“I am not bound by oath, Philip; but hear me; as I hope for future bliss, I now bind myself.”
“Hold, Amine!”
“Nay, Philip, you cannot prevent me; for if you do now, I will repeat it when you are absent. A cruel death were a charity to me, for I shall not see you suffer. Then may I never expect future bliss, may eternal misery be my portion, if I leave you as long as fate permits us to be together. I am yours—your wife; my fortunes, my present, my future, my all, are embarked with you, and destiny may do its worst, for Amine will not quail. I have no recreant heart to turn aside from danger or from suffering. In that one point, Philip, at least, you chose, you wedded well.”
Philip raised her hand to his lips in silence, and the conversation was not resumed. The next evening, Schriften came up again to Amine. “Well, lady?” said he.
“Schriften, it cannot be,” replied Amine; “yet do I thank you much.”
“Lady, if he must follow up his mission, why should you?”
“Schriften, I am his wife—as for ever, in this world, and the next. You cannot blame me.”
“No,” replied Schriften, “I do not blame, I admire you. I feel sorry. But, after all, what is death? Nothing. He! he!” and Schriften hastened away, and left Amine to herself.