m civilized,
my lord."

"All this is sad enough, if true," observed Djalma, with a pensive air,
adding, with a species of enthusiasm, employing, as usual, the mystic and
figurative language familiar to the people of his country; "yes, your
talk afflicts me, slave--for two drops of dew blending in the cup of a
flower are as hearts that mingle in a pure and virgin love; and two rays
of light united in one inextinguishable flame, are as the burning and
eternal joys of lovers joined in wedlock."

Djalma spoke of the pure enjoyments of the soul with inexpressible grace,
yet it was when he painted less ideal happiness, that his eyes shone like
stars; he shuddered slightly, his nostrils swelled, the pale gold of his
complexion became vermilion, and the young prince sank into a deep
reverie.

Faringhea, having remarked this emotion, thus spoke: "If, like the proud
and brilliant king-bird of our woods, you prefer numerous and varied
pleasures to solitary and monotonous amours--handsome, young, rich as you
are, my lord, were you to seek out the seductive Parisians--voluptuous
phantoms of your nights--charming tormentors of your dreams--were you to
cast upon them looks bold as a challenge, supplicating as prayers, ardent
as desires--do you not think that many a half-veiled eye would borrow
fire from your glance? Then it would no longer be the monotonous delights
of a single love, the heavy chain of our life--no, it would be the
thousand pleasures of the harem--a harem peopled with free and proud
beauties, whom happy love would make your slaves. So long constrained,
there is no such thing as excess to you. Believe me, it would then be
you, the ardent, the magnificent son of our country, that would become
the love and pride of these women--the most seductive in the world, who
would soon have for you no looks but those of languor and passion."

Djalma had listened to Faringhea with silent eagerness. The expression of
his features had completely changed; it was no longer the melancholy and
dreaming youth, invoking the sacred remembrance of his mother, and
finding only in the dew of heaven, in the calyx of flowers, images
sufficiently pure to paint the chastity of the love he dreamed of; it was
no longer even the young man, blushing with a modest ardor at the thought
of the permitted joys of a legitimate union. No! the incitements of
Faringhea had kindled a subterraneous fire; the inflamed countenance of
Djalma, his eyes now sparkl