“True Amine, true,” replied Philip, pacing the cabin thoughtfully; “and yet our priests say otherwise.”
“What is the basis of their creed, Philip?”
“Charity and good-will.”
“Does charity condemn to eternal misery those who have never heard this creed—who have lived and died worshipping the Great Being after their best endeavours, and little knowledge?”
“No, surely.”
Amine made no further observations; and Philip, after pacing for a few minutes in deep thought, walked out of the cabin.
The Utrecht arrived at the Cape, watered, and proceeded on her voyage, and, after two months of difficult navigation, cast anchor off Gambroon. During this time Amine had been unceasing in her attempts to gain the good-will of Schriften. She had often conversed with him on deck, and had done him every kindness, and had overcome that fear which his near approach had generally occasioned. Schriften gradually appeared mindful of this kindness, and at last to be pleased with Amine’s company. To Philip he was at times civil and courteous, but not always; but to Amine he was always deferent. His language was mystical,—she could not prevent his chuckling laugh, his occasional “He! he!” from breaking forth. But when they anchored at Gambroon, he was on such terms with her, that he would occasionally come into the cabin; and, although he would not sit down, would talk to Amine for a few minutes, and then depart. While the vessel lay at anchor at Gambroon, Schriften one evening walked up to Amine, who was sitting on the poop. “Lady,” said he, after a pause, “yon ship sails for your own country in a few days.”
“So I am told,” replied Amine.
“Will you take the advice of one who wishes you well? Return in that vessel—go back to your own cottage, and stay there till your husband comes to you once more.”
“Why is this advice given?”