After much reflection, I determined upon letting things take their own course, trusting to my own ready invention and good fortune for the issue.  I felt it to be impossible to tear myself from the sweet creature whose personal charms had already fascinated me, and I vowed that there was no risk, no danger, that I would not brave to obtain her love.

In an hour we met at the breakfast-table, and I was more than ever enchanted;—­but I will not detain your highness by dwelling too long upon the subject.

* * * * *

“No, don’t, yaha bibi, my friend,” said the pacha, yawning, “your story gets very dry already.  We’ll suppose the cypress waist, the stag’s eyes, and full moon of her face.  We Mussulmans don’t talk so much about women; but I suppose as you were a Frenchman, and very young then, you knew no better.  Why you talk of women as if they had souls!” The renegade did not think it advisable to express his opinion in contradiction to that of his highness, and the assertions of the prophet.  “It cannot be said that I behaved to them as if they had,” replied he; “and before I changed my religion, I was often smitten with remorse for my selfish and unfeeling conduct towards Marie; but all that is past, I am now a Turk;” and the renegade passed his hand over his brow; for some long-smothered feelings of virtue had been conjured up by remorse, as he was reminded of the career of guilt which he had run through, and which he had climaxed by the denial of his Redeemer.  After a short pause he continued—­

* * * * *

For a week I remained in the society of the Marquis and his daughter, daily ingratiating myself more and more with both.  I had not declared my passion to his daughter, for there was something that irresistibly prevented me; yet I knew that I was not viewed with indifference.  Our party was then increased by the appearance of the Bishop of Toulouse, the brother of the Marquis, who came to congratulate him and his niece upon their fortunate escape.  I was presented as the gentleman who had so materially assisted.  The bishop stared at me with surprise.

“It is strange,” observed he, “that a body has been found in a ditch, near to where the robbery occurred, and has been recognised to be that of the very young officer to whom you now introduce me.  How can this be?”

The marquis and his daughter appeared astonished at the intelligence (and in truth so was I), but it was only for a second.  “How say you, sir,” exclaimed I, with trepidation, “a body recognised as the son of the Comte de Rouille?  My poor, poor brother! my dear Victor, have you then perished? what injustice have I done you!” Throwing myself on the fauteuil, I covered my face with my handkerchief, as if overpowered with grief; but, in reality, I was reflecting what I should say next.

“Your brother!” exclaimed the Marquis in surprise.