“Be not alarmed, Pedro, you shall have sweetmeats directly. Tell me what thou seest, how the man is dressed?”
“He has a short coat—he has white trowsers—he looks about him—he takes something out of his breast and kisses it.”
“’Tis he, ’tis he! and he lives! Heaven, I thank thee. Look again, boy.”
“He gets up—(I don’t like this play; I am frightened; indeed I am).”
“Fear not.”
“Oh, yes, I am—I cannot,” replied Pedro, falling on his knees; “pray let me go.”
Pedro had turned his hand, and spilt the ink, the charm was broken, and Amine could learn no more. She soothed the boy with presents, made him repeat his promise that he would not tell, and postponed further search into fate until the boy should appear to have recovered from his terror, and be willing to resume the ceremonies.
“My Philip lives—mother, dear mother, I thank you.”
Amine did not allow Pedro to leave the room until he appeared to have quite recovered from his fright; for some days she did not say anything to him, except to remind him of his promise not to tell his mother, or any one else, and she loaded him with presents.
One afternoon when his mother was gone out Pedro came in and asked Amine “whether they should not have the play ever again!”