotion on her part, but the conviction that her husband was never to be at rest but in the grave.

“Philip Vanderdecken,” said Schriften, “he! he! I’ve a letter for you—it is from the Company.”

Philip took the letter, but, previous to opening it, he fixed his eyes upon Schriften. “I thought,” said he, “that you were drowned when the ship was wrecked in False Bay. How did you escape?”

“How did I escape?” replied Schriften. “Allow me to ask, how did you escape?”

“I was thrown up by the waves,” replied Philip; “but—”

“But,” interrupted Schriften, “he! he! the waves oughtnotto have thrown me up.”

“And why not, pray? I did not say that.”

“No! but I presume you wish it had been so; but, on the contrary, I escaped in the same way that you did—I was thrown up by the waves—he! he! but I can’t wait here. I have done my bidding.”

“Stop,” replied Philip; “answer me one question. Do you sail in the same vessel with me this time?”

“I’d rather be excused,” replied Schriften; “I am not looking for the Phantom Ship, Mynheer Vanderdecken;” and, with this reply, the little man turned round, and went away at a rapid pace.

“Is not this a summons, Amine?” said Philip, after a pause, still holding the letter in his hand, with the seal unbroken.

“I will not deny it, dearest Philip. It is most surely so; the hateful messenger appears to have risen from the grave that he might deliver it. Forgive me, Philip; but I was taken by surprise. I will not again annoy you with a woman’s weakness.”

“My poor Amine,” replied Philip, mournfully. “Alas! why did I not perform my pilgrimage alone? It was selfish of me to link you with so much wretchedness, and join you with me in bearing the fardel of never-ending anxiety and suspense.”

“And who should bear it with you, my dearest Philip, if it is not the wife of your bosom? You little know my heart if you think I shrink from the duty. No, Philip, it is a pleasure, even in its most acute pangs; for I consider that I am, by partaking with, relieving you of a portion of your sorrow, and I am proud that I am the wife of one who has been selected to be so peculiarly tried. But, dearest, no more of this. You must read the letter.”

Philip did not answer. He broke the seal, and found that the letter intimated to him that he was appointed as first mate to the Vrow Katerina, a vessel which sailed with the next fleet; and requesting he would join as quickly as possible, as she would soon be ready to receive her cargo. The letter, which was from the secretary, further informed him that, after this voyage, he might be certain of having the command of a vessel as captain, upon conditions which would be explained when he called upon the Board.

“I thought, Philip, that you had requested the command of a vessel for this voyage,” observed Amine, mournfully.

“I did,” replied Philip; “but not having followed up my application, it appears not to have been attended to. It has been my own fault.”

“And now it is too late.”

“Yes, dearest, most assuredly so: but it matters not; I would as willingly, perhaps rather, sail this voyage as first mate.”

“Philip, I may as well speak now. That I am disappointed, I must confess; I fully expected that you would have had the command of a vessel, and you may remember that I exacted a promise from you on this very bank upon which we now sit, at the time that you told me your dream. That promise I shall still exact, and I now tell you what I had intended to ask. It was, my dear Philip, permission to sail with you. With you, I care for nothing. I can be happy under every privation or danger; but to be left alone for so long, brooding over my painful thoughts, devoured by suspense, impatient, restless, and incapable of applying to any one thing—that, dear Philip, is the height of misery, and that is what I feel when you are absent. Recollect, I have your promise, Philip. As captain, you have the means of receiving your wife on board. I am bitterly disappointed in being left this time; do, therefore, to a certain degree, console me by promising that I shall sail with you next voyage, if Heaven permit your return.”

“I promise it, Amine, since you are so earnest. I can refuse you nothing; but I have a foreboding that yours and my happiness will be wrecked for ever. I am not a visionary, but it does appear to me that, strangely mixed up as I am, at once with this world and the next, some little portion of futurity is opened to me. I have given my promise, Amine, but from it I would fain be released.”

“And if illdocome, Philip, it is our destiny. Who can avert fate?”

“Amine, we are free agents, and to a certain extent are permitted to direct our own destinies.”

“Ay, so would Father Seysen fain have made me believe; but what he said in support of his assertion was to me incomprehensible. And yet he said that it was a part of the Catholic faith. It may be so—I am unable to understand many other points. I wish your faith were made more simple. As yet the good man—for good he really is—has only led me into doubt.”

“Passing through doubt, you will arrive at conviction, Amine.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Amine; “but it appears to me that I am as yet but on the outset of my journey. But come, Philip; let us return. You must to Amsterdam, and I will go with you. After your labours of the day, at least until you sail, your Amine’s smiles must still enliven you. Is it not so?”

“Yes, dearest, I would have proposed it. I wonder much how Schriften could come here. I did not see his body it is certain, but his escape is to me miraculous. Why did he not appear when saved? where could he have been? What think you, Amine?”

“What I have long thought, Philip. He is a Ghoul with evil eye, permitted for some cause to walk the earth in human form; and is certainly, in some way, connected with your strange destiny. If it requires anything to convince me of the truth of all that has passed, it is his appearance—the wretched Afrit! Oh, that I had my mother’s powers!—but I forget, it displeases you, Philip, that I ever talk of such things, and I am silent.”

Philip replied not; and, absorbed in their own meditations, they walked back in silence to the cottage. Although Philip had made up his own mind, he immediately sent the Portuguese priest to summon Father Seysen, that he might communicate with them and take their opinion as to the summons he had received. Having entered into a fresh detail of the supposed death of Schriften, and his reappearance as a messenger, he then left the two priests to consult together, and went upstairs to Amine. It was more than two hours before Philip was called down, and Father Seysen appeared to be in a state of great perplexity.

“My son,” said he, “we are much perplexed. We had hoped that our ideas upon this strange communication were correct, and that, allowing all that you have obtained from your mother and have seen yourself to have been no deception, still that it was the work of the evil one, and, if so, our prayers and masses would have destroyed this power. We advised you to wait another summons, and you have received it. The letter itself is of course nothing, but the reappearance of the bearer of the letter is the question to be considered. Tell me, Philip, what is your opinion on this point? It is possible he might have been saved—why not as well as yourself?”

