with a new burst of .  "That
remained with me--no one could take from me that treasure of the past--
that ought to have consoled me.  But why think of it?  I struck them
both--her and the man--without a struggle.  It was a cowardly murder--the
ferocity of the tiger that tears its innocent prey!"

Djalma buried his face in his hands.  Then, drying his tears, he resumed,
"I know, clearly, that I mean to die also.  But my death will not restore
her to life!"

He rose from the ground, and drew from his girdle Faringhea's bloody
dagger; then, taking the little phial from the hilt, he threw the blood-
stained blade upon the ermine carpet, the immaculate whiteness of which
was thus slightly stained with red.

"Yes," resumed Djalma, holding the phial with a convulsive grasp, "I know
well that I am about to die.  It is right.  Blood for blood; my life for
hers.  How happens it that my steel did not turn aside?  How could I kill
her?--but it is done--and my  is full of , and , an
inexpressible --and I have come here--to