have so easily sacrificed him as an offering to Bowanee—­why had he spared the life of Radja-sings son?  Why, in fine, did he expose himself to such frequent encounters with Rodin, whom he had only known under the most unfavorable auspices?  The sequel of this story will answer all these questions.  We can only say at present, that, after a long interview with Rodin, two nights before, the Thug had quitted him with downcast eyes and cautious bearing.

After having remained silent for some time, Djalma, following with his eye the cloud of whitish smoke that he had just sent forth into space, addressed Faringhea, without looking at him, and said to him in the language, as hyperbolical as concise, of Orientals:  “Time passes.  The old man with the good heart does not come.  But he will come.  His word is his word.”

“His word is his word, my lord,” repeated Faringhea, in an affirmative tone.  “When he came to fetch you, three days ago, from the house whither those wretches, in furtherance of their wicked designs, had conveyed you in a deep sleep—­after throwing me, your watchful and devoted servant, into a similar state—­he said to you:  ’The unknown friend, who sent for you to Cardoville Castle, bids me come to you, prince.  Have confidence, and follow me.  A worthy abode is prepared for you.’—­And again, he said to you, my lord:  ’Consent not to leave the house, until my return.  Your interest requires it.  In three days you will see me again, and then be restored to perfect freedom.’  You consented to those terms, my lord, and for three days you have not left the house.”

“And I wait for the old man with impatience,” said Djalma, “for this solitude is heavy with me.  There must be so many things to admire in Paris.  Above all.”

Djalma did not finish the sentence, but relapsed into a reverie.  After some moments’ silence, the son of Radja-sing said suddenly to Faringhea, in the tone of an impatient yet indolent sultan:  “Speak to me!”

“Of what shall I speak, my lord?”

“Of what you will,” said Djalma, with careless contempt, as he fixed on the ceiling his eyes, half-veiled with languor.  “One thought pursues me—­I wish to be diverted from it.  Speak to me.”

Faringhea threw a piercing glance on the countenance of the young Indian, and saw that his cheeks were colored with a slight blush.  “My lord,” said the half-caste, “I can guess your thought.”

Djalma shook his head, without looking at the Strangler.  The latter resumed:  “You are thinking of the women of Paris, my lord.”

“Be silent, slave!” said Djalma, turning abruptly on the sofa, as if some painful wound had been touched to the quick.  Faringhea obeyed.

After the lapse of some moments.  Djalma broke forth again with impatience, throwing aside the tube of the hookah, and veiling both eyes with his hands:  “Your words are better than silence.  Cursed be my thoughts, and the spirit which calls up these phantoms!”