“I acknowledge the possibility, Father,” replied Philip; “he may have been cast on shore and have wandered in another direction. It is possible, although anything but probable; but since you ask me my opinion, I must say candidly that I consider he is no earthly messenger—nay, I am sure of it. That he is mysteriously connected with my destiny is certain. But who he is, and what he is, of course I cannot tell.”

“Then, my son, we have come to the determination, in this instance not to advise. You must act now upon your own responsibility and your own judgment. In what way soever you may decide, we shall not blame you. Our prayers shall be, that Heaven may still have you in its holy keeping.”

“My decision, holy Father is to obey the summons.”

“Be it so, my son; something may occur which may assist to work out the mystery,—a mystery which I acknowledge to be beyond my comprehension, and of too painful a nature for me to dwell upon.”

Philip said no more, for he perceived that the priest was not at all inclined to converse. Father Mathias took this opportunity of thanking Philip for his hospitality and kindness, and stated his intention of returning to Lisbon by the first opportunity that might offer.

In a few days Amine and Philip took leave of the priests and quitted for Amsterdam—Father Seysen taking charge of the cottage until Amine’s return. On his arrival, Philip called upon, the Directors of the Company, who promised him a ship on his return from the voyage he was about to enter upon, making a condition that he should become part owner of the vessel. To this Philip consented, and then went down to visit the Vrow Katerina, the ship to which he had been appointed as first mate. She was still unrigged, and the fleet was not expected to sail for two months. Only part of the crew were on board, and the captain, who lived in Dort, had not yet arrived.

So far as Philip could judge, the Vrow Katerina was a very inferior vessel; she was larger than many of the others, but old, and badly constructed; nevertheless, as she had been several voyages to the Indies, and had returned in safety, it was to be presumed that she could not have been taken up by the Company if they had not been satisfied as to her seaworthiness. Having given a few directions to the men who were on board, Philip returned to the hostelrie where he had secured apartments for himself and Amine.

The next day, as Philip was superintending the fitting of the rigging, the captain of the Vrow Katerina arrived, and stepping on board of her by the plank which communicated with the quay, the first thing that he did was to run to the mainmast and embrace it with both arms, although there was no small portion of tallow on it to smear the cloth of his coat. “Oh! my dear Vrow, my Katerina!” cried he, as if he were speaking to a female. “How do you do? I’m glad to see you again—you have been quite well, I hope? You do not like being laid up in this way. Never mind, my dear creature! you shall soon be handsome again.”

The name of this personage who thus made love to his vessel was Wilhelm Barentz. He was a young man, apparently not thirty years of age, of diminutive stature and delicate proportions. His face was handsome, but womanish. His movements were rapid and restless, and there was that appearance in his eye which would have warranted the supposition that he was a little flighty, even if his conduct had not fully proved the fact.

No sooner were the ecstasies of the captain over, than Philip introduced himself to him, and informed him of his appointment. “Oh! you are the first mate of the Vrow Katerina Sir, you are a very fortunate man. Next to being captain of her, first mate is the most enviable situation in the world.”

“Certainly not on account of her beauty,” observed Philip; “she may have many other good qualities.”

“Not on account of her beauty! Why, sir, I say (as my father has said before me, and it was his Vrow before it was mine) that she is the handsomest vessel in the world. At present you cannot judge; and besides being the handsomest vessel, she has every good quality under the sun.”

“I am glad to hear it, sir,” replied Philip; “it proves that one should never judge by appearances. But is she not very old?”

“Old! not more than twenty-eight years—just in her prime. Stop, my dear sir, till you see her dancing on the waters, and then you will do nothing all day but discourse with me upon her excellence, and I have no doubt that we shall have a very happy time together.”

“Provided the subject be not exhausted,” replied Philip.

“That it never will be on my part: and allow me to observe, Mr Vanderdecken, that any officer who finds fault with the Vrow Katerina quarrels with me. I am her knight, and I have already fought three men in her defence,—I trust I shall not have to fight a fourth.”

Philip smiled: he thought that she was not worth fighting for; but he acted upon the suggestion, and, from that time forward, he never ventured to express an opinion against the beautiful Vrow Katerina.

The crew were soon complete, the vessel rigged, her sails bent, and she was anchored in the stream, surrounded by the other ships composing the fleet about to be despatched. The cargo was then received on board, and, as soon as her hold was full, there came, to Philip’s great vexation, an order to receive on board 150 soldiers and other passengers, many of whom were accompanied by their wives and families. Philip worked hard, for the captain did nothing but praise the vessel, and at last they had embarked everything, and the fleet was ready to sail.

It was now time to part with Amine, who had remained at the hostelrie, and to whom Philip had dedicated every spare moment that he could obtain. The fleet was expected to sail in two days, and it was decided that on the morrow they should part. Amine was cool and collected. She felt convinced that she should see her husband again, and with that feeling she embraced him as they separated on the beach, and he stepped into the boat in which he was to be pulled on board.

“Yes,” thought Amine, as she watched the form of her husband, as the distance between them increased—“yes, I know that we shall meet again. It is not this voyage which is to be fatal to you or me; but I have a dark foreboding that the next, in which I shall join you, will separate us for ever—in which way I know not—but it is destined. The priests talk of free will. Is it free-will which takes him away from me? Would he not rather remain on shore with me? Yes. But he is not permitted, for he must fulfil his destiny. Free-will? Why, if it were not destiny it were tyranny. I feel, and have felt, as if these priests are my enemies; but why I know not: they are both good men, and the creed they teach is good. Goodwill and charity love to all, forgiveness of injuries, not judging others. All this is good; and yet my heart whispers to me that—but the boat is alongside, and Philip is climbing up the vessel. Farewell, farewell, my dearest husband. I would I were a man! No, no! ’tis better as it is.”

Amine watched till she could no longer perceive Philip, and then walked slowly to the hostelrie. The next day, when she arose, she found that the fleet had sailed at daylight, and the channel, which had been so crowded with vessels, was now untenanted.

“He is gone,” muttered Amine; “now, for many months of patient, calm enduring,—I cannot say of living, for I exist but in his presence.”

