he Prince of the Assassins (the Old Man of the Mountain)
used as the instruments of his vengeance.

CHAPTER LXV. THE NUPTIAL BED.

The mild light of a circular lamp of oriental alabaster, suspended from
the ceiling by three silver chains, spreads a faint lustre through the
bed-chamber of Adrienne de Cardoville.

The large ivory bedstead, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, is not at present
occupied, and almost disappears beneath snowy curtains of lace
and muslin, transparent and vapory as clouds. On the white marble
mantlepiece, from beneath which the fire throws ruddy beams on the
ermine carpet, is the usual basket filled with a bush of red camellias,
in the midst of their shining green leaves. A pleasant aromatic odor,
rising from a warm and perfumed bath in the next room, penetrates every
corner of the bed-chamber. All without is calm and silent. It is hardly
eleven o'clock. The ivory door, opposite to that which leads to the
bath-room, opens slowly. Djalma appears. Two hours have elapsed since he
committed a double murder, and believed that he had killed Adrienne in a
fit of jealous fury.

The servants of Mdlle. de Cardoville, accustomed to Djalma's daily
visits, no longer announced his arrival, and admitted him without
difficulty, having received no orders to the contrary from their
mistress. He had never before entered the bed-chamber, but, knowing that
the apartment the lady occupied was on the first floor of the house,
he had easily found it. As he entered that virgin sanctuary, his
countenance was pretty calm, so well did he control his feelings, only a
slight paleness tarnished the brilliant amber of his complexion. He wore
that day a robe of purple cashmere, striped with silver--a color which
did not show the stains of blood upon it. Djalma closed the door after
him, and tore off his white turban, for it seemed to him as if a band of
hot iron encircled his brow. His dark hair streamed around his handsome
face. He crossed his arms upon his bosom, and looked slowly about him.
When his eyes rested on Adrienne's bed, he started suddenly, and his
cheek grew purple. Then he drew his hand across his brow, hung down his
head, and remained standing for some moments in a dream, motionless as a
statue.

After a mournful silence of a few seconds' duration, Djalma fell upon
his knees, and raised his eyes to heaven. The Asiatic's countenance was
bathed in tears, and no longer expressed any violent passion. On his
fea