his features had completely changed; it was no longer the melancholy and
dreaming youth, invoking the sacred remembrance of his mother, and
finding only in the dew of heaven, in the calyx of flowers, images
sufficiently pure to paint the chastity of the love he dreamed of; it was
no longer even the young man, blushing with a modest ardor at the thought
of the permitted joys of a legitimate union. No! the incitements of
Faringhea had kindled a subterraneous fire; the inflamed countenance of
Djalma, his eyes now sparkling 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