“Amine, they are at the door, in consultation. You can see them now without risk. I thank them, for they will convince you that I have told the truth.”
Amine, without reply, went into the front room and looked out of the window. She returned, and laying her hand upon Philip’s arm, she said—“Grant me your pardon for my doubts. I fear nothing now but that my father may return too soon, and they seize him.”
Philip left the room again, to make his reconnoissance. The robbers did not appear to have made up their mind—the strength of the door defied their utmost efforts, so they attempted stratagem. They knocked, and as there was no reply, they continued to knock louder and louder: not meeting with success, they held another consultation, and the muzzle of a carbine was then put to the keyhole, and the piece discharged. The lock of the door was blown off, but the iron bars which crossed the door within, above and below, still held it fast.
Although Philip would have been justified in firing upon the robbers when he first perceived them in consultation at the door, still there is that feeling in a generous mind which prevents the taking away of life, except from stern necessity; and this feeling made him withhold his fire until hostilities had actually commenced. He now levelled one of the carbines at the head of the robber nearest to the door, who was busy examining the effect which the discharge of the piece had made, and what further obstacles intervened. The aim was true, and the man fell dead, while the others started back with surprise at the unexpected retaliation. But in a second or two a pistol was discharged at Philip, who still remained leaning out of the casement, fortunately without effect; and the next moment he felt himself drawn away, so as to be protected from their fire. It was Amine, who, unknown to Philip, had been standing by his side.
“You must not expose yourself, Philip,” said she, in a low tone.
“She called me Philip,” thought he, but made no reply.
“They will be watching for you at the casement now,” said Amine. “Take the other carbine, and go below in the passage. If the lock of the door is blown off, they may put their arms in, perhaps, and remove the bars. I do not think they can, but I’m not sure; at all events, it is there you should now be, as there they will not expect you.”
“You are right,” replied Philip, going down.
“But you must not fire more than once there; if another fall, there will be but two to deal with, and they cannot watch the casement and force admittance too. Go—I will reload the carbine.”
Philip descended softly and without a light. He went up to the door, and perceived that one of the miscreants, with his arm through the hole where the lock was blown off, was working at the upper iron bar, which he could just reach. He presented his carbine, and was about to fire the whole charge into the body of the man under his raised arm, when there was a report of fire-arms from the robbers outside.
“Amine has exposed herself,” thought Philip, “and may be hurt.”
The desire of vengeance prompted him first to fire his piece through the man’s body, and then he flew up the stairs to ascertain the state of Amine. She was not at the casement; he darted into the inner room, and found her deliberately loading the carbine.
“My God! how you frightened me, Amine. I thought by their firing that you had shown yourself at the window.”
“Indeed I did not; but I thought that when you fired through the door they might return your fire, and you be hurt; so I went to the side of the casement and pushed out on a stick some of my father’s clothes, and they who were watching for you fired immediately.”
“Indeed, Amine! who could have expected such courage and such coolness in one so young and beautiful?” exclaimed Philip, with surprise.
“Are none but ill-favoured people brave, then?” replied Amine, smiling.
“I did not mean that, Amine—but I am losing time. I must to the door again. Give me that carbine, and reload this.”
Philip crept down stairs that he might reconnoitre, but before he had gained the door he heard at a distance the voice of Mynheer Poots. Amine, who also heard it, was in a moment at his side with a loaded pistol in each hand.
“Fear not, Amine,” said Philip, as he unbarred the door, “there are but two, and your father shall be saved.”
The door was opened, and Philip, seizing his carbine, rushed out; he found Mynheer Poots on the ground between the two men, one of whom had raised his knife to plunge it into his body, when the ball of the carbine whizzed through his head. The last of the robbers closed with Philip, and a desperate struggle ensued—it was however, soon decided by Amine stepping forward and firing one of the pistols through the robber’s body.
We must here inform our readers that Mynheer Poots, when coming home, had heard the report of fire-arms in the direction of his own house. The recollection of his daughter and of his money—for to do him justice he did love her best—had lent him wings; he forgot that he was a feeble old man and without arms; all he thought of was to gain his habitation. On he came, reckless, frantic, and shouting, and rushed into the arms of the two robbers, who seized and would have despatched him, had not Philip so opportunely come to his assistance.
As soon as the last robber fell, Philip disengaged himself and went to the assistance of Mynheer Poots, whom he raised up in his arms and carried into the house as if he were an infant. The old man was still in a state of delirium from fear and previous excitement.
In a few minutes, Mynheer Poots was more coherent.
“My daughter!” exclaimed he—“my daughter! where is she?”
“She is here father, and safe,” replied Amine.
“Ah! my child is safe,” said he, opening his eyes and staring. “Yes, it is even so—and my money—my money—where is my money?” continued he, starting up.
“Quite safe, father.”
“Quite safe—you say quite safe—are you sure of it?—let me see.”
“There it is, father, as you may perceive, quite safe—thanks to one whom you have not treated so well.”
“Who—what do you mean?—Ah, yes, I see him now—’tis Philip Vanderdecken—he owes me three guilders and a half, and there is a phial—did he save you—and my money, child?”
“He did, indeed at the risk of his life.”
“Well, well, I will forgive him the whole debt—yes, the whole of it; but—the phial is of no use to him—he must return that. Give me some water.”
It was some time before the old man could regain his perfect reason. Philip left him with his daughter, and, taking a brace of loaded pistols, went out to ascertain the fate of the four assailants. The moon, having climbed above the bank of clouds which had obscured her, was now high in the heavens, shining bright, and he could distinguish clearly. The two men lying across the threshold of the door were quite dead. The others, who had seized upon Mynheer Poots, were still alive, but one was expiring and the other bled fast. Philip put a few questions to the latter, but he either would not or could not make any reply; he removed their weapons and returned to the house, where he found the old man attended by his daughter, in a state of comparative composure.
“I thank you, Philip Vanderdecken—I thank you much. You have saved my dear child, and my money—that is little, very little—for I am poor. May you live long and happily!”
Philip mused; the letter and his vow were, for the first time since he fell in with the robbers, recalled to his recollection,