with his voice, drew
from his belt a huge, heavy kind of bill-hook, when a dozen of our
mountaineers made their appearance, borne towards the spot by the
irresistible current of the battle. Djalma was rescued in his turn, I was
released, and, in a quarter of an hour, I was able to mount a horse. The
fortune of the day is ours, though with severe loss; but the fires of the
English camp are still visible, and to-morrow the conflict will be
decisive. Thus, my beloved Eva, I owe my life to this youth. Happily, his
wound occasions us no uneasiness; the ball only glanced along the ribs in
a slanting direction."

"The brave boy might have said: 'A blank wound,' like the general,"
observed Dagobert.

"Now, my dear Eva," continued Rose, "you must become acquainted, by means
of this narrative at least, with the intrepid Djalma. He is but just
eighteen. With one word, I will paint for you his noble and valiant
nature; it is a custom of this country to give surnames, and, when only
fifteen, he was called 'The Generous'--by which was, of course, meant
generous in heart and mind. By another custom, no less touching than
whimsical, this name was reverted to his parent, who is called 'The
Father of the Generous,' and who might, with equal propriety, be called
'The Just,' for this old Indian is a rare example of chivalrous honor and
proud independence. He might, like so many other poor princes of this
country, have humbled himself before the execrable despotism of the
English, bargained for the relinquishment of sovereign power, and
submitted to brute force--but it was not in his nature. 'My whole rights,
or a grave in my native mountains!'--such is his motto. And this is no
empty boast; it springs from the conviction of what is right and just.
'But you will be crushed in the struggle,' I have said to him--'My
friend,' he answered, 'what if, to force you to a disgraceful act, you
were told to yield or die?'--From that day I understood him, and have
devoted myself, mind and body, to the ever sacred cause of the weak
against the strong. You see, my Eva, that Djalma shows himself worthy of
such a father. This young Indian is so proud, so heroic in his bravery,
that, like a young Greek of Leonidas' age, he fights with his breast
bare; while other warriors of his country (who, indeed, usually have
arms, breast, and shoulders uncovered) wear, in time of battle, a thick,
impenetrable vest. The rash daring of this youth reminds me of Murat,