swered Djalma. "Far
from mocking, he will console you. Mock you! do you think it possible?"

"Betrayed love merits contempt and insult," said Faringhea, bitterly.
"Even cowards may point at one with scorn--for, in this country, the
sight of the man deceived in what is dearest to his soul, the very life
blood of his life, only makes people shrug their shoulders and laugh."

"But are you certain of this treachery?" said Djalma, mildly. Then he
added, with visible hesitation, that proved the goodness of his heart:
"Listen to me, and forgive me for speaking of the past! It will only be
another proof, that I cherish no evil memories, and that I fully believe
in your repentance and affection. Remember, that I also once thought,
that she, who is the angel of my life, did not love me--and yet it
was false. Who tells you, that you are not, like me, deceived by false
appearances?"

"Alas, my lord! could I only believe so! But I dare not hope it. My
brain wanders uncertain, I cannot come to any resolution, and therefore
I have recourse to you."

"But what causes your suspicions?"

"Her coldness, which sometimes succeeds to apparent tenderness. The
refusals she gives me in the name of duty. Yes," added the half-caste,
after a moment's silence, "she reasons about her love--a proof, that she
has never loved me, or that she loves me no more."

"On the contrary, she perhaps loves you all the more, that she takes
into consideration the interest and the dignity of her love."

"That is what they all say," replied the half-caste, with bitter irony,
as he fixed a penetrating look on Djalma; "thus speak all those who love
weakly, coldly; but those who love valiantly, never show these insulting
suspicions. For them, a word from the man they adore is a command;
they do not haggle and bargain, for the cruel pleasure of exciting the
passion of their lover to madness, and so ruling him more surely. No,
what their lover asks of them, were it to cost life and honor, they
would grant it without hesitation--because, with them, the will of the
man they love is above every other consideration, divine and human. But
those crafty women, whose pride it is to tame and conquer man--who take
delight in irritating his passion, and sometimes appear on the point of
yielding to it--are demons, who rejoice in the tears and torments of the
wretch, that loves them with the miserable weakness of a child. While we
expire with love at their feet, the perfidious