arch, he could see pass and repass, white and sylph-like, a host of
adorable and voluptuous phantoms, that threw him kisses from the tips of
their rosy fingers. Unable to restrain his burning emotions, carried away
by a strange enthusiasm, Djalma uttered exclamations of joy, deep, manly,
and sonorous, and made his vigorous courser bound under him in the
excitement of a mad delight. Just then a sunbeam, piercing the dark vault
of the avenue, shone full upon him.

For several minutes, a man had been advancing rapidly along a path,
which, at its termination, intersected the avenue diagonally. He stopped
a moment in the shade, looking at Djalma with astonishment. It was indeed
a charming sight, to behold, in the midst of a blaze of dazzling lustre,
this youth, so handsome, joyous, and ardent, clad in his white and
flowing vestments, gayly and lightly seated on his proud black mare, who
covered her red bridle with her foam, and whose long tail and thick mane
floated on the evening breeze.

But, with that reaction which takes place in all human desires, Djalma
soon felt stealing over him a sentiment of soft, undefinable melancholy.
He raised his hand to his eyes, now dimmed with moisture, and allowed the
reins to fall on the mane of his docile steed, which, instantly stopping,
stretched out its long neck, and turned its head in the direction of the
personage, whom it could see approaching through the coppice.

This man, Mahal the Smuggler, was dressed nearly like European sailors.
He wore jacket and trousers of white duck, a broad red sash, and a very
low-crowned straw hat. His face was brown, with strongly-marked features,
and, though forty years of age, he was quite beardless.

In another moment, Mahal was close to the young Indian. "You are Prince