Chapter Sixteen.We must leave Amine to her solitude, and follow the fortunes of Philip. The fleet had sailed with a flowing sheet, and bore gallantly down the Zuyder Zee; but they had not been under way an hour before the Vrow Katerina was left a mile or two astern. Mynheer Barentz found fault with the setting and trimming of the sails, and with the man at the helm, who was repeatedly changed; in short, with everything but his dear Vrow Katerina: but all would not do; she still dropped astern, and proved to be the worst-sailing vessel in the fleet.“Mynheer Vanderdecken,” said he, at last, “the Vrow, as my father used to say, is not so veryfast beforethe wind. Vessels that are good on a wind seldom are; but this I will say, that, in every other point of sailing, there is no other vessel in the fleet equal to the Vrow Katerina.”“Besides,” observed Philip, who perceived how anxious how captain was on the subject, “we are heavily laden, and have so many troops on deck.”The fleet cleared the sands and were then close-hauled, when the Vrow Katerina proved to sail even more slowly than before. “When we are soveryclose-hauled,” observed Mynheer Barentz, “the Vrow does not do so well; but a point free, and then you will see how she will show her stern to the whole fleet. She is a fine vessel, Mynheer Vanderdecken, is she not?”“A very fine, roomy vessel,” replied Philip, which was all that in conscience, he could say.The fleet sailed on, sometimes on a wind, sometimes free, but let the point of sailing be what it might, the Vrow Katerina was invariably astern, and the fleet had to heave-to at sunset to enable her to keep company; still, the captain continued to declare that the point of sailing on which they happened to be, was the only point in which the Vrow Katerina was deficient. Unfortunately, the vessel had other points quite as bad as her sailing; she was crank, leaky, and did not answer the helm well, but Mynheer Barentz was not to be convinced. He adored his ship and like all men desperately in love he could see no fault in his mistress. But others were not so blind, and the admiral, finding the voyage so much delayed by the bad sailing of one vessel, determined to leave her to find her way by herself so soon as they had passed the Cape. He was, however, spared the cruelty of deserting her, for a heavy gale came on which dispersed the whole fleet, and on the second day the good ship Vrow Katerina found herself alone, labouring heavily in the trough of the sea, leaking so much as to require hands constantly at the pumps, and drifting before the gale as fast to leeward almost as she usually sailed. For a week the gale continued, and each day did her situation become more alarming. Crowded with troops, encumbered with heavy stores she groaned and laboured, while whole seas washed over her, and the men could hardly stand at the pumps. Philip was active, and exerted himself to the utmost, encouraging the worn-out men, securing where aught had given way, and little interfered with by the captain, who was himself no sailor.“Well,” observed the captain to Philip, as they held on by the belaying-pins, “you’ll acknowledge that she is a fine weatherly vessel in a gale—is she not? Softly, my beauty, softly,” continued he, speaking to the vessel, as she plunged heavily into the waves, and every timber groaned. “Softly, my dear, softly. How those poor devils in the other ships must be knocking about now. Heh! Mynheer Vanderdecken, we have the start of them this time: they must be a terrible long way down to leeward. Don’t you think so?”“I really cannot pretend to say,” replied Philip, smiling.“Why, there’s not one of them in sight. Yes! by Heavens, there is! Look on our lee-beam. I see one now. Well, she must be a capital sailer, at all events: look there, a point abaft the beam. Mercy on me! how stiff she must be to carry such a press of canvass!”Philip had already seen her. It was a large ship on a wind, and on the same tack as they were. In a gale, in which no vessel could carry the topsails, the Vrow Katerina being under close-reefed foresails and staysails, the ship seen to leeward was standing under a press of sail—topgallant-sail, royals, flying jib, and every stitch of canvass which could be set in a light breeze. The waves were running mountains high, bearing each minute the Vrow Katerina down to the gunwale: and the ship seen appeared not to be affected by the tumultuous waters, but sailed steadily and smoothly on an even keel. At once Philip knew it must be the Phantom Ship, in which his father’s doom was being fulfilled.“Very odd, is it not?” observed Mynheer Barentz.Philip felt such an oppression on his chest that he could not reply. As he held on with one hand, he covered up his eyes with the other.But the seamen had now seen the vessel, and the legend was too well known. Many of the troops had climbed on deck when the report was circulated, and all eyes were now fixed upon the supernatural vessel; when a heavy squall burst over the Vrow Katerina, accompanied with peals of thunder and heavy rain, rendering it so thick that nothing could be seen. In a quarter of an hour it cleared away, and, when they looked to leeward the stranger was no longer in sight.“Merciful Heaven! she must have been upset, and has gone down in the squall,” said Mynheer Barentz. “I thought as much, carrying such a press of sail. There never was a ship that could carry more than the Vrow Katerina. It was madness on the part of the captain of that vessel; but I suppose he wished to keep up with us. Heh, Mynheer Vanderdecken?”Philip did not reply to these remarks, which fully proved the madness of his captain. He felt that his ship was doomed, and when he thought of the numbers on board who might be sacrificed, he shuddered. After a pause, he said—“Mynheer Barentz, this gale is likely to continue, and the best ship that ever was built cannot, in my opinion, stand such weather. I should advise that we bear up, and run back to Table Bay to refit. Depend upon it, we shall find the whole fleet there before us.”“Never fear for the good ship, Vrow Katerina,” replied the captain; “see what weather she makes of it.”“Cursed bad,” observed one of the seamen, for the seamen had gathered near to Philip to hear what his advice might be. “If I had known that she was such an old, crazy beast, I never would have trusted myself on board. Mynheer Vanderdecken is right; we must back to Table Bay ere worse befall us. That ship to leeward has given us warning—she is not seen for nothing,—ask Mr Vanderdecken, captain; he knows that well, for heisa sailor.”This appeal to Philip made him start; it was, however, made without any knowledge of Philip’s interest in the Phantom Ship.“I must say,” replied Philip, “that, whenever I have fallen in with that vessel, mischief has ever followed.”“Vessel! why, what was there in that vessel to frighten you? She carried too much sail, and she has gone down.”“She never goes down,” replied one of the seamen.“No! no!” exclaimed many voices; “but we shall, if we do not run back.”“Pooh! nonsense! Mynheer Vanderdecken, what say you?”“I have already stated my opinion,” replied Philip, who was anxious, if possible, to see the ship once more in port, “that the best thing we can do, is to bear up for Table Bay.”“And, captain,” continued the old seaman who had just spoken, “we are all determined that it shall be so, whether you like it or not; so up with the helm, my hearty, and Mynheer Vanderdecken will trim the sails.”“Why! what is this?” cried Captain Barentz. “A mutiny on board of the Vrow Katerina? impossible! The Vrow Katerina! the best ship, the fastest in the whole fleet!”