ing and now veiled, his manly and sonorous
respiration, announced the heat of his blood, the boiling up of the
passions, only the more energetic, that they had been hitherto
restrained.

So, springing suddenly from the divan, supple, vigorous, and light as a
young tiger, Djalma clutched Faringhea by the throat exclaiming: "Thy
words are burning poison!"

"My lord," said Faringhea, without opposing the least resistance, "your
slave is your slave." This submission disarmed the prince.

"My life belongs to you," repeated the half-caste.

"I belong to you, slave!" cried Djalma, repulsing him. "Just now, I hung
upon your lips, devouring your dangerous lies."

"Lies, my lord? Only appear before these women, and their looks will
confirm my words."

"These women love me!--me, who have only lived in war and in the woods?"

"The thought that you, so young, have already waged bloody war on men and
tigers, will make them adore, my lord."

"You lie!"

"I tell you, my lord, on seeing your hand, as delicate as theirs, but
which has been so often bathed in hostile blood, they will wish to caress
it; and they will kiss it again, when they think that, in our forests,
with loaded rifle, and a poniard between your teeth, you smiled at the
roaring of a lion or panther for whom you lay in wait."

"But I am a savage--a barbarian."

"And for that very reason you will have them at your feet. They will feel
themselves both terrified and charmed by all the violence and fury, the
rage of jealousy, the passion and the love, to which a man of your blood,
your youth, your ardor must be subject. To-day mild and tender, to-morrow
fierce and suspicious, another time ardent and passionate, such you will
be--and such you ought to be, if you wish to win them. Yes; let a kiss of
rage be heard between two kisses: let a dagger glitter in the midst of
caresses, and they will fall before you, palpitating with pleasure, love,
and fear--and you will be to them, not a man, but a god."

"Dost think so?" cried Djalma, carried away in spite of himself by the
Thug's wild eloquence.

"You know, you feel, that I speak the truth," cried the latter, extending
his arm towards the young Indian.

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Djalma, his eyes sparkling, his nostrils swelling,
as he moved about the apartment with savage bounds. "I know not if I
possess my reason, or if I am intoxicated, but it seems to me that you
speak truth. Yes, I feel that they will love me with