of this letter, war must commence between us--and
not from to-morrow, but on the instant.'"

Having finished reading the letter, Djalma looked at Rodin, who said to
him: "Permit me to summon Faringhea."

He rang the bell, and the half-caste appeared. Rodin took the letter
from the hands of Djalma, tore it into halves, rubbed it between his
palms, so as to make a sort of a ball, and said to the half-caste, as
he returned it to him: "Give this palter to the person who waits for
it, and tell him that is my only answer to his shameless and insolent
letter; you understand me--this shameless and insolent letter."

"I understand." said the half-caste; and he went out.

"This will perhaps be a dangerous war for you, father, said the Indian,
with interest.

"Yes, dear prince, it may be dangerous, but I am not like you; I have no
wish to kill my enemies, because they are cowardly and wicked. I fight
them under the shield of the law. Imitate me in this." Then, seeing that
the countenance of Djalma darkened, he added: "I am wrong. I will advise
you no more on this subject. Only, let us defer the decision to the
judgment of your noble and motherly protectress. I shall see her to
morrow; if she consents, I will tell you the names of your enemies. If
not--not."

"And this woman, this second mother," said Djalma, "is her character
such, that I can rely on her judgment?"

"She!" cried Rodin, clasping his hands, and speaking with increased
excitement. "Why, she is the most noble, the most generous, the most
valiant being upon earth!--why, if you were really her son, and she
loved you with all the strength of maternal affection, and a case arose
in which you had to choose between an act of baseness and death, she
would say to you: 'Die!' though she might herself die with you."

"Oh, noble woman! so was my mother!" cried Djalma, with enthusiasm.

"Yes," resumed Rodin, with growing energy, as he approached the window
concealed by the shade, towards which he threw an oblique and anxious
glance, "if you would imagine your protectress, think only of courage,
uprightness, and loyalty personified. Oh! she has the chivalrous
frankness of the brave man, joined with the high-souled dignity of the
woman, who not only never in her life told a falsehood, never concealed
a single thought, but who would rather die than give way to the least
of those sentiments of craft and dissimulation, which are almost forced
upon ordinary women by the situa