“Contempt is a terrible revenge,” answered Djalma.
“No, no,” replied the half-caste, with an accent of repressed rage. “It is not enough. The nearer the moment approaches, the more I feel I must have blood.”
“Listen to me—”
“My lord, have pity on me! I was a coward to draw back from my revenge. Let me leave you, my lord! I will go alone to this interview.”
So saying, Faringhea made a movement, as if he would spring from the carriage.
Djalma held him by the arm, and said: “Remain! I wilt not leave you. If you are betrayed, you shall not shed blood. Contempt will avenge and friendship will console you.”
“No, no, my lord; I am resolved. When I have killed—then I will kill myself,” cried the half-caste, with savage excitement. “This kandjiar for the false ones!” added he, laying his hand on his dagger. “The poison in the hilt for me.”
“Faringhea—”
“If I resist you, my lord, forgive me! My destiny must be accomplished.”
Time pressed, and Djalma, despairing to calm the other’s ferocious rage, resolved to have recourse to a stratagem.