“That is what they all say,” replied the half-caste, with bitter irony, as he fixed a penetrating look on Djalma; “thus speak all those who love weakly, coldly; but those who love valiantly, never show these insulting suspicions.  For them, a word from the man they adore is a command; they do not haggle and bargain, for the cruel pleasure of exciting the passion of their lover to madness, and so ruling him more surely.  No, what their lover asks of them, were it to cost life and honor, they would grant it without hesitation—­because, with them, the will of the man they love is above every other consideration, divine and human.  But those crafty women, whose pride it is to tame and conquer man—­who take delight in irritating his passion, and sometimes appear on the point of yielding to it—­are demons, who rejoice in the tears and torments of the wretch, that loves them with the miserable weakness of a child.  While we expire with love at their feet, the perfidious creatures are calculating the effects of their refusals, and seeing how far they can go, without quite driving their victim to despair.  Oh! how cold and cowardly are they, compared to the valiant, true-hearted women, who say to the men of their choice:  ’Let me be thine to-day-and to-morrow, come shame, despair, and death—­it matters little!  Be happy! my life is not worth one tear of thine!”

Djalma’s brow had darkened, as he listened.  Having kept inviolable the secret of the various incidents of his passion for Mdlle. de Cardoville, he could not but see in these words a quite involuntary allusion to the delays and refusals of Adrienne.  And yet Djalma suffered a moment in his pride, at the thought of considerations and duties, that a woman holds dearer than her love.  But this bitter and painful thought was soon effaced from the oriental’s mind, thanks to the beneficent influence of the remembrance of Adrienne.  His brow again cleared, and he answered the half-caste, who was watching him attentively with a sidelong glance:  “You are deluded by grief.  If you have no other reason to doubt her you love, than these refusals and vague suspicions, be satisfied!  You are perhaps loved better than you can imagine.”

“Alas! would it were so, my lord!” replied the half-caste, dejectedly, as if he had been deeply touched by the words of Djalma.  “Yet I say to myself:  There is for this woman something stronger than her love—­delicacy, dignity, honor, what you will—­but she does not love me enough to sacrifice for me this something!”

“Friend, you are deceived,” answered Djalma, mildly, though the words affected him with a painful impression.  “The greater the love of a woman, the more it should be chaste and noble.  It is love itself that awakens this delicacy and these scruples.  He rules, instead of being ruled.”

“That is true,” replied the half-caste, with bitter irony, “Love so rules me, that this woman bids me love in her own fashion, and I have only to submit.”