“Alas! this room appears to be fatal. How many more scenes of horror are to pass within it?”
“None, I trust,” replied Amine; “this is not, to my mind, the scene of horror. It was when that old man (now called away—and a victim to his own treachery) stood by your bed-side, and with every mark of interest and kindness, offered you the cup—that was the scene of horror,” said Amine, shuddering—“one which long will haunt me.”
“God forgive him! as I do,” replied Philip, lifting up the body, and carrying it up the stairs to the room which had been occupied by Mynheer Poots.
“Let it at least be supposed that he died in his bed, and that his death was natural,” said Amine. “My pride cannot bear that this should be known, or that I should be pointed at as the daughter of a murderer! O Philip!”
Amine sat down, and burst into tears.
Her husband was attempting to console her, when Father Seysen knocked at the door. Philip hastened down to open it.
“Good morning, my son. How is the sufferer?”
“He has ceased to suffer, father.”
“Indeed!” replied the good priest, with sorrow in his countenance; “am I then too late? yet have I not tarried.”
“He went off suddenly, father, in a convulsion,” replied Philip, leading the way up stairs.