These words appeared to make a deep impression on Faringhea.  He breathed a long sigh, and, bowing his head upon his breast, remained silent and full of thought.  Djalma prepared, by the faint light of the lamps, reflected in the interior of the coach, to throw himself suddenly on the half-caste, and disarm him.  But the latter, who saw at a glance the intention of the prince, drew his kandjiar abruptly from his girdle, and holding it still in its sheath, said to the prince in a half-solemn, half-savage tone:  “This dagger, in a strong hand, is terrible; and in this phial is one of the most subtle poisons of our country.”

He touched a spring, and the knob at the top of the hilt rose like a lid, discovering the mouth of a small crystal phial concealed in this murderous weapon.

“Two or three drops of this poison upon the lips,” resumed the half caste, “and death comes slowly and peacefully, in a few hours, and without pain.  Only, for the first symptom, the nails turn blue.  But he who emptied this phial at a draught would fall dead, as if struck by lightning.”

“Yes,” replied Djalma; “I know that our country produces such mysterious poisons.  But why lay such stress on the murderous properties of this weapon?”

“To show you, my lord, that this kandjiar would ensure the success and impunity of my vengeance.  With the blade I could destroy, and by the poison escape from human justice.  Well, my lord! this kandjiar—­take it—­I give it up to you—­I renounce my vengeance—­rather than render myself unworthy to clasp again your hand!”

He presented the dagger to the prince, who, as pleased as surprised at this unexpected determination, hastily secured the terrible weapon beneath his own girdle; whilst the half-breed continued, in a voice of emotion:  “Deep this kandjiar, my lord—­and when you have seen and heard all that we go to hear and see—­you shall either give me the dagger to strike a wretch—­or the poison, to die without striking.  You shall command; I will obey.”

Djalma was about to reply, when the coach stopped at the house inhabited by Sainte-Colombe.  The prince and the half-caste, well enveloped in their mantles, entered a dark porch, and the door was closed after them.  Faringhea exchanged a few words with the porter, and the latter gave him a key.  The two Orientals soon arrived at Sainte-Colombe’s apartments, which had two doors opening upon the landing-place, besides a private entrance from the courtyard.  As he put the key into the lock, Faringhea said to Djalma, in an agitated voice:  “Pity my weakness, my lord—­but, at this terrible moment, I tremble and hesitate.  It were perhaps better to doubt—­or to forget!”

Then, as the prince was about to answer, the half-caste exclaimed:  “No! we must have no cowardice!” and, opening the door precipitately, he entered, followed by Djalma.

When the door was again closed, the prince and the half-caste found themselves in a dark and narrow passage.  “Your hand, my lord—­let me guide you—­walk lightly,” said Faringhea, in a low whisper.