“Yes, Marquis, my brother.  I will now state the circumstances which induced me to conceal from you that he was in my company at the time of the attack.  When I galloped to your assistance, I was followed by my brother, who was riding with me to Marseilles, and of whom you recollect I have spoken; but after the first discharge of firearms I found that he was not at my side, and I imagined that he had deserted me from fear.  I could not bear that such a disgrace upon the family should be known, and I therefore made no mention of him when I came back.  Little did I think, that while I was accusing him in my heart of cowardice, he was dead, and his heart’s blood had been poured out in my defence.  Victor, my dear Victor!” continued I, “how great has been my injustice, and what can repay me for your loss?” and I threw myself down on the sofa, as if frantic with grief.

* * * * *

“Huckaback,” observed the pacha, “it appears to me that in your younger days you were a great scoundrel.”

“I acknowledge it,” replied the renegade; “but, in extenuation, your highness must call to mind that at that time I was a Christian.”

“By the beard of the prophet, that is well said, and very true!” replied the pacha.

* * * * *

The Marquis and his brother were shocked at having so unintentionally plunged me into affliction.  They offered consolation, but finding their endeavours fruitless, quitted the room, thinking it advisable to leave me to myself.  Cerise, for that was the name of the daughter, remained, and after a short pause came to me, and in her silvery voice, as she laid her hand upon my shoulder, addressed me: 

“Console yourself, my dear Felix;” but I made no answer.  “How unhappy I am!” said she:  “it was in my defence that he lost his life:  it was to your courage that I am indebted for my preservation:—­he is dead, and you are miserable.  Can nothing repay you for the loss of your brother?—­Nothing, Felix?”

I raised my head; her eyes were swimming with tears, and beaming with love.  As I resumed my seat upon the sofa, I drew her gently towards me.  She offered no resistance, and in a moment she had sunk down by my side, as my arms entwined her beauteous form.

“Yes,” murmured I, “Cerise, I am repaid.”  Smiling through her blushes, she disengaged herself, and rose to depart.  Returning once more at my request, I imprinted a kiss upon her brow:  she waved her hand, and hastened out of the room.

* * * * *

“That was a very nice girl, by your description,” interrupted the pacha:  “pray what might you pay for such a girl in your country?”

“She was beyond all price,” replied the renegade, with an absent air, as if communing with times past.  “Love is not to be bought.  The Moslem purchases the slave and blind submission to his will, but he makes not love.”