Djalma buried his face in his hands.  Then, drying his tears, he resumed, “I know, clearly, that I mean to die also.  But my death will not restore her to life!”

He rose from the ground, and drew from his girdle Faringhea’s bloody dagger; then, taking the little phial from the hilt, he threw the blood stained blade upon the ermine carpet, the immaculate whiteness of which was thus slightly stained with red.

“Yes,” resumed Djalma, holding the phial with a convulsive grasp, “I know well that I am about to die.  It is right.  Blood for blood; my life for hers.  How happens it that my steel did not turn aside?  How could I kill her?—­but it is done—­and my heart is full of remorse, and sorrow, an inexpressible tenderness—­and I have come here—­to die!

“Here, in this chamber,” he continued, “the heaven of my burning visions!” And then he added, with a heartrending accent, as he again buried his face in his hands, “Dead! dead!”

“Well!  I too shall soon be dead,” he resumed, in a firmer voice.  “But, no!  I will die slowly, gradually.  A few drops of the poison will suffice; and, when I am quite certain of dying, my remorse will perhaps be less terrible.  Yesterday, she pressed my hand when we parted.  Who could have foretold me this?” The Indian raised the phial resolutely to his lips.  He drank a few drops of the liquor it contained, and replaced it on a little ivory table close to Adrienne’s bed.

“This liquor is sharp and hot,” said he.  “Now I am certain to die.  Oh! that I may still have time to feast on the sight and perfume of this chamber—­to lay my dying head on the couch where she has reposed.”

Djalma fell on his knees beside the bed, and leaned against it his burning brow.  At this moment, the ivory door, which communicated with the bath-room, rolled gently on its hinges, and Adrienne entered.  The young lady had just sent away her woman, who had assisted to undress her.  She wore a long muslin wrapper of lustrous whiteness.  Her golden hair, neatly arranged in little plaits, formed two bands, which gave to her sweet face an extremely juvenile air.  Her snowy complexion was slightly tinged with rose-color, from the warmth of the perfumed bath, which she used for a few seconds every evening.  When she opened the ivory door, and placed her little naked foot, in its white satin slipper, upon the ermine carpet, Adrienne was dazzlingly beautiful.  Happiness sparkled in her eyes, and adorned her brow.  All the difficulties relative to her union with Djalma had now been removed.  In two days she would be his.  The sight of the nuptial chamber oppressed her with a vague and ineffable languor.  The ivory door had been opened so gently, the lady’s first steps were so soft upon the fur carpet, that Djalma, still leaning against the bed, had heard nothing.  But suddenly a cry of surprise and alarm struck upon his ear.  He turned round abruptly.  Adrienne stood before him.