aimed, "What is the matter, Faringhea!"

After a moment's silence, and as if struggling with a painful feeling of
hesitation, Faringhea threw himself at the feet of Djalma, and murmured
in a weak, despairing, almost supplicating voice: "I am very miserable.
Pity me, my good lord!"

The tone was so touching, the grief under which the half-breed suffered
seemed to give to his features, generally fixed and hard as bronze, such
a heart-rending expression, that Djalma was deeply affected, and, bending
to raise him from the ground, said to him, in a kindly voice: "Speak to
me! Confidence appeases the torments of the heart. Trust me, friend--for
my angel herself said to me, that happy love cannot bear to see tears
about him."

"But unhappy love, miserable love, betrayed love--weeps tears of blood,"
replied Faringhea, with painful dejection.

"Of what love dost thou speak?" asked Djalma, in surprise.

"I speak of my love," answered the half-caste, with a gloomy air.

"Of your love?" said Djalma, more and more astonished; not that the half
caste, still young, and with a countenance of sombre beauty, appeared to
him incapable of inspiring or feeling the tender passion, but that, until
now, he had never imagined him capable of conceiving so deep a sorrow.

"My lord," resumed the half-caste, "you told me, that misfortune had made
me wicked, and that happiness would make me good. In those words, I saw a
presentiment, and a noble love entered my heart, at the moment when
hatred and treachery departed from it. I, the half-savage, found a woman,
beautiful and young, to respond to my passion. At least I thought so. But
I had betrayed you, my lord, and there is no happiness for a traitor,
even though he repent. In my turn, I have been shamefully betrayed."

Then, seeing the surprise of the prince, the half-caste added, as if
overwhelmed with confusion: "Do not mock me, my lord! The most frightful
tortures would not have wrung this confession from me; but you, the son
of a king, deigned to call the poor slave your friend!"

"And your friend thanks you for the confidence," answered Djalma. "Far
from mocking, he will console you. Mock you! do you think it possible?"

"Betrayed love merits contempt and insult," said Faringhea, bitterly.
"Even cowards may point at one with scorn--for, in this country, the
sight of the man deceived in what is dearest to his soul, the very life
blood of his life, only makes people shrug their shoulders