“You are both foolish and ungrateful,” said Morok, shrugging his shoulders; “you held out your glass, and I filled it—­and, faith, we shall drink long and often together yet.”

For some moments, Cephyse had not withdrawn her eyes from Morok.  “I tell you, that you have long blown the fire, in which I have burnt my skin,” resumed Jacques, addressing Morok in a feeble voice, “so that they may not think I die of cholera.  It would look as if I had been frightened by the part I played.  I do not therefore reproach you, my affectionate friend,” added he, with a sardonic smile; “you dug my grave gayly—­and sometimes, when, seeing the great dark hole, into which I was about to fall, I drew back a step—­but you, my excellent friend, still pushed me forward, saying, `Go on, my boy, go on!’—­and I went on—­and here I am—­”

So saying, Sleepinbuff burst into a bitter laugh, which sent an icy shudder through the spectators of this scene.

“My good fellow,” said Morok, coolly, “listen to me, and follow my advice.”

“Thank you!  I know your advice—­and, instead of listening to you, I prefer speaking to my poor Cephyse.  Before I go down to the moles, I should like to tell her what weighs on my heart.”

“Jacques,” replied Cephyse, “do not talk so.  I tell you, you shall not die.”

“Why, then, my brave Cephyse, I shall owe my life to you,” returned Jacques, in a tone of serious feeling, which surprised the spectators.  “Yes,” resumed he, “when I came to myself, and saw you so poorly clad, I felt something good about my heart—­do you know why?—­it was because I said to myself, `Poor girl! she has kept her word bravely; she has chosen to toil, and want, and suffer—­rather than take another love—­who would have given her what I gave her as long as I could’—­and that thought, Cephyse, refreshed my soul.  I needed it, for I was burning—­and I burn still,” added he, clinching his fists with pain; “but that made me happy—­it did me good—­thanks, my good, brave Cephyse—­yes, you are good and brave—­and you were right; for I never loved any but you in the wide world; and if, in my degradation, I had one thought that raised me a little above the filth, and made me regret that I was not better—­the thought was of you!  Thanks then, my poor, dear love,” said Jacques, whose hot and shining eyes were becoming moist; “thanks once again,” and he reached his cold hand to Cephyse; “if I die, I shall die happy—­if I live, I shall live happy also.  Give me your hand, my brave Cephyse!—­you have acted like a good and honest creature.”

Instead of taking the hand which Jacques offered her, Cephyse, still kneeling, bowed her head, and dared not raise her eyes to her lover.

“You don’t answer,” said he, leaning over towards the young girl; “you don’t take my hand—­why is this?”

The unfortunate creature only answered by stifled sobs.  Borne down with shame, she held herself in so humble, so supplicating an attitude, that her forehead almost touched the feet of her lover.