“I certainly understand what you would say, Father; but—”
“Answer me not yet. It is the opinion of this holy Father as well as of myself, that, allowing the facts to be as you suppose, the revelations made to you are not from on high, but the suggestions of the devil to lead you into danger and ultimately to death; for if it were your task, as you suppose, why did not the vessel appear on this last voyage, and how can you (allowing that you met her fifty times) have communication with that, or with those which are but phantoms and shadows, things not of this world? Now, what we propose is, that you should spend a proportion of the money left by your father in masses for the repose of his soul, which your mother, in other circumstances, would certainly have done; and that, having so done, you should remain quietly on shore until some new sign should be given to you which may warrant our supposing that you are really chosen for this strange pursuit?”
“But my oath, Father—my recorded vow!”
“From that, my son, the holy Church hath power to absolve you; and that absolution you shall receive. You have put yourself into our hands, and by our decision you must be guided. If there be wrong, it is we, and not you, who are responsible; but, at present, let us say no more. I will now go up, and so soon as your wife awakens, prepare her for your meeting.”
When Father Seysen had quitted the room, Father Mathias debated the matter with Philip. A long discussion ensued, in which similar arguments were made use of by the priest; and Philip, although not convinced, was at least doubtful and perplexed. He left the cottage.
“A new sign—a corroborative sign,” thought Philip; “surely there have been signs and wonders enough. Still it may be true that masses for my father’s soul may relieve him from his state of torture. At all events, if they decide for me I am not to blame. Well, then, let us wait for a new sign of the divine will—if so it must be;” and Philip walked on, occasionally thinking on the arguments of Father Seysen, and oftener thinking of Amine.
It was now evening, and the sun was fast descending. Philip wandered on, until at last he arrived at the very spot where he had knelt down and pronounced his solemn vow. He recognised it: he looked at the distant hills. The sun was just at the same height; the whole scene, the place, and the time were before him. Again Philip knelt down, took the relic from his bosom and kissed it. He watched the sun—he bowed himself to the earth. He waited for a sign, but the sun sank down, and the veil of night spread over the landscape. There was no sign; and Philip rose and walked home towards the cottage, more inclined than before to follow the suggestions of Father Seysen.
On his return, Philip went softly up stairs and entered the room of Amine, whom he found awake and in conversation with the priests. The curtain was closed, and he was not perceived. With a beating heart he remained near the wall at the head of the bed.
“Reason to believe that my husband has arrived!” said Amine, in a faint voice. “Oh tell me, why so?”
“His ship is arrived, we know; and one who had seen her said that all were well.”