“Now, my dear Eva,” continued Rose, “you must become acquainted, by means of this narrative at least, with the intrepid Djalma.  He is but just eighteen.  With one word, I will paint for you his noble and valiant nature; it is a custom of this country to give surnames, and, when only fifteen, he was called ’The Generous’—­by which was, of course, meant generous in heart and mind.  By another custom, no less touching than whimsical, this name was reverted to his parent, who is called ’The Father of the Generous,’ and who might, with equal propriety, be called ‘The Just,’ for this old Indian is a rare example of chivalrous honor and proud independence.  He might, like so many other poor princes of this country, have humbled himself before the execrable despotism of the English, bargained for the relinquishment of sovereign power, and submitted to brute force—­but it was not in his nature.  ’My whole rights, or a grave in my native mountains!’—­such is his motto.  And this is no empty boast; it springs from the conviction of what is right and just.  ‘But you will be crushed in the struggle,’ I have said to him—­’My friend,’ he answered, ’what if, to force you to a disgraceful act, you were told to yield or die?’—­From that day I understood him, and have devoted myself, mind and body, to the ever sacred cause of the weak against the strong.  You see, my Eva, that Djalma shows himself worthy of such a father.  This young Indian is so proud, so heroic in his bravery, that, like a young Greek of Leonidas’ age, he fights with his breast bare; while other warriors of his country (who, indeed, usually have arms, breast, and shoulders uncovered) wear, in time of battle, a thick, impenetrable vest.  The rash daring of this youth reminds me of Murat, King of Naples, who, I have so often told you, I have seen a hundred times leading the most desperate charges with nothing but a riding-whip in his hand.”

“That’s another of those kings I was telling you of, whom the Emperor set up for his amusement,” said Dagobert.  “I once saw a Prussian officer prisoner, whose face had been cut across by that mad-cap King of Naples’ riding-whip; the mark was there, a black and blue stripe.  The Prussian swore he was dishonored, and that a sabre-cut would have been preferable.  I should rather think so!  That devil of a king; he only had one idea:  ‘Forward, on to the cannon!’ As soon as they began to cannonade, one would have thought the guns were calling him with all their might, for he was soon up to them with his ‘Here I am!’ If I speak to you about him, my children, it’s because he was fond of repeating,—­’No one can break through a square of infantry, if General Simon or I can’t do it.’”

Rose continued: 

“I have observed with pain, that, notwithstanding his youth, Djalma is often subject to fits of deep melancholy.  At times, I have seen him exchange with his father looks of singular import.  In spite of our mutual attachment, I believe that both conceal from me some sad family secret, in so far as I can judge from expressions which have dropped from them by chance.