"I do not revenge myself on a serpent," said the Indian, with haughty
bitterness; "I crush it."

"But, my dear prince, here we cannot get rid of our enemies in that
manner. If we have cause of complaint--"

"Women and children complain," said Djalma, interrupting Rodin: "men
strike."

"Still on the banks of the Ganges, my dear prince. Here society takes
your cause into its own hands, examines, judges, and if there be good
reason, punishes."

"In my own quarrel, I am both judge and executioner."

"Pray listen to me; you have escaped the odious snares of your enemies,
have you not?--Well! suppose it were thanks to the devotion of the
venerable woman who has for you the tenderness of a mother, and that she
were to ask you to forgive them--she, who saved you from their
hands--what would you do then?"

The Indian hung his head, and was silent. Profiting by his hesitation,
Rodin continued: "I might say to you that I know your enemies, but that
in the dread of seeing you commit some terrible imprudence, I would
conceal their names from you forever. But no! I swear to you, that if the
respectable person, who loves you as her son, should find it either right
or useful that I should tell you their names, I will do so--until she has
pronounced, I must be silent."

Djalma looked at Rodin with a dark and wrathful air. At this moment,