“The dullest old rotten tub,” cried one of the seamen.“What!” cried the captain, “what do I hear? Mynheer Vanderdecken, confine that lying rascal for mutiny.”“Pooh! nonsense! he’s mad,” replied the old seaman. “Never mind him; come, Mynheer Vanderdecken, we will obey you; but the helm must be up immediately.”The captain stormed, but Philip, by acknowledging the superiority of his vessel, at the same time that he blamed the seamen for their panic, pointed out to him the necessity of compliance, and Mynheer Barentz at last consented. The helm was put up, the sails trimmed, and the Vrow Katerina rolled heavily before the gale. Towards the evening the weather moderated, and the sky cleared up; both sea and wind subsided fast; the leaking decreased, and Philip was in hopes that in a day or two they would arrive safely in the Bay.As they steered their course, so did the wind gradually decrease, until at last it fell calm; nothing remained of the tempest but a long heavy swell which set to the westward, and before which the Vrow Katerina was gradually drifting. This was respite to the worn-out seamen, and also to the troops and passengers, who had been cooped below or drenched on the main-deck.The upper deck was crowded; mothers basked in the warm sun with their children in their arms; the rigging was filled with the wet clothes, which were hung up to dry on every part of the shrouds; and the seamen were busily employed in repairing the injuries of the gale. By their reckoning, they were not more than fifty miles from Table Bay, and each moment they expected to see the land to the southward of it. All was again mirth, and every one on board, except Philip, considered that danger was no more to be apprehended.The second mate, whose name was Krantz, was an active, good seaman, and a great favourite with Philip, who knew that he could trust to him, and it was on the afternoon of this day that he and Philip were walking together on the deck.“What think you, Vanderdecken, of that strange vessel we saw?”“I have seen her before, Krantz; and—”“And what?”“Whatever vessel I have been in when I have seen her, that vessel has never returned into port—others tell the same tale.”“Is she, then, the ghost of a vessel?”“I am told so; and there are various stories afloat concerning her: but of this, I assure you—that I am fully persuaded that some accident will happen before we reach port, although everything at this moment appears so calm, and our port is so near at hand.”“You are superstitious,” replied Krantz; “and yet, I must say, that, to me, the appearance was not like a reality. No vessel could carry such sail in the gale; but yet, there are madmen afloat who will sometimes attempt the most absurd things. If it was a vessel, she must have gone down, for when it cleared up she was not to be seen. I am not very credulous, and nothing but the occurrence of the consequences which you anticipate will make me believe that there was anything supernatural in the affair.”“Well! I shall not be sorry if the event proves me wrong,” replied Philip; “but I have my forebodings—we are not in port yet.”“No! but we are but a trifling distance from it, and there is every prospect of a continuance of fine weather.”“There is no saying from what quarter the danger may come,” replied Philip; “we have other things to fear than the violence of the gale.”“True,” replied Krantz; “but, nevertheless, don’t let us croak. Notwithstanding all you say, I prophesy that in two days, at the farthest, we are safely anchored in Table Bay.”The conversation here dropped, and Philip was glad to be left alone. A melancholy had seized him—a depression of spirits, even greater than he had ever felt before. He leant over the gangway and watched the heaving of the sea.“Merciful Heaven!” ejaculated he, “be pleased to spare this vessel; let not the wail of women, the shrieks of the poor children, now embarked, be heard; the numerous body of men, trusting to her planks,—let not them be sacrificed for my father’s crimes.” And Philip mused. “The ways of Heaven are indeed mysterious,” thought he. “Why should others suffer because my father has sinned? And yet, is it not so everywhere? How many thousands fall on the field of battle in a war occasioned by the ambition of a king, or the influence of a woman! How many millions have been destroyed for holding a different creed of faith!Heworks in his own way, leaving us to wonder and to doubt!”The sun had set before Philip had quitted the gangway and gone down below. Commending himself, and those embarked with him, to the care of Providence, he at last fell asleep; but, before the bell was struck eight times, to announce midnight, he was awakened by a rude shove of the shoulder, and perceived Krantz, who had the first watch, standing by him.“By the Heaven above us! Vanderdecken, you have prophesied right. Up—quick!The ship’s on fire!”“On fire!” exclaimed Vanderdecken, jumping out of his berth—“where?”“The main-hold.”“I will up immediately, Krantz. In the mean time, keep the hatches on and rig the pumps.”In less than a minute Philip was on deck, where he found Captain Barentz, who had also been informed of the case by the second mate. In a few words all was explained by Krantz: there was a strong smell of fire proceeding from the main-hold; and, on removing one of the hatches, which he had done without calling for any assistance, from a knowledge of the panic it would create, he found that the hold was full of smoke; he had put it on again immediately, and had only made it known to Philip and the captain.“Thanks for your presence of mind,” replied Philip; “we have now time to reflect quietly on what is to be done. If the troops and the poor women and children knew their danger, their alarm would have much impeded us: but how could she have taken fire in the main-hold?”“I never heard of the Vrow Katerina talking fire before,” observed the captain; “I think it is impossible. It must be some mistake—she is—”“I now recollect that we have in our cargo several cases of vitriol in bottles,” interrupted Philip. “In the gale, they must have been disturbed and broken. I kept them above all, in case of accident: this rolling, gunwale under, for so long a time must have occasioned one of them to fetch way.”“That’s it, depend upon it,” observed Krantz.“I did object to receive them, stating that they ought to go out in some vessel which was not so encumbered with troops, so that they might remain on the main-deck; but they replied, that the invoices were made out and could not be altered. But now to act. My idea is, to keep the hatches on, so as to smother it if possible.”“Yes,” replied Krantz; “and, at the same time, cut a hole in the deck just large enough to admit the hose, and pump as much water as we can down into the hold.”“You are right, Krantz; send for the carpenter, and set him to work. I will turn the hands up, and speak to the men. I smell the fire now very strong; there is no time to lose. If we can only keep the troops and the women quiet we may do something.”The hands were turned up, and soon made their appearance on deck, wondering why they were summoned. The men had not perceived the state of the vessel, for, the hatches having been kept on, the little smoke that issued ascended the hatchway, and did not fill the lower deck.“My lads,” said Philip, “I am sorry to say that we have reason to suspect that there is some danger of fire in the main-hold.”“I smell it!” cried one of the seamen.