“Dead!” repeated the young lady, in amazement.
“It was not thou, really not thou, whom I killed? God is kind and just!”
And as he pronounced these words with intense joy, the unfortunate youth forgot the victim whom he had sacrificed in error.
More and more alarmed, and again glancing at the dagger en which she now perceived marks of blood—a terrible evidence, in confirmation of the words of Djalma—Mdlle. de Cardoville exclaimed, “You have killed some one, Djalma! Oh! what does he say? It is dreadful!”
“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.”