the door was closed after them.
Faringhea exchanged a few words with the porter, and the latter gave him
a key. The two Orientals soon arrived at Sainte-Colombe's apartments,
which had two doors opening upon the landing-place, besides a private
entrance from the courtyard. As he put the key into the lock, Faringhea
said to Djalma, in an agitated voice: "Pity my weakness, my lord--but, at
this terrible moment, I tremble and hesitate. It were perhaps better to
doubt--or to forget!"

Then, as the prince was about to answer, the half-caste exclaimed: "No!
we must have no cowardice!" and, opening the door precipitately, he
entered, followed by Djalma.

When the door was again closed, the prince and the half-caste found
themselves in a dark and narrow passage. "Your hand, my lord--let me
guide you--walk lightly," said Faringhea, in a low whisper.

He extended his hand to the prince, who took hold of it, and they both
advanced silently through the darkness. After leading Djalma some
distance, and opening and closing several doors, the half-caste stopped
abruptly, and abandoning the hand which he had hitherto held, said to the
prince: "My lord, the decisive moment approaches; let us wait here for a
few seconds."

A profound silence followed these words of the half-caste. The darkness
was so complete, that Djalma could distinguish nothing. In about a
minute, he heard Faringhea moving away from him; and then a door was
suddenly opened, and as abruptly closed and locked. This circumstance
made Djalma somewhat uneasy. By a mechanical movement, he laid his hand
upon his dagger, and advanced cautiously towards the side, where he
supposed the door to be.

Suddenly, the half-caste's voice struck upon his ear, though it was
impossible to guess whence it came. "My lord," it said, "you told me, you
were my friend. I act as a friend. If I have employed stratagem to bring
you hither, it is because the blindness of your fatal passion would
otherwise have prevented your accompanying me. The Princess de Saint
Dizier named to you Agricola Baudoin, the lover of Adrienne de
Cardoville. Listen--look--judge!"

The voice ceased. It appeared to have issued from one corner of the room.
Djalma, still in darkness, perceived too late into what a snare he had
fallen, and trembled with rage--almost with alarm.

"Faringhea!" he exclaimed; "where am I? where are you? Open the door on
your life! I would leave this place instantly."

Extending his ar