tures was no longer the stamp of hate, or despair, or the ferocious
joy of vengeance gratified. It was rather the expression of grief at
once simple and immense. For several minutes he was almost choked with
sobs, and tears ran freely down his cheeks.

"Dead! dead!" he murmured, in a half-stifled voice. "She, who this
morning slept so peacefully in this chamber! And I have killed her. Now
that she is dead, what is her treachery to me? I should not have killed
her for that. She had betrayed me; she loved the man whom I slew--she
loved him! Alas! I could not hope to gain the preference," added he,
with a touching mixture of resignation and remorse; "I, poor, untaught
youth--how could I merit her love? It was my fault that she did not love
me; but, always generous, she concealed from me her indifference, that
she might not make me too unhappy--and for that I killed her. What
was her crime? Did she not meet me freely? Did she not open to me her
dwelling? Did she not allow me to pass whole days with her? No doubt she
tried to love me, and could not. I loved her with all the faculties of
my soul, but my love was not such as she required. For that, I should
not have killed her. But a fatal delusion seized me and, after it was
done, I woke as from a dream. Alas! it was not a dream: I have killed
her. And yet--until this evening--what happiness I owed to her--what
hope--what joy! She made my heart better, nobler, more generous. All
came from her," added the Indian, with a new burst of grief. "That
remained with me--no one could take from me that treasure of the
past--that ought to have consoled me. But why think of it? I struck them
both--her and the man--without a struggle. It was a cowardly murder--the
ferocity of the tiger that tears its innocent prey!"

Djalma buried his face in his hands. Then, drying his tears, he resumed,
"I know, clearly, that I mean to die also. But my death will not restore
her to life!"

He rose from the ground, and drew from his girdle Faringhea's bloody
dagger; then, taking the little phial from the hilt, he threw the blood
stained blade upon the ermine carpet, the immaculate whiteness of which
was thus slightly stained with red.

"Yes," resumed Djalma, holding the phial with a convulsive grasp, "I
know well that I am about to die. It is right. Blood for blood; my life
for hers. How happens it that my steel did not turn aside? How could I
kill her?--but it is done--and my heart is full of remorse