“To require without any return, is to act as a master to his slave; by what right?”
“By the right of the strongest—as it is among us, my lord.”
“And what do the women do?”
“They prevent the men from being too ridiculous, when they marry, in the eyes of the world.”
“But they kill a woman that is false?” said Djalma, raising himself abruptly, and fixing upon Faringhea a savage look, that sparkled with lurid fire.
“They kill her, my lord, as with us—when they find her out.”
“Despots like ourselves! Why then do these civilized men not shut up their women, to force them to a fidelity which they do not practise?”
“Because their civilization is barbarous, and their barbarism civilized, my lord.”
“All this is sad enough, if true,” observed Djalma, with a pensive air, adding, with a species of enthusiasm, employing, as usual, the mystic and figurative language familiar to the people of his country; “yes, your talk afflicts me, slave—for two drops of dew blending in the cup of a flower are as hearts that mingle in a pure and virgin love; and two rays of light united in one inextinguishable flame, are as the burning and eternal joys of lovers joined in wedlock.”
Djalma spoke of the pure enjoyments of the soul with inexpressible grace, yet it was when he painted less ideal happiness, that his eyes shone like stars; he shuddered slightly, his nostrils swelled, the pale gold of his complexion became vermilion, and the young prince sank into a deep reverie.