ogether so familiarly, the
adventurer experienced agony and new disquietude increased by an intense
curiosity. Alas! what a sight for him. At times, Angela dropped the
Caribbean's arm in order to pursue, with the ardent enjoyment of a
child, the beautiful gold and blue insects, or to pick some lovely
fragrant flower; then she would suddenly return to Youmaeale, always
calm, almost solemn, who seemed to have a feeling of grave and tender
protection for the young woman.

At times the Caribbean gave his hand to the widow to kiss. Angela, happy
and proud at this favor, carried the hand to her lips with an air at
once respectful and passionate; she seemed a Caribbean woman accustomed
to live a submissive and devoted slave to her master. Youmaeale held a
magnificent flower which the widow had given him. He let it fall to the
earth. Angela bent quickly, and picking it up, handed it to him, while
the savage made no gesture to prevent her, or to thank her for this
attention.

"Stupid and gross animal!" cried Croustillac indignantly; "would one not
think he was a sultan? How can that adorable creature bring herself to
kiss the hand of a cannibal, who had no other way of sounding the
praises of the good priest Simon than that he had eaten him! Yesterday a
buccaneer, to-day a cannibal, to-morrow, without doubt, a filibuster.
But she is a veritable Messalina!" continued Croustillac, at once
despairing and feeling within himself a victim to a real passion.

The widow and the Caribbean approached nearer and nearer the window
where Croustillac stood watching them, and he could hear their
conversation. Youmaeale spoke French with the slight guttural accent
natural to his race; his words were few and brief. Croustillac overheard
these words of the conversation:

"Youmaeale," said the little widow, leaning on the arm of the Caribbean
and looking tenderly at him, "Youmaeale, you are my master, I will obey
you; is it not my duty, my sweet duty, to obey you?"

"It is thy duty," said the Caribbean, who used that form, but which
Angela did not. His dignity as the man demanded this.

"Youmaeale, my life is your life, my thoughts are yours," returned
Angela; "if you should tell me to put to my lips the deadly juice of
this poisonous apple, I should do it, to show you that I belong to you,
as your bow, your cabin, your canoe, belong to you."

Saying these words Angela showed the silent Caribbean a yellow fruit
which she held in her hand,