am as yet but a poor auxiliary member," said Faringhea, humbly; "but
no one is more devoted to the Society, body and soul. Bowanee is nothing
to it."

"Bowanee! who is that, my good friend?"

"Bowanee makes corpses which rot in the ground. The Society makes
corpses which walk about."

"Ah, yes! Perinde ac cadaver--they were the last words of our great
saint, Ignatius de Loyola. But who is this Bowanee?"

"Bowanee is to the Society what a child is to a man," replied the
Asiatic, with growing excitement. "Glory to the Company--glory! Were my
father its enemy, I would kill my father. The man whose genius inspires
me most with admiration, respect, and terror--were he its enemy, I would
kill, in spite of all," said the half-caste, with an effort. Then, after
a moment's silence, he looked full in Caboccini's face, and added: "I
say this, that you may report my words to Cardinal Malipieri, and beg
him to mention them to--"

Faringhea stopped short. "To whom should the cardinal mention your
words?" asked Caboccini.

"He knows," replied the half-caste, abruptly. "Good night!"

"Good-night, my friend! I can only approve of your excellent sentiments
with regard to our Company. Alas! it is in want of energetic defenders,
for there are said to be traitors in its bosom."

"For those," said Faringhea, "we must have no pity."

"Certainly," said the good little father; "we understand one another."

"Perhaps," said the half-caste. "Do not, at all events, forget to remind
Father Rodin to go to chapel to-morrow morning."

"I will take care of that," said Father Caboccini.

The two men parted. On his return to the house, Caboccini learned that
a courier, only arrived that night from Rome, had brought despatches to
Rodin.

CHAPTER LXVIII. THE FIRST OF JUNE.

The chapel belonging to the house of the reverend fathers in the Rue de
Vaugirard, was gay and elegant. Large panes of stained glass admitted
a mysterious light; the altar shone with gold and silver; and at the
entrance of this little church, in an obscure corner beneath the organ
loft, was a font for holy water in sculptured marble. It was close to
this font, in a dark nook where he could hardly be seen, that Faringhea
knelt down, early on the 1st of June, as soon indeed as the chapel doors
were opened. The half-caste was exceedingly sad. From time to time he
started and sighed, as if agitated by a violent internal struggle.
This wild, untamable being, possessed