“Perhaps you are right, Amine: I may retard, but cannot escape, whatever may be my intended fate.”
“Let him remain, then, and let him do his worst. Treat him with kindness—who knows what we may gain from him?”
“True, true, Amine; he has been my enemy without cause. Who can tell?—perhaps he may become my friend.”
“And if not, you will have done your duty. Send for him now.”
“No, not now—to-morrow; in the mean time, I will order him every comfort.”
“We are talking as if he were one of us, which I feel that he is not,” replied Amine; “but still, mundane or not we cannot but offer mundane kindness, and what this world, or rather what this ship, affords. I long now to talk with him to see if I can produce any effect upon his ice-like frame. Shall I make love to the ghoul?” And Amine burst into a bitter laugh.
Here the conversation dropped, but its substance was not disregarded. The next morning, the surgeon having reported that Schriften was apparently quite recovered, he was summoned into the cabin. His frame was wasted away to a skeleton, but his motions and his language were as sharp and petulant as ever.
“I have sent for you, Schriften, to know if there is anything that I can do to make you more comfortable. Is there anything that you want?”
“Want?” replied Schriften, eyeing first Philip and then Amine. “He! he I think I want filling out a little.”
“That you will, I trust, in good time; my steward has my orders to take care of you.”