In the distance one could, in fact, make out upon the deep blue of the sky the profile of the curved roof of the pagodas in Saigon.  It took a long hour yet, before, at a turn in the river, the town itself appeared, miserable looking,—­with all deference to our geographies, be it said,—­in spite of the immense labor of the French colony.

Saigon consists mainly of one wide street running parallel with the right bank of the Dong-Nai, a primitive, unpaved street cut up into ruts, broken in upon by large empty spaces, and lined with wooden houses covered with rice-straw or palm-leaves.

Thousands of boats crowd against the banks of the river along this street, and form a kind of floating suburb, overflowing with a strange medley of Annamites, Hindoos, and Chinamen.  At a little distance from the river, there appear a few massive buildings with roofs of red tiles, pleasing to the eye, and here and there an Annamite farm, which seems to hide behind groups of areca-palms.  Finally, on an eminence, rise the citadel, the arsenal, the house of the French commander, and the former dwelling of the Spanish colonel.

But every town is beautiful, where we land after a voyage of several months.  Hence, as soon as “The Conquest” was safely at anchor, all the officers, except the midshipman on duty, went on shore, and hastened to the government house to ask if letters from France had arrived there before them.  Their hopes were not deceived.  Two three-masters, one French, the other English, which had sailed a month later than “The Conquest,” had arrived there at the beginning of the week, bringing despatches.

There were two letters for Daniel, and with feverish hands and beating heart he took them from the hand of the old clerk.  But at the first glance at the addresses he turned pale.  He did not see Henrietta’s handwriting.  Still he tore open the envelopes, and glanced at the signatures.  One of the letters was signed, “Maxime de Brevan;” the other, “Countess Ville-Handry,” nee Sarah Brandon.

Daniel commenced with the latter.  After informing him of her marriage, Sarah described at great length Henrietta’s conduct on the wedding-day.

“Any other but myself,” she said, “would have been incensed at this atrocious insult, and would abuse her position to be avenged.  But I, who never yet forgave anybody, I will forgive her, Daniel, for your sake, and because I cannot see any one suffer who has loved you.”

A postscript she had added ran thus,—­

“Ah! why did you not prevent my marriage, when you could do so by a word?  They think I have reached the summit of my wishes.  I have never been more wretched.”

This letter made Daniel utter an exclamation of rage.  He saw nothing in it but bitter irony.

“This miserable woman,” he thought, “laughs at me; and, when she says she does not blame Henrietta, that means that she hates her, and will persecute her.”