“What is strange, my lord?”

“Nothing.  But tell me, since your advice has hitherto prospered so well, what think you of the future?”

“Of the future, my lord?”

“Yes; in an hour I shall be with Mdlle. de Cardoville.”

“That is a serious matter, my lord.  The whole future will depend upon this interview.”

“That is what I was just thinking.”

“Believe me, my lord, women never love any so well, as the bold man who spares them the embarrassment of a refusal.”

“Explain more fully.”

“Well, my lord, they despise the timid and languishing lover, who asks humbly for what he might take by force.”

“But to-day I shall meet Mdlle. de Cardoville for the first time.”

“You have met her a thousand times in your dreams, my lord; and depend upon it, she has seen you also in her dreams, since she loves you.  Every one of your amorous thoughts has found an echo in her heart.  All your ardent adorations have been responded to by her.  Love has not two languages, and, without meeting, you have said all that you had to say to each other.  Now, it is for you to act as her master, and she will be yours entirely.”

“It is strange—­very strange!” said Djalma, a second time, without removing his eyes from Faringhea’s face.

Mistaking the sense which the prince attached to these words, the half caste resumed:  “Believe me, my lord, however strange it may appear, this is the wisest course.  Remember the past.  Was it by playing the part of a timid lover that you have brought to your feet this proud young lady, my lord?  No, it was by pretending to despise her, in favor of another woman.  Therefore, let us have no weakness.  The lion does not woo like the poor turtle-dove.  What cares the sultan of the desert for a few plaintive howls from the lioness, who is more pleased than angry at his rude and wild caresses?  Soon submissive, fearful and happy, she follows in the track of her master.  Believe me, my lord—­try everything—­dare everything—­and to-day you will become the adored sultan of this young lady, whose beauty all Paris admires.”

After some minutes’ silence, Djalma, shaking his head with an expression of tender pity, said to the half-caste, in his mild, sonorous voice:  “Why betray me thus?  Why advise me thus wickedly to use violence, terror, and surprise, towards an angel of purity, whom I respect as my mother?  Is it not enough for you to have been so long devoted to my enemies, whose hatred has followed me from Java?”

Had Djalma sprung upon the half-caste with bloodshot eye, menacing brow, and lifted poniard, the latter would have been less surprised, and perhaps less frightened, than when he heard the prince speak of his treachery in this tone of mild reproach.

He drew back hastily, as if about to stand on his guard.  But Djalma resumed, with the same gentleness, “Fear nothing.  Yesterday I should have killed you!  But to-day happy love renders me too just, too merciful for that.  I pity you, without any feeling of bitterness—­for you must have been very unhappy, or you could not have become so wicked.”