Many times, but in vain, the half-caste had discreetly knocked at the door of Djalma’s apartment.  It was only in the early part of the afternoon that the prince had rung the bell to order his carriage to be ready by half-past two.  Faringhea having presented himself, the prince had given him the order without looking at him, as he might have done to any other of his servants.  Was this suspicion, aversion, or mere absence of mind on the part of Djalma?  Such were the questions which the half caste put to himself with growing anguish; for the designs of which he was the most active and immediate instrument might all be ruined by the least suspicion in the prince.

“Oh! the hours—­the hours—­how slow they are!” cried the young Indian, suddenly, in a low and trembling voice.

“The day before yesterday, my lord, you said the hours were very long,” observed Faringhea, as he drew near Djalma in order to attract his attention.  Seeing that he did not succeed in this he advanced a few steps nearer, and resumed:  “Your joy seems very great, my lord; tell the cause of it to your poor and faithful servant, that he also may rejoice with you.”

If he heard the words, Djalma did not pay any attention to them.  He made no answer, and his large black eyes gazed upon vacancy.  He seemed to smile admiringly upon some enchanting vision, and he folded his two hands upon his bosom, in the attitude which his countrymen assume at the hour of prayer.  After some instants of contemplation, he said:  “What o’clock is it?”—­but he asked this question of himself, rather than of any third person.

“It will soon be two o’clock, my lord,” said Faringhea.

Having heard this answer, Djalma seated himself, and hid his face in his hands, as if completely absorbed in some ineffable meditation.  Urged on by his growing anxiety, and wishing at any cost to attract the attention of Djalma, Faringhea approached still nearer to him, and, almost certain of the effect of the words he was about to utter, said to him in a slow and emphatic voice:  “My lord, I am sure that you owe the happiness which now transports you to Mdlle. de Cardoville.”

Hardly had this name been pronounced, than Djalma started from his chair, looked the half-breed full in the face, and exclaimed, as if only just aware of his presence, “Faringhea! you here!—­what is the matter?”

“Your faithful servant shares in your joy, my lord.”

“What joy?”

“That which the letter of Mdlle. de Cardoville has occasioned, my lord.”

Djalma returned no answer, but his eye shone with so much serene happiness, that the half-caste recovered from his apprehensions.  No cloud of doubt or suspicion obscured the radiant features of the prince.  After a few moments of silence, Djalma fixed upon the half-caste a look half-veiled with a tear of joy, and said to him, with the expression of one whose heart overflows with love and happiness:  “Oh! such delight is good—­great—­like heaven!—­for it is heaven which—­”