“It concerns you nearly.  We sons of Bowanee have a horror of shedding blood,” resumed Faringhea; “to pass the cord round the neck of our victims, we wait till they are asleep.  When their sleep is not deep enough, we know how to make it deeper.  We are skillful at our work; the serpent is not more cunning, or the lion more valiant, Djalma himself bears our mark.  The array-mow is an impalpable powder, and, by letting the sleeper inhale a few grains of it, or by mixing it with the tobacco to be smoked by a waking man, we can throw our victim into a stupor, from which nothing will rouse him.  If we fear to administer too strong a dose at once, we let the sleeper inhale a little at different times, and we can thus prolong the trance at pleasure, and without any danger, as long as a man does not require meat and drink—­say, thirty or forty hours.  You see, that opium is mere trash compared to this divine narcotic.  I had brought some of this with me from Java—­as a mere curiosity, you know—­without forgetting the counter poison.”

“Oh! there is a counter-poison, then?” said Rodin, mechanically.

“Just as there are people quite contrary to what we are, brother of the good work.  The Javanese call the juice of this root tooboe; it dissipates the stupor caused by the array-mow, as the sun disperses the clouds.  Now, yesterday evening, being certain of the projects of your emissary against Djalma, I waited till the doctor was in bed and asleep.  I crept into his room, and made him inhale such a dose of array-mow—­that he is probably sleeping still.”

“Miscreant!” cried Rodin, more and more alarmed by this narrative, for Faringhea had dealt a terrible blow at the machinations of the socius and his friends.  “You risk poisoning the doctor.”

“Yes, brother; just as he ran the risk of poisoning Djalma.  This morning we set out, leaving your doctor at the inn, plunged in a deep sleep.  I was alone in the carriage with Djalma.  He smoked like a true Indian; some grains of array-mow, mixed with the tobacco in his long pipe, first made him drowsy; a second dose, that he inhaled, sent him to sleep; and so I left him at the inn where we stopped.  Now, brother, it depends upon me, to leave Djalma in his trance, which will last till to-morrow evening or to rouse him from it on the instant.  Exactly as you comply with my demands or not, Djalma will or will not be in the Rue Saint-Francois to morrow.”

So saying, Faringhea drew from his pocket the medal belonging to Djalma, and observed, as he showed it to Rodin:  “You see that I tell you the truth.  During Djalma’s sleep, took from him this medal, the only indication he has of the place where he ought to be to-morrow.  I finish, then as I began:  Brother, I have come to ask you for a great deal.”