The officer, misinterpreting the words of the negro, said to Djalma:  “It is quite clear, that if, as this negro tells us, you do not bear on your arm the mysterious symbol—­(we are going to assure ourselves of the fact), and if you can explain your presence here in a satisfactory manner, you may be at liberty within two hours.”

“You do not understand me,” said the negro to the officer; “Prince Djalma is one of us, for he bears on his left arm the name of Bowanee.”

“Yes! he is like us, a son of Kale!” added the Malay.

“He is like us, a Phansegar,” said the Indian.

The three men, irritated at the horror which Djalma had manifested on learning that they were Phansegars, took a savage pride in making it believed that the son of Kadja-sing belonged to their frightful association.

“What have you to answer?” said the officer to Djalma.  The latter again gave a look of disdainful pity, raised with his right hand his long, wide left sleeve, and displayed his naked arm.

“What audacity!” cried the officer, for on the inner part of the fore arm, a little below the bend, the name of the Bowanee, in bright red Hindoo characters, was distinctly visible.  The officer ran to the Malay, and uncovered his arm; he saw the same word, the same signs.  Not yet satisfied, he assured himself that the negro and the Indian were likewise so marked.

“Wretch!” cried he, turning furiously towards Djalma; “you inspire even more horror than your accomplices.  Bind him like a cowardly assassin,” added he to the soldiers; “like a cowardly assassin, who lies upon the brink of the grave, for his execution will not be long delayed.”

Struck with stupor, Djalma, who for some moments had kept his eye riveted on the fatal mark, was unable to pronounce a word, or make the least movement:  his powers of thought seemed to fail him, in presence of this incomprehensible fact.

“Would you dare deny this sign?” said the officer to him, with indignation.

“I cannot deny what I see—­what is,” said Djalma, quite overcome.

“It is lucky that you confess at last,” replied the officer.  “Soldiers, keep watch over him and his accomplices—­you answer for them.”

Almost believing himself the sport of some wild dream.  Djalma offered no resistance, but allowed himself to be bound and removed with mechanical passiveness.  The officer, with part of his soldiers, hoped still to discover Faringhea amongst the ruins; but his search was vain, and, after spending an hour in fruitless endeavors, he set out for Batavia, where the escort of the prisoners had arrived before him.

Some hours after these events, M. Joshua van Dael thus finished his long despatch, addressed to M. Rodin, of Paris: 

“Circumstances were such, that I could not act otherwise; and, taking all into consideration, it is a very small evil for a great good.  Three murderers are delivered over to justice, and the temporary arrest of Djalma will only serve to make his innocence shine forth with redoubled luster.