As usual, all was silent, and the door fastened. Philip knocked, but there was no reply. Again and again he knocked, and became impatient. Mynheer Poots must have been summoned, and was not in the house; Philip therefore called out so as to be heard within, “Maiden, if your father is out, as I presume he must be, listen to what I have to say—I am Philip Vanderdecken. But now I overheard four wretches, who have planned to murder your father, and rob him of his gold. In one hour, or less, they will be here, and I have hastened to warn and to protect you, if I may. I swear upon the relic that you delivered to me this morning, that what I state is true.”
Philip waited a short time, but received no answer.
“Maiden,” resumed he, “answer me, if you value that which is more dear to you than even your father’s gold to him. Open the casement above, and listen to what I have to say. In so doing there is no risk; and even if it were not dark, already have I seen you.”
A short time after this second address, the casement of the upper window was unbarred, and the slight form of the fair daughter of Mynheer Poots was to be distinguished by Philip through the gloom.
“What wouldst thou young sir, at this unseemly hour? and what is it thou wouldst impart, but imperfectly heard by me, when thou spokest this minute at the door?”
Philip then entered into a detail of all that he had overheard, and concluded by begging her to admit him, that he might defend her.
“Think, fair maiden, of what I have told you. You have been sold to one of those reprobates, whose name I think they mentioned was Baetens. The gold, I know, you value not; but think of thine own dear self—suffer me to enter the house, and think not for one moment that my story is feigned. I swear to thee, by the soul of my poor dear mother, now, I trust, in heaven, that every word is true.”
“Baetens, did you say, sir?”
“If I mistook them not, such was the name; he said he loved you once.”
“That name I have in memory—I know not what to do, or what to say: my father has been summoned to a birth, and may be yet away for many hours. Yet how can I ope the door to you—at night—he not at home—I alone? I ought not—cannot—yet do I believe you. You surely never could be so base as to invent this tale.”
“No—upon my hopes of future bliss I could not, maiden! you must not trifle with your life and honour, but let me in.”
“And if I did, what could you do against such numbers?”
“They are four to one—would soon overpower you, and one more life would be lost.”
“Not if you have arms; and I think your father would not be left without them. I fear them not—you know that I am resolute.”
“I do indeed—and now you’d risk your life for those you did assail. I thank you, thank you kindly, sir—but dare not ope the door.”
“Then, maiden, if you’ll not admit me, here will I now remain; without arms, and but ill able to contend with four armed villains; but still, here will I remain and prove my truth to one I will protect ’gainst any odds—yes, even here!”
“Then shall I be thy murderer!—but that must not be. Oh! sir—swear, swear by all that’s holy, and by all that’s pure, that—you do not deceive me.”
“I swear by thyself, maiden, than all to me more sacred!”
The casement closed, and in a short time a light appeared above. In a minute or two more the door was opened to Philip by the fair daughter of Mynheer Poots. She stood with the candle in her right hand, the colour in her cheeks varying—now flushing red, and again deadly pale. Her left hand was down by her side, and in it she held a pistol half concealed. Philip perceived this precaution on her part, but took no notice of it; he wished to re-assure her.
“Maiden!” said he, not entering, “if you still have doubts—if you think you have been ill advised in giving me admission—there is yet time to close the door against me; but for your own sake I entreat you not. Before the moon is up, the robbers will be here. With my life I will protect you, if you will but trust me. Who indeed could injure one like you?”
She was indeed (as she stood irresolute and perplexed from the peculiarity of her situation, yet not wanting in courage when it was to be called forth) an object well worthy of gaze and admiration. Her features thrown into broad light and shade by the candle which at times was half extinguished by the wind—her symmetry of form and the gracefulness and singularity of her attire—were matter of astonishment to Philip. Her head was without covering, and her long hair fell in plaits behind her shoulders; her stature was rather under the middle size, but her form perfect; her dress was simple but becoming, and very different from that usually worn by the young women of the district. Not only her features but her dress would at once have indicated to a traveller that she was of Arab blood, as was the fact.
She looked in Philip’s face as he spoke—earnestly, as if she would have penetrated into his inmost thoughts; but there was a frankness and honesty in his bearing, and a sincerity in his manly countenance, which re-assured her. After a moment’s hesitation she replied—
“Come in, sir; I feel that I can trust you.”
Philip entered. The door was then closed and made secure.
“We have no time to lose, maiden,” said Philip: “but tell me your name, that I may address you as I ought.”
“My name is Amine,” replied she, retreating a little.
“I thank you for that little confidence; but I must not dally. What arms have you in the house, and have you ammunition?”
“Both. I wish that my father would come home.”
“And so do I,” replied Philip, “devoutedly wish he would, before these murderers come; but not, I trust, while the attack is making, for there’s a carbine loaded expressly for his head, and if they make him prisoner, they will not spare his life, unless his gold and your person are given in ransom. But the arms, maiden—where are they?”
“Follow me,” replied Amine, leading Philip to an inner room on the upper floor. It was the sanctum of her father, and was surrounded with shelves filled with bottles and boxes of drugs. In one corner was an iron chest, and over the mantelpiece were a brace of carbines and three pistols.
“They are all loaded,” observed Amine, pointing to them, and laying on the table the one which she had held in her hand.
Philip took down the arms and examined all the primings. He then took up from the table the pistol which Amine had laid there, and threw open the pan. It was equally well prepared. Philip closed the pan, and with a smile observed:—
“So this was meant for me, Amine?”
“No—not for you—but for a traitor, had one gained admittance.”
“Now, maiden,” observed Philip, “I shall station myself at the casement which you opened, but without a light in the room. You may remain here, and can turn the key for your security.”
“You little know me,” replied Amine. “In that way at least I am not fearful: I must remain near you and reload the arms—a task in which I am well practised.”
“No, no,” replied Philip, “you might be hurt.”
“I may. But think you I will remain here idly, when I can assist one who risks his life for me? I know my duty, sir, and I shall perform it.”
“You must not risk your life, Amine,” replied Philip; “my aim will not be steady if I know that you’re in danger. But I must take the arms into the other chamber, for the time is come.”
Philip, assisted by Amine, carried the carbines and pistols into the