“My children,” said he, “I have watched you for some time:— this is not well. Philip, if you intend marriage, as I presume you do, still it is dangerous. I must join your hands.”
Philip started up.
“Surely I am not deceived in thee, my son,” continued the priest in a severe tone.
“No, no, good Father; but I pray you leave me now: to-morrow you may come, and all will be decided. But I must talk with Amine.”
The priest quitted the room, and Amine and Philip were again alone. The colour in Amine’s cheek varied and her heart beat, for she felt how much her happiness was at stake.
“The priest is right, Amine,” said Philip sitting down by her. “This cannot last;—would that I could ever stay with you; how hard a fate is mine! You know I love the very ground you tread upon, yet I dare not ask thee to wed to misery.”
“To wed with thee would not be wedding misery, Philip,” replied Amine, with downcast eyes.
“’Twere not kindness on my part, Amine. I should indeed be selfish.”
“I will speak plainly, Philip,” replied Amine. “You say you love me,—I know not how men love,—but this I know, how I can love. I feel that to leave me now were indeed unkind and selfish on your part; for, Philip, I—I should die. You say that you must go away—that fate demands it,—and your fatal secret. Be it so;—but cannot I go with you?”
“Go with me, Amine—unto death?”