“You are alive—­I see you—­you are here,” said Djalma, in a voice trembling with rapture.  “You are here—­beautiful! pure! for it was not you!  Oh, no! had it been you, the steel would have turned back upon myself.”

“You have killed some one?” cried the young lady, beside her with this unforeseen revelation, and clasping her hands in horror.  “Why? whom did you kill?”

“I do not know.  A woman that was like you—­a man that I thought your lover—­it was an illusion, a frightful dream—­you are alive—­you are here!”

And the oriental wept for joy.

“A dream? but no, it is not a dream.  There is blood upon that dagger!” cried the young lady, as she pointed wildly to the kandjiar.  “I tell you there is blood upon it!”

“Yes.  I threw it down just now, when I took the poison from it, thinking that I had killed you.”

“The poison!” exclaimed Adrienne, and her teeth chattered convulsively.  “What poison?”

“I thought I had killed you, and I came here to die.”

“To die?  Oh! wherefore? who is to die?” cried the young lady, almost in delirium.

“I,” replied Djalma, with inexpressible tenderness, “I thought I had killed you—­and I took poison.”

“You!” exclaimed Adrienne, becoming pale as death.  “You!”

“Yes.”

“Oh! it is not true!” said the young lady, shaking her head.

“Look!” said the Asiatic.  Mechanically, he turned towards the bed—­towards the little ivory table, on which sparkled the crystal phial.

With a sudden movement, swifter than thought, swifter, it may be, than the will, Adrienne rushed to the table, seized the phial, and applied it eagerly to her lips.

Djalma had hitherto remained on his knees; but he now uttered a terrible cry, made one spring to the drinker’s side, and dragged away the phial, which seemed almost glued to her mouth.

“No matter!  I have swallowed as much as you,” said Adrienne, with an air of gloomy triumph.

For an instant, there followed an awful silence.  Adrienne and Djalma gazed upon each other, mute, motionless, horror-struck.  The young lady was the first to break this mournful silence, and said in a tone which she tried to make calm and steady, “Well! what is there extraordinary in this?  You have killed, and death most expiate your crime.  It is just.  I will not survive you.  That also is natural enough.  Why look at me thus?  This poison has a sharp taste—­does it act quickly!  Tell me, my Djalma!”

The prince did not answer.  Shuddering through all his frame, he looked down upon his hands.  Faringhea had told the truth; a slight violet tint appeared already beneath the nails.  Death was approaching, slowly, almost insensibly, but not the less certain.  Overwhelmed with despair at the thought that Adrienne, too, was about to die, Djalma felt his courage fail him.  He uttered a long groan, and hid his face in his hands.  His knees shook under him, and he felt down upon the bed, near which he was standing.