“Your terrors are nonsensical, my dear,” said the marquis to his wife.  “The panther is securely chained; and even were it to break its chains (which is impossible), we are here beyond its reach.”

A long murmur of trembling curiosity here ran through the house, and every eye was intently fixed on the cavern.  From amongst the artificial brambles, which she abruptly pushed aside with her broad chest, the black panther suddenly appeared.  Twice she stretched forth her flat head, illumined by yellow, flaming eyes; then, half-opening her blood-red jaws, she uttered another roar, and exhibited two rows of formidable fangs.  A double iron chain, and a collar also of iron, painted black, blended with the ebon shades of her hide, and with the darkness of the cavern.  The illusion was complete, and the terrible animal seemed to be at liberty in her den.

“Ladies,” said the marquis, suddenly, “look at those Indians.  Their emotion makes them superb!”

In fact, the sight of the panther had raised the wild ardor of Djalma to its utmost pitch.  His eyes sparkled in their pearly orbits like two black diamonds; his upper lip was curled convulsively with an expression of animal ferocity, as if he were in a violent paroxysm of rage.

Faringhea, now leaning on the front of the box, was also greatly excited, by reason of a strange coincidence.  “That black panther of so rare a breed,” thought he, “which I see here at Paris, upon the stage, must be the very one that the Malay”—­the Thug who had tatooed Djalma at Java during his sleep—­“took quite young from his den, and sold to a European captain.  Bowanee’s power is everywhere!” added the Thug, in his sanguinary superstition.

“Do you not think,” resumed the marquis, addressing Adrienne, “that those Indians are really splendid in their present attitude?”

“Perhaps they may have seen such a hunt in their own country,” said Adrienne, as if she would recall and brave the most cruel remembrances.

“Adrienne,” said the marchioness, suddenly, in an agitated voice, “the lion-tamer has now come nearer—­is not his countenance fearful to look at?—­I tell you he is afraid.”

“In truth,” observed the marquis, this time very seriously, “he is dreadfully pale, and seems to grow worse every minute, the nearer he approaches this side.  It is said that, were he to lose his presence of mind for a single moment, he would run the greatest danger.”

“O! it would be horrible!” cried the marchioness, addressing Adrienne, “if he were wounded—­there—­under our eyes!”

“Every wound does not kill,” replied her friend, with an accent of such cold indifference, that the marchioness looked at her with surprise, and said to her:  “My dear girl, what you say there is cruel!”

“It is the air of the place that acts on me,” answered Adrienne, with an icy smile.

“Look! look! the lion-tamer is about to shoot his arrow at the panther,” said the marquis, suddenly.  “No doubt, he will next perform the hand to hand grapple.”