“But unhappy love, miserable love, betrayed love—­weeps tears of blood,” replied Faringhea, with painful dejection.

“Of what love dost thou speak?” asked Djalma, in surprise.

“I speak of my love,” answered the half-caste, with a gloomy air.

“Of your love?” said Djalma, more and more astonished; not that the half caste, still young, and with a countenance of sombre beauty, appeared to him incapable of inspiring or feeling the tender passion, but that, until now, he had never imagined him capable of conceiving so deep a sorrow.

“My lord,” resumed the half-caste, “you told me, that misfortune had made me wicked, and that happiness would make me good.  In those words, I saw a presentiment, and a noble love entered my heart, at the moment when hatred and treachery departed from it.  I, the half-savage, found a woman, beautiful and young, to respond to my passion.  At least I thought so.  But I had betrayed you, my lord, and there is no happiness for a traitor, even though he repent.  In my turn, I have been shamefully betrayed.”

Then, seeing the surprise of the prince, the half-caste added, as if overwhelmed with confusion:  “Do not mock me, my lord!  The most frightful tortures would not have wrung this confession from me; but you, the son of a king, deigned to call the poor slave your friend!”

“And your friend thanks you for the confidence,” answered Djalma.  “Far from mocking, he will console you.  Mock you! do you think it possible?”

“Betrayed love merits contempt and insult,” said Faringhea, bitterly.  “Even cowards may point at one with scorn—­for, in this country, the sight of the man deceived in what is dearest to his soul, the very life blood of his life, only makes people shrug their shoulders and laugh.”

“But are you certain of this treachery?” said Djalma, mildly.  Then he added, with visible hesitation, that proved the goodness of his heart:  “Listen to me, and forgive me for speaking of the past!  It will only be another proof, that I cherish no evil memories, and that I fully believe in your repentance and affection.  Remember, that I also once thought, that she, who is the angel of my life, did not love me—­and yet it was false.  Who tells you, that you are not, like me, deceived by false appearances?”

“Alas, my lord! could I only believe so!  But I dare not hope it.  My brain wanders uncertain, I cannot come to any resolution, and therefore I have recourse to you.”

“But what causes your suspicions?”

“Her coldness, which sometimes succeeds to apparent tenderness.  The refusals she gives me in the name of duty.  Yes,” added the half-caste, after a moment’s silence, “she reasons about her love—­a proof, that she has never loved me, or that she loves me no more.”

“On the contrary, she perhaps loves you all the more, that she takes into consideration the interest and the dignity of her love.”