which are even more bloody than a battle, must
make of Djalma what he really was a hero.

Rodin admired, with deep and ominous joy, the fiery impetuosity
of passion in the young Indian, for, under various conceivable
circumstances, the effect must be terrible. Suddenly, to the Jesuit's
great surprise, the tempest was appeased. Djalma's fury was calmed thus
instantaneously, because refection showed him how vain it was: ashamed
of his childish violence, he cast down his eyes. His countenance
remained pale and gloomy; and, with a cold tranquillity, far more
formidable than the violence to which he had yielded, he said to Rodin:
"Father, you will this day lead me to meet my enemies."

"In what end, my dear prince? What would you do?"

"Kill the cowards!"

"Kill them! you must not think of it."

"Faringhea will aid me."

"Remember, you are not on the banks of the Ganges, and here one does not
kill an enemy like a hunted tiger."

"One fights with a loyal enemy, but one kills a traitor like an accursed
dog," replied Djalma, with as much conviction as tranquillity.

"Ah, prince, whose father was the Father of the Generous," said Rodin,
in a grave voice; "what pleasure can you find in striking down creatures
as cowardly as they are wicked?"

"To destroy what is dangerous, is a duty."

"So prince, you seek for revenge."

"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