rom the wall of the dark room in which Djalma was.

Notwithstanding his bewilderment, these terrible words, "She is expecting
Agricola Baudoin, her lover," passed like a stream of fire through the
brain and heart of the prince. A cloud of blood came over his eyes, he
uttered a hollow moan, which the thickness of the glass prevented from
being heard in the next room, and broke his nails in attempting to tear
down the iron railing before the window.

Having reached this paroxysm of delirious rage, Djalma saw the uncertain
light grow still fainter, as if it had been discreetly obscured, and,
through the vapory shadow that hung before him, he perceived the young
lady returning, clad in a long white dressing-gown, and with her golden
curls floating over her naked arms and shoulders. She advanced cautiously
in the direction of a door which was hid from Djalma's view. At this
moment, one of the doors of the apartment in which the prince was
concealed was gently opened by an invisible hand. Djalma noticed it by
the click of the lock, and by the current of fresh air which streamed
upon his face, for he could see nothing. This door, left open for Djalma,
like that in the next room, to which the young lady had drawn near, led
to a sort of ante-chamber communicating with the stairs, which some one
now rapidly ascended, and, stopping short, knocked twice at the outer
door.

"Here comes Agricola Baudoin. Look and listen!" said the same voice that
the prince had already heard.

Mad, intoxicated, but with the fixed idea and reckless determination of a
madman or a drunkard, Djalma drew the dagger which Faringhea had left in
his possession, and stood in motionless expectation. Hardly were the two
knocks heard before the young lady quitted the apartment, from which
streamed a faint ray of light, ran to the door of the staircase, so that
some faint glimmer reached the place where Djalma stood watching, his
dagger in his hand. He saw the young lady pass across the ante-chamber,
and approach the door of the staircase, where she said in a whisper: "Who
is there?"

"It is I--Agricola Baudoin," answered, from, without, a manly voice.

What followed was rapid as lightning, and must be conceived rather than
described. Hardly had the young lady drawn the bolt of the door, hardly
had Agricola Baudoin stepped across the threshold, than Djalma, with the
bound of a tiger, stabbed as it were at once, so rapid were the strokes,
both the young lady