er, and robbed him of the
despatches written by M. Joshua Van Dael to Rodin, as also of the letter
by which the smuggler was to have been received as passenger on board
the "Ruyter." When Faringhea left the hut in the ruins of Tchandi,
he had not been seen by Djalma; and the latter, when he met him on
shipboard, after his escape (which we shall explain by and by), not
knowing that he belonged to the sect of Phansegars, treated him during
the voyage as a fellow-countryman.

Rodin, with his eye fixed and haggard, his countenance of a livid hue,
biting his nails to the quick in silent rage, did not perceive the half
caste, who quietly approached him and laying his hand familiarly on his
shoulder, said to him: "Your name is Rodin?"

"What now?" asked the other, starting, and raising his head abruptly.

"Your name is Rodin?" repeated Faringhea.

"Yes. What do you want?"

"You live in the Rue du Milieu-des-Ursins, Paris?"

"Yes. But, once more, what do you want?"

"Nothing now, brother: hereafter, much!"

And Faringhea, retiring, with slow steps, left Rodin alarmed at what
had passed; for this man, who scarcely trembled at anything, had quailed
before the dark look and grim visage of the Strangler.

(8) We always remember with emotion the end of a letter written, two or
three years ago, by one of these young and valiant missionaries, the son
of poor parents in Beauce. He was writing to his mother from the heart
of Japan, and thus concluded his letter: "Adieu, my dear mother! they
say there is much danger where I am now sent to. Pray for me, and tell
all our good neighbors that I think of them very often." These few
words, addressed from the centre of Asia to poor peasants in a hamlet of
France, are only the more touching from their very simplicity--E. S.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE DEPARTURE FOR PARIS.

The most profound silence reigns throughout Cardoville House. The
tempest has lulled by degrees, and nothing is heard from afar but the
hoarse murmur of the waves, as they wash heavily the shore.

Dagobert and the orphans have been lodged in warm and comfortable
apartments on the first-floor of the chateau. Djalma, too severely hurt
to be carried upstairs, has remained in a room below. At the moment of
the shipwreck, a weeping mother had placed her child in his arms. He
had failed in the attempt to snatch this unfortunate infant from certain
death, but his generous devotion had hampered his movements, and when
throw