Well, René loved Atala, Atala loved René, and they were married; and Outogamiz went through some ceremony besides, which made him blood brother and bosom friend to René—a bond which involved certain obligatory rites and duties and self‑sacrifices.
Atala died and was buried. René died and was buried also; and every day, as in duty bound, poor Outogamiz went and pricked a vein and bled over Rene's tomb, till he died himself of exhaustion before he was many weeks older. I quote entirely from memory.
This simple story was told in very touching and beautiful language, by no means telegraphese, and Barty and I were deeply affected by it.
"I say, Bob!" Barty whispered to me, with a break in his voice, "some day I'll marry your sister, and we'll all go off to America together, and she'll die, and I'll die, and you shall bleed yourself to death on my tomb!"
"No," said I, after a moment's thought. "No—look here! I'll marry your sister, and I'll die, and you shall bleed over my tomb!"
Then, after a pause:
"I haven't got a sister, as you know quite well—and if I had she wouldn't be for you!" says Barty.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not good‑looking enough!" says Barty.
At this, just for fun, I gave him a nudge in the wind with my elbow—and he gave me a "twisted pinch" on the arm—and I kicked him on the ankle, but so much harder than I intended that it hurt him, and he gave me a tremendous box on the ear, and we set to fighting like a couple of wild‑cats, without even getting up, to the scandal of the whole study and the indignant disgust of M. Dumollard, who separated us, and read us a pretty lecture: