th his elbows
resting on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, he kept his eyes
fixed on Djalma, and seemed to await the reply or the orders of him
whose sire had been surnamed the Father of the Generous. How had
Faringhea, the sanguinary worshipper of Bowanee, the Divinity of Murder,
been brought to seek or to accept such humble functions? How came this
man, possessed of no vulgar talents, whose passionate eloquence and
ferocious energy had recruited many assassins for the service of the
Good Work, to resign himself to so base a condition? Why, too, had
this man, who, profiting by the young prince's blindness with regard
to himself, might have so easily sacrificed him as an offering to
Bowanee--why had he spared the life of Radja-sings son? Why, in fine,
did he expose himself to such frequent encounters with Rodin, whom he
had only known under the most unfavorable auspices? The sequel of this
story will answer all these questions. We can only say at present,
that, after a long interview with Rodin, two nights before, the Thug had
quitted him with downcast eyes and cautious bearing.

After having remained silent for some time, Djalma, following with his
eye the cloud of whitish smoke that he had just sent forth into space,
addressed Faringhea, without looking at him, and said to him in the
language, as hyperbolical as concise, of Orientals: "Time passes. The
old man with the good heart does not come. But he will come. His word is
his word."

"His word is his word, my lord," repeated Faringhea, in an affirmative
tone. "When he came to fetch you, three days ago, from the house whither
those wretches, in furtherance of their wicked designs, had conveyed you
in a deep sleep--after throwing me, your watchful and devoted servant,
into a similar state--he said to you: 'The unknown friend, who sent for
you to Cardoville Castle, bids me come to you, prince. Have confidence,
and follow me. A worthy abode is prepared for you.'--And again, he said
to you, my lord: 'Consent not to leave the house, until my return. Your
interest requires it. In three days you will see me again, and then be
restored to perfect freedom.' You consented to those terms, my lord, and
for three days you have not left the house."

"And I wait for the old man with impatience," said Djalma, "for this
solitude is heavy with me. There must be so many things to admire in
Paris. Above all."

Djalma did not finish the sentence, but relapsed into a reverie. Af