his hands clinched in
rage, he seemed to cling to one of the arms of the chair, for fear of
yielding to a burst of terrific fury. At this moment, the amber
mouthpiece of his pipe rolled, by chance, under one of his feet; the
violent tension, which contracted all the muscles of the young Indian,
was so powerful, and notwithstanding his youth and his light figure, he
was endowed with such vigor, that with one abrupt stamp he powdered to
dust the piece of amber, in spite of its extreme hardness.

"In the name of heaven, what is the matter, prince?" cried Rodin.

"Thus would I crush my cowardly enemies!" exclaimed Djalma, with menacing
and excited look. Then, as if these words had brought his rage to a
climax, he bounded from his seat, and, with haggard eyes, strode about
the room for some seconds in all directions, as if he sought for some
weapon, and uttered from time to time a hoarse cry, which he endeavored
to stifle by thrusting his clinched fist against his mouth, whilst his
jaws moved convulsively. It was the impotent rage of a wild beast,
thirsting for blood. Yet, in all this, the young Indian preserved a great
and savage beauty; it was evident that these instincts of sanguinary
ardor and blind intrepidity, now excited to this pitch by horror of
treachery and cowardice, when applied to war, or to those gigantic Indian
hunts, which are even more bloody than a battle, must make of Djalma what
he really was a hero.

Rodin admired, with deep and ominous joy, the fiery impetuosity of
passion in the young Indian, for, under various conceivable
circumstances, the effect must be terrible. Suddenly, to the Jesuit's
great surprise, the tempest was appeased. Djalma's fury was calmed thus
instantaneously, because refection showed him how vain it was: ashamed of
his childish violence, he cast down his eyes. His countenance remained
pale and gloomy; and, with a cold tranquillity, far more formidable than
the violence to which he had yielded, he said to Rodin: "Father, you will
this day lead me to meet my enemies."

"In what end, my dear prince? What would you do?"

"Kill the cowards!"

"Kill them! you must not think of it."

"Faringhea will aid me."

"Remember, you are not on the banks of the Ganges, and here one does not
kill an enemy like a hunted tiger."

"One fights with a loyal enemy, but one kills a traitor like an accursed
dog," replied Djalma, with as much conviction as tranquillity.

"Ah, prince, whose fathe