“Fear not, Amine,” said Philip, as he unbarred the door, “there are but two, and your father shall be saved.”
The door was opened, and Philip, seizing his carbine, rushed out; he found Mynheer Poots on the ground between the two men, one of whom had raised his knife to plunge it into his body, when the ball of the carbine whizzed through his head. The last of the robbers closed with Philip, and a desperate struggle ensued—it was however, soon decided by Amine stepping forward and firing one of the pistols through the robber’s body.
We must here inform our readers that Mynheer Poots, when coming home, had heard the report of fire-arms in the direction of his own house. The recollection of his daughter and of his money—for to do him justice he did love her best—had lent him wings; he forgot that he was a feeble old man and without arms; all he thought of was to gain his habitation. On he came, reckless, frantic, and shouting, and rushed into the arms of the two robbers, who seized and would have despatched him, had not Philip so opportunely come to his assistance.
As soon as the last robber fell, Philip disengaged himself and went to the assistance of Mynheer Poots, whom he raised up in his arms and carried into the house as if he were an infant. The old man was still in a state of delirium from fear and previous excitement.
In a few minutes, Mynheer Poots was more coherent.
“My daughter!” exclaimed he—“my daughter! where is she?”
“She is here father, and safe,” replied Amine.
“Ah! my child is safe,” said he, opening his eyes and staring. “Yes, it is even so—and my money—my money—where is my money?” continued he, starting up.
“Quite safe, father.”
“Quite safe—you say quite safe—are you sure of it?—let me see.”