st always endowed, he answered mildly: "You are right,
father. I am no longer in my own country. Here the customs are different.
I will reflect upon it."

Notwithstanding his craft and suppleness, Rodin sometimes found himself
perplexed by the wild and unforseen ideas of the young Indian. Thus he
saw, to his great surprise, that Djalma now remained pensive for some
minutes, after which he resumed in a calm but firm tone: "I have obeyed
you, father: I have reflected."

"Well, my dear prince?"

"In no country in the world, under no pretext, should a man of honor
conceal his friendship for another man of honor."

"But suppose there should be danger in avowing this friendship?" said
Rodin, very uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking. Djalma eyed
the Jesuit with contemptuous astonishment, and made no reply.

"I understand your silence, my dear prince: a brave man ought to defy
danger. True; but if it should be you that the danger threatens, in case
this friendship were discovered, would not your man of honor be
excusable, even praiseworthy, to persist in remaining unknown?"

"I accept nothing from a friend, who thinks me capable of denying him
from cowardice."

"Dear prince--listen to me."

"Adieu, father."

"Yet reflect!"

"I have said it," replied Djalma, in an abrupt and almost sovereign tone,
as he walked towards the door.

"But suppose a woman were concerned," cried Rodin, driven to extremity,
and hastening after the young Indian, for he really feared that Djalma
might rush from the house, and thus overthrow all his projects.

At the last words of Rodin the Indian stopped abruptly. "A woman!" said
he, with a start, and turning red. "A woman is concerned?"

"Why, yes! suppose it were a woman," resumed Rodin, "would you not then
understand her reserve, and the secrecy with which she is obliged to
surround the marks of affection she wishes to give you?"

"A woman!" repeated Djalma, in a trembling voice, clasping his hands in
adoration; and his beautiful countenance was expressive of the deepest
emotion. "A woman!" said he again. "A Parisian?"

"Yes, my dear prince, as you force me to this indiscretion, I will
confess to you that your friend is a real Parisian--a noble matron,
endowed with the highest virtues--whose age alone merits all your
respect."

"She is very old, then?" cried poor Djalma, whose charming dream was thus
abruptly dispelled.

"She may be a few years older than I am," answere