“So do I,” cried several others, with every show of alarm, and moving away as if to go below.“Silence, and remain where you are, my men. Listen to what I say: if you frighten the troops and passengers we shall do nothing; we must trust to ourselves; there is no time to be lost. Mr Krantz and the carpenter are doing all that can be done at present; and now, my men, do me the favour to sit down on the deck, every one of you, while I tell you what we must do.”This order of Philip’s was obeyed, and the effect was excellent: it gave the men time to compose themselves after the first shock; for, perhaps, of all shocks to the human frame, there is none which creates a greater panic than the first intimation of fire on board of a vessel—a situation, indeed, pitiable, when it is considered that you have to choose between the two elements seeking your destruction. Philip did not speak for a minute or two. He then pointed out to the men the danger of their situation, what were the measures which he and Krantz had decided upon taking; and how necessary it was that all should be cool and collected. He also reminded them that they had but little powder in the magazine, which was far from the site of the fire, and could easily be removed and thrown overboard; and that, if the fire could not be extinguished, they had a quantity of spars on deck to form a raft, which, with the boats, would receive all on board, and that they were but a short distance from land.Philip’s address had the most beneficial effects; the men rose up when he ordered them; one portion went down to the magazine, and handed up the powder, which was passed along and thrown overboard; another went to the pumps; and Krantz, coming up, reported the hole to have been cut in the planking of the deck above the main-hold: the hoses were fixed, and a quantity of water soon poured down, but it was impossible that the danger could be kept secret. The troops were sleeping on the deck and the very employment of the seamen pointed out what had occurred, even if the smoke, which now increased very much, and filled the lower deck, had not betrayed it. In a few minutes the alarm ofFire! was heard throughout the vessel, and men, women, and children, were seen, some hurrying on their clothes, some running frightened about the decks, some shrieking, some praying, and the confusion and terror were hardly to be described.The judicious conduct of Philip was then made evident: had the sailors been awakened by the appalling cry, they would have been equally incapable of acting as were the troops and passengers. All subordination would have ceased: some would have seized the boats, and left the majority to perish: others would have hastened to the spirit-room, and, by their drunkenness added to the confusion and horror of the scene: nothing would have been effected, and almost all would in all probability have perished miserably. But this had been prevented by the presence of mind shown by Philip and the second-mate, for the Captain was a cipher:— not wanting in courage certainly, but without conduct or a knowledge of his profession. The seamen continued steady to their duty, pushing the soldiers out of the way as they performed their allotted tasks: and Philip perceiving this, went down below, leaving Krantz in charge; and by reasoning with the most collected, by degrees he brought the majority of the troops to a state of comparative coolness.The powder had been thrown overboard, and another hole having been cut in the deck on the other side, the other pump was rigged, and double the quantity of water poured into the hold; but it was evident to Philip that the combustion increased. The smoke and steam now burst through the interstices of the hatchways and the holes cut in the deck with a violence that proved the extent of the fire which raged below, and Philip thought it advisable to remove all the women and children to the poop and quarter-deck of the ship, desiring the husbands of the women to stay with them. It was a melancholy sight, and the tears stood in Philip’s eyes as he looked upon the group of females—some weeping and straining their children to their bosoms; some more quiet and more collected than the men: the elder children mute or crying because their mothers cried, and the younger ones, unconscious of danger playing with the first object which attracted their attention, or smiling at their parents. The officers commanding the troops were two ensigns newly entered, and very young men, ignorant of their duty and without any authority—for men in cases of extreme danger will not obey those who are more ignorant than themselves—and, at Philip’s request, they remained with and superintended the women and children.So soon as Philip had given his orders that the women and children should be properly clothed (which many of them were not), he went again forward to superintend the labour of the seamen, who already began to show symptoms of fatigue, from the excess of their exertions; but many of the soldiers now offered to work at the pumps, and their services were willingly accepted. Their efforts were in vain. In about half an hour more, the hatches were blown up with a loud noise, and a column of intense and searching flame darted up perpendicularly from the hold, high as the lower mast-head. Then was heard the loud shriek of the women, who pressed their children in agony to their breasts, as the seamen and soldiers who had been working the pumps, in their precipitate retreat from the scorching flames, rushed aft, and fell among the huddled crowd.“Be steady, my lads—steady, my good fellows,” exclaimed Philip; “there is no danger yet. Recollect we have our boats and raft, and although we cannot subdue the fire, and save the vessel, still we may, if you are cool and collected, not only save ourselves, but every one—even the poor infants who now appeal to you as men to exert yourselves in their behalf. Come, come, my lads, let us do our duty—we have the means of escape in our power if we lose no time. Carpenter, get your axes, and cut away the boom-lashings. Now, my men, let us get our boats out, and make a raft fur these poor women and children; we are not ten miles from the land. Krantz, see to the boats with the starboard watch: larboard watch with me, to launch over the booms. Gunners, take any of the cordage you can, ready for lashing. Come, my lads, there is no want of light—we can work without lanterns.”The men obeyed: as Philip, to encourage them, had almost jocularly remarked (for a joke is often well-timed, when apparently on the threshold of eternity) there was no want of light. The column of fire now ascended above the main-top—licking with its forky tongue the top-mast rigging—and embracing the main-mast in its folds: and the loud roar with which it ascended proved the violence and rapidity of the combustion below and how little time there was to be lost. The lower and main decks were now so filled with smoke that no one could remain there: some few poor fellows sick in their cots had long been smothered, for they had been forgotten. The swell had much subsided, and there was not a breath of wind: the smoke which rose from the hatchways ascended straight up in the air, which, as the vessel had lost all steerage way, was fortunate. The boats were soon in the water, and trusty men placed in them: the spars were launched over, arranged by the men in the boats and lashed together. All the gratings were then collected and firmly fixed upon the spars for the people to sit upon; and Philip’s heart was glad at the prospect which he now had of saving the numbers which were embarked.

