er! And I have killed her. Now
that she is dead, what is her treachery to me? I should not have killed
her for that. She had betrayed me; she loved the man whom I slew--she
loved him! Alas! I could not hope to gain the preference," added he, with
a touching mixture of resignation and remorse; "I, poor, untaught
youth--how could I merit her love? It was my fault that she did not love
me; but, always generous, she concealed from me her indifference, that
she might not make me too unhappy--and for that I killed her. What was
her crime? Did she not meet me freely? Did she not open to me her
dwelling? Did she not allow me to pass whole days with her? No doubt she
tried to love me, and could not. I loved her with all the faculties of my
soul, but my love was not such as she required. For that, I should not
have killed her. But a fatal delusion seized me and, after it was done, I
woke as from a dream. Alas! it was not a dream: I have killed her. And
yet--until this evening--what happiness I owed to her--what hope--what
joy! She made my heart better, nobler, more generous. All came from her,"
added the Indian, with a new burst of grief. "That remained with me--no
one could take from me that treasure of the past--that ought to have
consoled me. But why think of it? I struck them both--her and the
man--without a struggle. It was a cowardly murder--the ferocity of the
tiger that tears its innocent prey!"

Djalma buried his face in his hands. Then, drying his tears, he resumed,
"I know, clearly, that I mean to die also. But my death will not restore
her to life!"

He rose from the ground, and drew from his girdle Faringhea's bloody
dagger; then, taking the little phial from the hilt, he threw the blood
stained blade upon the ermine carpet, the immaculate whiteness of which
was thus slightly stained with red.

"Yes," resumed Djalma, holding the phial with a convulsive grasp, "I know
well that I am about to die. It is right. Blood for blood; my life for
hers. How happens it that my steel did not turn aside? How could I kill
her?--but it is done--and my heart is full of remorse, and sorrow, an
inexpressible tenderness--and I have come here--to die!

"Here, in this chamber," he continued, "the heaven of my burning
visions!" And then he added, with a heartrending accent, as he again
buried his face in his hands, "Dead! dead!"

"Well! I too shall soon be dead," he resumed, in a firmer voice. "But,
no! I will die slowly, gradually. A