Djalma did not finish the sentence, but relapsed into a reverie. After
some moments' silence, the son of Radja-sing said suddenly to Faringhea,
in the tone of an impatient yet indolent sultan: "Speak to me!"

"Of what shall I speak, my lord?"

"Of what you will," said Djalma, with careless contempt, as he fixed on
the ceiling his eyes, half-veiled with languor. "One thought pursues
me--I wish to be diverted from it. Speak to me."

Faringhea threw a piercing glance on the countenance of the young Indian,
and saw that his cheeks were colored with a slight blush. "My lord," said
the half-caste, "I can guess your thought."

Djalma shook his head, without looking at the Strangler. The latter
resumed: "You are thinking of the women of Paris, my lord."

"Be silent, slave!" said Djalma, turning abruptly on the sofa, as if some
painful wound had been touched to the quick. Faringhea obeyed.

After the lapse of some moments. Djalma broke forth again with
impatience, throwing aside the tube of the hookah, and veiling both eyes
with his hands: "Your words are better than silence. Cursed be my
thoughts, and the spirit which calls up these phantoms!"

"Why should you fly these thoughts, my lord? You are nineteen years of
age, and hitherto all your youth has been spent in war and captivity. Up
to this time, you have remained as chaste as Gabriel, that young
Christian priest, who accompanied us on our voyage."