ision to the
judgment of your noble and motherly protectress. I shall see her to
morrow; if she consents, I will tell you the names of your enemies. If
not--not."

"And this woman, this second mother," said Djalma, "is her character
such, that I can rely on her judgment?"

"She!" cried Rodin, clasping his hands, and speaking with increased
excitement. "Why, she is the most noble, the most generous, the most
valiant being upon earth!--why, if you were really her son, and she loved
you with all the strength of maternal affection, and a case arose in
which you had to choose between an act of baseness and death, she would
say to you: 'Die!' though she might herself die with you."

"Oh, noble woman! so was my mother!" cried Djalma, with enthusiasm.

"Yes," resumed Rodin, with growing energy, as he approached the window
concealed by the shade, towards which he threw an oblique and anxious
glance, "if you would imagine your protectress, think only of courage,
uprightness, and loyalty personified. Oh! she has the chivalrous
frankness of the brave man, joined with the high-souled dignity of the
woman, who not only never in her life told a falsehood, never concealed a
single thought, but who would rather die than give way to the least of
those sentiments of craft and dissimulation, which are almost forced upon
ordinary women by the situation in which they are placed."

It is difficult to express the admiration which shone upon the
countenance of Djalma, as he listened to this description. His eyes
sparkled, his cheeks glowed, his heart palpitated with enthusiasm.

"That is well, noble heart!" said Rodin to him, drawing still nearer to
the blind; "I love to see your soul sparkle through your eyes, on hearing
me speak thus of your unknown protectress. Oh! but she is worthy of the
pious adoration which noble hearts and great characters inspire!"

"Oh! I believe you," cried Djalma, with enthusiasm; "my heart is full of
admiration and also of astonishment, for my mother is no more, and yet
such a woman exists!"

"Yes, she exists. For the consolation of the afflicted, for the glory of
her sex, she exists. For the honor of truth, and the shame of falsehood,
she exists. No lie, no disguise, has ever tainted her loyalty, brilliant
and heroic as the sword of a knight. It is but a few days ago that this
noble woman spoke to me these admirable words, which, in all my life, I
shall not forget: 'Sir,' she said, 'if ever I suspect any o