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.