For several minutes, a man had been advancing rapidly along a path, which, at its termination, intersected the avenue diagonally.  He stopped a moment in the shade, looking at Djalma with astonishment.  It was indeed a charming sight, to behold, in the midst of a blaze of dazzling lustre, this youth, so handsome, joyous, and ardent, clad in his white and flowing vestments, gayly and lightly seated on his proud black mare, who covered her red bridle with her foam, and whose long tail and thick mane floated on the evening breeze.

But, with that reaction which takes place in all human desires, Djalma soon felt stealing over him a sentiment of soft, undefinable melancholy.  He raised his hand to his eyes, now dimmed with moisture, and allowed the reins to fall on the mane of his docile steed, which, instantly stopping, stretched out its long neck, and turned its head in the direction of the personage, whom it could see approaching through the coppice.

This man, Mahal the Smuggler, was dressed nearly like European sailors.  He wore jacket and trousers of white duck, a broad red sash, and a very low-crowned straw hat.  His face was brown, with strongly-marked features, and, though forty years of age, he was quite beardless.

In another moment, Mahal was close to the young Indian.  “You are Prince Djalma?” said he, in not very good French, raising his hand respectfully to his hat.

“What would you?” said the Indian.

“You are the son of Kadja-sing?”

“Once again, what would you?”

“The friend of General Simon?”

“General Simon?” cried Djalma.

“You are going to meet him, as you have gone every evening, since you expect his return from Sumatra?”

“Yes, but how do you know all this?” said the Indian looking at the Smuggler with as much surprise as curiosity.

“Is he not to land at Batavia, to-day or to-morrow?”

“Are you sent by him?”

“Perhaps,” said Mahal, with a distrustful air.  “But are you really the son of Kadja-sing?”

“Yes, I tell you—­but where have you seen General Simon?”

“If you are the son of Kadja-sing,” resumed Mahal, continuing to regard Djalma with a suspicious eye, “what is your surname?”

“My sire was called the ‘Father of the Generous,’” answered the young Indian, as a shade of sorrow passed over his fine countenance.

These words appeared in part to convince Mahal of the identity of Djalma; but, wishing doubtless to be still more certain, he resumed:  “You must have received, two days ago, a letter from General Simon, written from Sumatra?”

“Yes; but why so many questions?”

“To assure myself that you are really the son of Kadja-sing, and to execute the orders I have received.”

“From whom?”

“From General Simon.”

“But where is he?”

“When I have proof that you are Prince Djalma, I will tell you.  I was informed that you would be mounted on a black mare, with a red bridle.  But—­”