"My life belongs to you," repeated the half-caste.
"I belong to you, slave!" cried Djalma, repulsing him. "Just now, I hung upon your lips, devouring your dangerous lies."
"Lies, my lord? Only appear before these women, and their looks will confirm my words."
"These women love me!—me, who have only lived in war and in the woods?"
"The thought that you, so young, have already waged bloody war on men and tigers, will make them adore, my lord."
"You lie!"
"I tell you, my lord, on seeing your hand, as delicate as theirs, but which has been so often bathed in hostile blood, they will wish to caress it; and they will kiss it again, when they think that, in our forests, with loaded rifle, and a poniard between your teeth, you smiled at the roaring of a lion or panther for whom you lay in wait."
"But I am a savage—a barbarian."
"And for that very reason you will have them at your feet. They will feel themselves both terrified and charmed by all the violence and fury, the rage of jealousy, the passion and the love, to which a man of your blood, your youth, your ardor must be subject. To-day mild and tender, to-morrow fierce and suspicious, another time ardent and passionate, such you will be—and such you ought to be, if you wish to win them. Yes; let a kiss of rage be heard between two kisses: let a dagger glitter in the midst of caresses, and they will fall before you, palpitating with pleasure, love, and fear—and you will be to them, not a man, but a god."
"Dost think so?" cried Djalma, carried away in spite of himself by the
Thug's wild eloquence.