“I have found, brother, that you are, like myself, a son of the Good Work.”

“Of what good work do you speak” asked Rodin not a little surprised.

Faringhea replied with an expression of bitter irony.  “Joshua says to you in his letter—­’Obedience and courage, secrecy and patience, craft and audacity, union between us, who have the world for our country, the brethren for our family, Rome for our queen.’”

“It is possible that M. Van Dael has written thus to me Pray, sir, what do you conclude from it?”

“We, too, have the world for our country, brother, our accomplices for our family, and for our queen Bowanee.”

“I do not know that saint,” said Rodin, humbly.

“It is our Rome,” answered the Strangler.  “Van Dael speaks to you of those of your Order, who, scattered over all the earth, labor for the glory of Rome, your queen.  Those of our band labor also in divers countries, for the glory of Bowanee.”

“And who are these sons of Bowanee, M. Faringhea?”

“Men of resolution, audacious, patient, crafty, obstinate, who, to make the Good Work succeed, would sacrifice country and parents, and sister and brother, and who regard as enemies all not of their band!”

“There seems to be much that is good in the persevering and exclusively religious spirit of such an order,” said Rodin, with a modest and sanctified air; “only, one must know your ends and objects.”

“The same as your own, brother—­we make corpses."[13]

“Corpses!” cried Rodin.

“In this letter,” resumed Faringhea, “Van Dael tells you that the greatest glory of your Order is to make ‘a corpse of man.’  Our work also is to make corpses of men.  Man’s death is sweet to Bowanee.”

“But sir,” cried Rodin, “M.  Van Dael speaks of the soul, of the will, of the mind, which are to be brought down by discipline.”

“It is true—­you kill the soul, and we the body.  Give me your hand, brother, for you also are hunters of men.”

“But once more, sir,—­understand, that we only meddle with the will, the mind,” said Rodin.

“And what are bodies deprived of soul, will, thought, but mere corpses?  Come—­come, brother; the dead we make by the cord are not more icy and inanimate than those you make by your discipline.  Take my hand, brother; Rome and Bowanee are sisters.”

Notwithstanding his apparent calmness, Rodin could not behold, without some secret alarm, a wretch like Faringhea in possession of a long letter from Van Dael, wherein mention must necessarily have been made of Djalma.  Rodin believed, indeed, that he had rendered it impossible for the young Indian to be at Paris on the morrow, but not knowing what connection might have been formed, since the shipwreck, between the prince and the half-caste, he looked upon Faringhea as a man who might probably be very dangerous.  But the more uneasy the socius felt in himself, the more he affected to appear calm and disdainful.  He replied, therefore:  “This comparison between Rome and Bowanee is no doubt very amusing; but what, sir, do you deduce from it?”