We must leave Amine to her solitude, and follow the fortunes of Philip. The fleet had sailed with a flowing sheet, and bore gallantly down the Zuyder Zee; but they had not been under way an hour before the Vrow Katerina was left a mile or two astern. Mynheer Barentz found fault with the setting and trimming of the sails, and with the man at the helm, who was repeatedly changed; in short, with everything but his dear Vrow Katerina: but all would not do; she still dropped astern, and proved to be the worst-sailing vessel in the fleet.

“Mynheer Vanderdecken,” said he, at last, “the Vrow, as my father used to say, is not so veryfast beforethe wind. Vessels that are good on a wind seldom are; but this I will say, that, in every other point of sailing, there is no other vessel in the fleet equal to the Vrow Katerina.”

“Besides,” observed Philip, who perceived how anxious how captain was on the subject, “we are heavily laden, and have so many troops on deck.”

The fleet cleared the sands and were then close-hauled, when the Vrow Katerina proved to sail even more slowly than before. “When we are soveryclose-hauled,” observed Mynheer Barentz, “the Vrow does not do so well; but a point free, and then you will see how she will show her stern to the whole fleet. She is a fine vessel, Mynheer Vanderdecken, is she not?”

“A very fine, roomy vessel,” replied Philip, which was all that in conscience, he could say.

The fleet sailed on, sometimes on a wind, sometimes free, but let the point of sailing be what it might, the Vrow Katerina was invariably astern, and the fleet had to heave-to at sunset to enable her to keep company; still, the captain continued to declare that the point of sailing on which they happened to be, was the only point in which the Vrow Katerina was deficient. Unfortunately, the vessel had other points quite as bad as her sailing; she was crank, leaky, and did not answer the helm well, but Mynheer Barentz was not to be convinced. He adored his ship and like all men desperately in love he could see no fault in his mistress. But others were not so blind, and the admiral, finding the voyage so much delayed by the bad sailing of one vessel, determined to leave her to find her way by herself so soon as they had passed the Cape. He was, however, spared the cruelty of deserting her, for a heavy gale came on which dispersed the whole fleet, and on the second day the good ship Vrow Katerina found herself alone, labouring heavily in the trough of the sea, leaking so much as to require hands constantly at the pumps, and drifting before the gale as fast to leeward almost as she usually sailed. For a week the gale continued, and each day did her situation become more alarming. Crowded with troops, encumbered with heavy stores she groaned and laboured, while whole seas washed over her, and the men could hardly stand at the pumps. Philip was active, and exerted himself to the utmost, encouraging the worn-out men, securing where aught had given way, and little interfered with by the captain, who was himself no sailor.

“Well,” observed the captain to Philip, as they held on by the belaying-pins, “you’ll acknowledge that she is a fine weatherly vessel in a gale—is she not? Softly, my beauty, softly,” continued he, speaking to the vessel, as she plunged heavily into the waves, and every timber groaned. “Softly, my dear, softly. How those poor devils in the other ships must be knocking about now. Heh! Mynheer Vanderdecken, we have the start of them this time: they must be a terrible long way down to leeward. Don’t you think so?”

“I really cannot pretend to say,” replied Philip, smiling.

“Why, there’s not one of them in sight. Yes! by Heavens, there is! Look on our lee-beam. I see one now. Well, she must be a capital sailer, at all events: look there, a point abaft the beam. Mercy on me! how stiff she must be to carry such a press of canvass!”

Philip had already seen her. It was a large ship on a wind, and on the same tack as they were. In a gale, in which no vessel could carry the topsails, the Vrow Katerina being under close-reefed foresails and staysails, the ship seen to leeward was standing under a press of sail—topgallant-sail, royals, flying jib, and every stitch of canvass which could be set in a light breeze. The waves were running mountains high, bearing each minute the Vrow Katerina down to the gunwale: and the ship seen appeared not to be affected by the tumultuous waters, but sailed steadily and smoothly on an even keel. At once Philip knew it must be the Phantom Ship, in which his father’s doom was being fulfilled.

“Very odd, is it not?” observed Mynheer Barentz.

Philip felt such an oppression on his chest that he could not reply. As he held on with one hand, he covered up his eyes with the other.

But the seamen had now seen the vessel, and the legend was too well known. Many of the troops had climbed on deck when the report was circulated, and all eyes were now fixed upon the supernatural vessel; when a heavy squall burst over the Vrow Katerina, accompanied with peals of thunder and heavy rain, rendering it so thick that nothing could be seen. In a quarter of an hour it cleared away, and, when they looked to leeward the stranger was no longer in sight.

“Merciful Heaven! she must have been upset, and has gone down in the squall,” said Mynheer Barentz. “I thought as much, carrying such a press of sail. There never was a ship that could carry more than the Vrow Katerina. It was madness on the part of the captain of that vessel; but I suppose he wished to keep up with us. Heh, Mynheer Vanderdecken?”

Philip did not reply to these remarks, which fully proved the madness of his captain. He felt that his ship was doomed, and when he thought of the numbers on board who might be sacrificed, he shuddered. After a pause, he said—

“Mynheer Barentz, this gale is likely to continue, and the best ship that ever was built cannot, in my opinion, stand such weather. I should advise that we bear up, and run back to Table Bay to refit. Depend upon it, we shall find the whole fleet there before us.”

“Never fear for the good ship, Vrow Katerina,” replied the captain; “see what weather she makes of it.”

“Cursed bad,” observed one of the seamen, for the seamen had gathered near to Philip to hear what his advice might be. “If I had known that she was such an old, crazy beast, I never would have trusted myself on board. Mynheer Vanderdecken is right; we must back to Table Bay ere worse befall us. That ship to leeward has given us warning—she is not seen for nothing,—ask Mr Vanderdecken, captain; he knows that well, for heisa sailor.”

This appeal to Philip made him start; it was, however, made without any knowledge of Philip’s interest in the Phantom Ship.

“I must say,” replied Philip, “that, whenever I have fallen in with that vessel, mischief has ever followed.”

“Vessel! why, what was there in that vessel to frighten you? She carried too much sail, and she has gone down.”

“She never goes down,” replied one of the seamen.

“No! no!” exclaimed many voices; “but we shall, if we do not run back.”

“Pooh! nonsense! Mynheer Vanderdecken, what say you?”

“I have already stated my opinion,” replied Philip, who was anxious, if possible, to see the ship once more in port, “that the best thing we can do, is to bear up for Table Bay.”

