ere did you learn all this?"

"I have seen Parisian women at the Isle of France, and at Pondicherry,
my lord. Moreover, I learned a good deal during our voyage; I talked
with a young officer, while you conversed with the young priest."

"So, like the sultans of our harems, civilized men require of women the
innocence they have themselves lost."

"They require it the more, the less they have of it, my lord."

"To require without any return, is to act as a master to his slave; by
what right?"

"By the right of the strongest--as it is among us, my lord."

"And what do the women do?"

"They prevent the men from being too ridiculous, when they marry, in the
eyes of the world."

"But they kill a woman that is false?" said Djalma, raising himself
abruptly, and fixing upon Faringhea a savage look, that sparkled with
lurid fire.

"They kill her, my lord, as with us--when they find her out."

"Despots like ourselves! Why then do these civilized men not shut up
their women, to force them to a fidelity which they do not practise?"

"Because their civilization is barbarous, and their barbarism civilized,
my lord."

"All this is sad enough, if true," observed Djalma, with a pensive air,
adding, with a species of enthusiasm, employing, as usual, the mystic
and figurative language familiar to the people of his country; "yes,
your talk afflicts me, slave--for two drops of dew blending in the cup
of a flower are as hearts that mingle in a pure and virgin love; and two
rays of light united in one inextinguishable flame, are as the burning
and eternal joys of lovers joined in wedlock."

Djalma spoke of the pure enjoyments of the soul with inexpressible
grace, yet it was when he painted less ideal happiness, that his eyes
shone like stars; he shuddered slightly, his nostrils swelled, the pale
gold of his complexion became vermilion, and the young prince sank into
a deep reverie.

Faringhea, having remarked this emotion, thus spoke: "If, like the proud
and brilliant king-bird of our woods, you prefer numerous and varied
pleasures to solitary and monotonous amours--handsome, young, rich
as you are, my lord, were you to seek out the seductive
Parisians--voluptuous phantoms of your nights--charming tormentors
of your dreams--were you to cast upon them looks bold as a challenge,
supplicating as prayers, ardent as desires--do you not think that many
a half-veiled eye would borrow fire from your glance? Then it would no
longer be