ever
enchanted;--but I will not detain your highness by dwelling too long
upon the subject.

* * * * *

"No, don't, yaha bibi, my friend," said the pacha, yawning, "your story
gets very dry already. We'll suppose the cypress waist, the stag's eyes,
and full moon of her face. We Mussulmans don't talk so much about women;
but I suppose as you were a Frenchman, and very young then, you knew no
better. Why you talk of women as if they had souls!" The renegade did
not think it advisable to express his opinion in contradiction to that
of his highness, and the assertions of the prophet. "It cannot be said
that I behaved to them as if they had," replied he; "and before I
changed my religion, I was often smitten with remorse for my selfish and
unfeeling conduct towards Marie; but all that is past, I am now a Turk;"
and the renegade passed his hand over his brow; for some long-smothered
feelings of virtue had been conjured up by remorse, as he was reminded
of the career of guilt which he had run through, and which he had
climaxed by the denial of his Redeemer. After a short pause he
continued--

* * * * *

For a week I remained in the society of the Marquis and his daughter,
daily ingratiating myself more and more with both. I had not declared my
passion to his daughter, for there was something that irresistibly
prevented me; yet I knew that I was not viewed with indifference. Our
party was then increased by the appearance of the Bishop of Toulouse,
the brother of the Marquis, who came to congratulate him and his niece
upon their fortunate escape. I was presented as the gentleman who had so
materially assisted. The bishop stared at me with surprise.

"It is strange," observed he, "that a body has been found in a ditch,
near to where the robbery occurred, and has been recognised to be that
of the very young officer to whom you now introduce me. How can this
be?"

The marquis and his daughter appeared astonished at the intelligence
(and in truth so was I), but it was only for a second. "How say you,
sir," exclaimed I, with trepidation, "a body recognised as the son of
the Comte de Rouille? My poor, poor brother! my dear Victor, have you
then perished? what injustice have I done you!" Throwing myself on the
fauteuil, I covered my face with my handkerchief, as if overpowered with
grief; but, in reality, I was reflecting what I should say next.

"Your brother!" ex