“And, captain,” continued the old seaman who had just spoken, “we are all determined that it shall be so, whether you like it or not; so up with the helm, my hearty, and Mynheer Vanderdecken will trim the sails.”

“Why! what is this?” cried Captain Barentz. “A mutiny on board of the Vrow Katerina? impossible! The Vrow Katerina! the best ship, the fastest in the whole fleet!”

“The dullest old rotten tub,” cried one of the seamen.

“What!” cried the captain, “what do I hear? Mynheer Vanderdecken, confine that lying rascal for mutiny.”

“Pooh! nonsense! he’s mad,” replied the old seaman. “Never mind him; come, Mynheer Vanderdecken, we will obey you; but the helm must be up immediately.”

The captain stormed, but Philip, by acknowledging the superiority of his vessel, at the same time that he blamed the seamen for their panic, pointed out to him the necessity of compliance, and Mynheer Barentz at last consented. The helm was put up, the sails trimmed, and the Vrow Katerina rolled heavily before the gale. Towards the evening the weather moderated, and the sky cleared up; both sea and wind subsided fast; the leaking decreased, and Philip was in hopes that in a day or two they would arrive safely in the Bay.

As they steered their course, so did the wind gradually decrease, until at last it fell calm; nothing remained of the tempest but a long heavy swell which set to the westward, and before which the Vrow Katerina was gradually drifting. This was respite to the worn-out seamen, and also to the troops and passengers, who had been cooped below or drenched on the main-deck.

The upper deck was crowded; mothers basked in the warm sun with their children in their arms; the rigging was filled with the wet clothes, which were hung up to dry on every part of the shrouds; and the seamen were busily employed in repairing the injuries of the gale. By their reckoning, they were not more than fifty miles from Table Bay, and each moment they expected to see the land to the southward of it. All was again mirth, and every one on board, except Philip, considered that danger was no more to be apprehended.

The second mate, whose name was Krantz, was an active, good seaman, and a great favourite with Philip, who knew that he could trust to him, and it was on the afternoon of this day that he and Philip were walking together on the deck.

“What think you, Vanderdecken, of that strange vessel we saw?”

“I have seen her before, Krantz; and—”

“And what?”

“Whatever vessel I have been in when I have seen her, that vessel has never returned into port—others tell the same tale.”

“Is she, then, the ghost of a vessel?”

“I am told so; and there are various stories afloat concerning her: but of this, I assure you—that I am fully persuaded that some accident will happen before we reach port, although everything at this moment appears so calm, and our port is so near at hand.”

“You are superstitious,” replied Krantz; “and yet, I must say, that, to me, the appearance was not like a reality. No vessel could carry such sail in the gale; but yet, there are madmen afloat who will sometimes attempt the most absurd things. If it was a vessel, she must have gone down, for when it cleared up she was not to be seen. I am not very credulous, and nothing but the occurrence of the consequences which you anticipate will make me believe that there was anything supernatural in the affair.”

“Well! I shall not be sorry if the event proves me wrong,” replied Philip; “but I have my forebodings—we are not in port yet.”

“No! but we are but a trifling distance from it, and there is every prospect of a continuance of fine weather.”

“There is no saying from what quarter the danger may come,” replied Philip; “we have other things to fear than the violence of the gale.”

“True,” replied Krantz; “but, nevertheless, don’t let us croak. Notwithstanding all you say, I prophesy that in two days, at the farthest, we are safely anchored in Table Bay.”

The conversation here dropped, and Philip was glad to be left alone. A melancholy had seized him—a depression of spirits, even greater than he had ever felt before. He leant over the gangway and watched the heaving of the sea.

“Merciful Heaven!” ejaculated he, “be pleased to spare this vessel; let not the wail of women, the shrieks of the poor children, now embarked, be heard; the numerous body of men, trusting to her planks,—let not them be sacrificed for my father’s crimes.” And Philip mused. “The ways of Heaven are indeed mysterious,” thought he. “Why should others suffer because my father has sinned? And yet, is it not so everywhere? How many thousands fall on the field of battle in a war occasioned by the ambition of a king, or the influence of a woman! How many millions have been destroyed for holding a different creed of faith!Heworks in his own way, leaving us to wonder and to doubt!”

The sun had set before Philip had quitted the gangway and gone down below. Commending himself, and those embarked with him, to the care of Providence, he at last fell asleep; but, before the bell was struck eight times, to announce midnight, he was awakened by a rude shove of the shoulder, and perceived Krantz, who had the first watch, standing by him.

“By the Heaven above us! Vanderdecken, you have prophesied right. Up—quick!The ship’s on fire!”

“On fire!” exclaimed Vanderdecken, jumping out of his berth—“where?”

“The main-hold.”

“I will up immediately, Krantz. In the mean time, keep the hatches on and rig the pumps.”

In less than a minute Philip was on deck, where he found Captain Barentz, who had also been informed of the case by the second mate. In a few words all was explained by Krantz: there was a strong smell of fire proceeding from the main-hold; and, on removing one of the hatches, which he had done without calling for any assistance, from a knowledge of the panic it would create, he found that the hold was full of smoke; he had put it on again immediately, and had only made it known to Philip and the captain.

“Thanks for your presence of mind,” replied Philip; “we have now time to reflect quietly on what is to be done. If the troops and the poor women and children knew their danger, their alarm would have much impeded us: but how could she have taken fire in the main-hold?”

“I never heard of the Vrow Katerina talking fire before,” observed the captain; “I think it is impossible. It must be some mistake—she is—”

“I now recollect that we have in our cargo several cases of vitriol in bottles,” interrupted Philip. “In the gale, they must have been disturbed and broken. I kept them above all, in case of accident: this rolling, gunwale under, for so long a time must have occasioned one of them to fetch way.”

“That’s it, depend upon it,” observed Krantz.

“I did object to receive them, stating that they ought to go out in some vessel which was not so encumbered with troops, so that they might remain on the main-deck; but they replied, that the invoices were made out and could not be altered. But now to act. My idea is, to keep the hatches on, so as to smother it if possible.”

“Yes,” replied Krantz; “and, at the same time, cut a hole in the deck just large enough to admit the hose, and pump as much water as we can down into the hold.”

“You are right, Krantz; send for the carpenter, and set him to work. I will turn the hands up, and speak to the men. I smell the fire now very strong; there is no time to lose. If we can only keep the troops and the women quiet we may do something.”

