u have killed, and death most expiate your crime. It is just. I
will not survive you. That also is natural enough. Why look at me thus?
This poison has a sharp taste--does it act quickly! Tell me, my Djalma!"

The prince did not answer. Shuddering through all his frame, he looked
down upon his hands. Faringhea had told the truth; a slight violet
tint appeared already beneath the nails. Death was approaching, slowly,
almost insensibly, but not the less certain. Overwhelmed with despair
at the thought that Adrienne, too, was about to die, Djalma felt his
courage fail him. He uttered a long groan, and hid his face in his
hands. His knees shook under him, and he felt down upon the bed, near
which he was standing.

"Already?" cried the young lady in horror, as she threw herself on her
knees at Djalma's feet. "Death already? Do you hide your face from me?"

In her fright, she pulled his hands from before his face. That face was
bathed in tears.

"No, not yet," murmured he, through his sobs. "The poison is slow."

"Really!" cried Adrienne, with ineffable joy. Then, kissing the hands of
Djalma, she added tenderly, "If the poison is slow, why do you weep?"

"For you! for you!" said the Indian, in a heart-rending tone.

"Think not of me," replied Adrienne, resolutely. "You have killed, and
we must expiate the crime. I know not what has taken place; but I swear
by our love that you did not do evil for evil's sake. There is some
horrible mystery in all this."

"On a pretence which I felt bound to believe," replied Djalma, speaking
quickly, and panting for breath, "Faringhea led me to a certain house.
Once there, he told me that you had betrayed me. I did not believe him,
but I know not what strange dizziness seized upon me--and then, through
a half-obscurity, I saw you--"

"Me!"

"No--not you--but a woman resembling you, dressed like you, so that I
believed the illusion--and then there came a man--and you flew to meet
him--and I--mad with rage--stabbed her, stabbed him, saw them fall--and
so came here to die. And now I find you only to cause your death. Oh,
misery! misery! that you should die through me!"

And Djalma, this man of formidable energy, began again to weep with
the weakness of a child. At sight of this deep, touching, passionate
despair, Adrienne, with that admirable courage which women alone possess
in love, thought only of consoling Djalma. By an effort of superhuman
passion, as the prince revealed to her