Djalma spoke of the pure enjoyments of the soul with inexpressible grace, yet it was when he painted less ideal happiness, that his eyes shone like stars; he shuddered slightly, his nostrils swelled, the pale gold of his complexion became vermilion, and the young prince sank into a deep reverie.

Faringhea, having remarked this emotion, thus spoke:  “If, like the proud and brilliant king-bird of our woods, you prefer numerous and varied pleasures to solitary and monotonous amours—­handsome, young, rich as you are, my lord, were you to seek out the seductive Parisians—­voluptuous phantoms of your nights—­charming tormentors of your dreams—­were you to cast upon them looks bold as a challenge, supplicating as prayers, ardent as desires—­do you not think that many a half-veiled eye would borrow fire from your glance?  Then it would no longer be the monotonous delights of a single love, the heavy chain of our life—­no, it would be the thousand pleasures of the harem—­a harem peopled with free and proud beauties, whom happy love would make your slaves.  So long constrained, there is no such thing as excess to you.  Believe me, it would then be you, the ardent, the magnificent son of our country, that would become the love and pride of these women—­the most seductive in the world, who would soon have for you no looks but those of languor and passion.”

Djalma had listened to Faringhea with silent eagerness.  The expression of his features had completely changed; it was no longer the melancholy and dreaming youth, invoking the sacred remembrance of his mother, and finding only in the dew of heaven, in the calyx of flowers, images sufficiently pure to paint the chastity of the love he dreamed of; it was no longer even the young man, blushing with a modest ardor at the thought of the permitted joys of a legitimate union.  No! the incitements of Faringhea had kindled a subterraneous fire; the inflamed countenance of Djalma, his eyes now sparkling and now veiled, his manly and sonorous respiration, announced the heat of his blood, the boiling up of the passions, only the more energetic, that they had been hitherto restrained.

So, springing suddenly from the divan, supple, vigorous, and light as a young tiger, Djalma clutched Faringhea by the throat exclaiming:  “Thy words are burning poison!”

“My lord,” said Faringhea, without opposing the least resistance, “your slave is your slave.”  This submission disarmed the prince.

“My life belongs to you,” repeated the half-caste.

“I belong to you, slave!” cried Djalma, repulsing him.  “Just now, I hung upon your lips, devouring your dangerous lies.”

“Lies, my lord?  Only appear before these women, and their looks will confirm my words.”

“These women love me!—­me, who have only lived in war and in the woods?”

“The thought that you, so young, have already waged bloody war on men and tigers, will make them adore, my lord.”