The hands were turned up, and soon made their appearance on deck, wondering why they were summoned. The men had not perceived the state of the vessel, for, the hatches having been kept on, the little smoke that issued ascended the hatchway, and did not fill the lower deck.

“My lads,” said Philip, “I am sorry to say that we have reason to suspect that there is some danger of fire in the main-hold.”

“I smell it!” cried one of the seamen.

“So do I,” cried several others, with every show of alarm, and moving away as if to go below.

“Silence, and remain where you are, my men. Listen to what I say: if you frighten the troops and passengers we shall do nothing; we must trust to ourselves; there is no time to be lost. Mr Krantz and the carpenter are doing all that can be done at present; and now, my men, do me the favour to sit down on the deck, every one of you, while I tell you what we must do.”

This order of Philip’s was obeyed, and the effect was excellent: it gave the men time to compose themselves after the first shock; for, perhaps, of all shocks to the human frame, there is none which creates a greater panic than the first intimation of fire on board of a vessel—a situation, indeed, pitiable, when it is considered that you have to choose between the two elements seeking your destruction. Philip did not speak for a minute or two. He then pointed out to the men the danger of their situation, what were the measures which he and Krantz had decided upon taking; and how necessary it was that all should be cool and collected. He also reminded them that they had but little powder in the magazine, which was far from the site of the fire, and could easily be removed and thrown overboard; and that, if the fire could not be extinguished, they had a quantity of spars on deck to form a raft, which, with the boats, would receive all on board, and that they were but a short distance from land.

Philip’s address had the most beneficial effects; the men rose up when he ordered them; one portion went down to the magazine, and handed up the powder, which was passed along and thrown overboard; another went to the pumps; and Krantz, coming up, reported the hole to have been cut in the planking of the deck above the main-hold: the hoses were fixed, and a quantity of water soon poured down, but it was impossible that the danger could be kept secret. The troops were sleeping on the deck and the very employment of the seamen pointed out what had occurred, even if the smoke, which now increased very much, and filled the lower deck, had not betrayed it. In a few minutes the alarm ofFire! was heard throughout the vessel, and men, women, and children, were seen, some hurrying on their clothes, some running frightened about the decks, some shrieking, some praying, and the confusion and terror were hardly to be described.

The judicious conduct of Philip was then made evident: had the sailors been awakened by the appalling cry, they would have been equally incapable of acting as were the troops and passengers. All subordination would have ceased: some would have seized the boats, and left the majority to perish: others would have hastened to the spirit-room, and, by their drunkenness added to the confusion and horror of the scene: nothing would have been effected, and almost all would in all probability have perished miserably. But this had been prevented by the presence of mind shown by Philip and the second-mate, for the Captain was a cipher:— not wanting in courage certainly, but without conduct or a knowledge of his profession. The seamen continued steady to their duty, pushing the soldiers out of the way as they performed their allotted tasks: and Philip perceiving this, went down below, leaving Krantz in charge; and by reasoning with the most collected, by degrees he brought the majority of the troops to a state of comparative coolness.

The powder had been thrown overboard, and another hole having been cut in the deck on the other side, the other pump was rigged, and double the quantity of water poured into the hold; but it was evident to Philip that the combustion increased. The smoke and steam now burst through the interstices of the hatchways and the holes cut in the deck with a violence that proved the extent of the fire which raged below, and Philip thought it advisable to remove all the women and children to the poop and quarter-deck of the ship, desiring the husbands of the women to stay with them. It was a melancholy sight, and the tears stood in Philip’s eyes as he looked upon the group of females—some weeping and straining their children to their bosoms; some more quiet and more collected than the men: the elder children mute or crying because their mothers cried, and the younger ones, unconscious of danger playing with the first object which attracted their attention, or smiling at their parents. The officers commanding the troops were two ensigns newly entered, and very young men, ignorant of their duty and without any authority—for men in cases of extreme danger will not obey those who are more ignorant than themselves—and, at Philip’s request, they remained with and superintended the women and children.

So soon as Philip had given his orders that the women and children should be properly clothed (which many of them were not), he went again forward to superintend the labour of the seamen, who already began to show symptoms of fatigue, from the excess of their exertions; but many of the soldiers now offered to work at the pumps, and their services were willingly accepted. Their efforts were in vain. In about half an hour more, the hatches were blown up with a loud noise, and a column of intense and searching flame darted up perpendicularly from the hold, high as the lower mast-head. Then was heard the loud shriek of the women, who pressed their children in agony to their breasts, as the seamen and soldiers who had been working the pumps, in their precipitate retreat from the scorching flames, rushed aft, and fell among the huddled crowd.

“Be steady, my lads—steady, my good fellows,” exclaimed Philip; “there is no danger yet. Recollect we have our boats and raft, and although we cannot subdue the fire, and save the vessel, still we may, if you are cool and collected, not only save ourselves, but every one—even the poor infants who now appeal to you as men to exert yourselves in their behalf. Come, come, my lads, let us do our duty—we have the means of escape in our power if we lose no time. Carpenter, get your axes, and cut away the boom-lashings. Now, my men, let us get our boats out, and make a raft fur these poor women and children; we are not ten miles from the land. Krantz, see to the boats with the starboard watch: larboard watch with me, to launch over the booms. Gunners, take any of the cordage you can, ready for lashing. Come, my lads, there is no want of light—we can work without lanterns.”

The men obeyed: as Philip, to encourage them, had almost jocularly remarked (for a joke is often well-timed, when apparently on the threshold of eternity) there was no want of light. The column of fire now ascended above the main-top—licking with its forky tongue the top-mast rigging—and embracing the main-mast in its folds: and the loud roar with which it ascended proved the violence and rapidity of the combustion below and how little time there was to be lost. The lower and main decks were now so filled with smoke that no one could remain there: some few poor fellows sick in their cots had long been smothered, for they had been forgotten. The swell had much subsided, and there was not a breath of wind: the smoke which rose from the hatchways ascended straight up in the air, which, as the vessel had lost all steerage way, was fortunate. The boats were soon in the water, and trusty men placed in them: the spars were launched over, arranged by the men in the boats and lashed together. All the gratings were then collected and firmly fixed upon the spars for the people to sit upon; and Philip’s heart was glad at the prospect which he now had of saving the numbers which were embarked.

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