stupor which petrified the features of Djalma, who remained kneeling, motionless, with his body thrown back, his hands stretched out, his eyes fixed and wildly staring - Adrienne, no longer dreading an amorous surprise, was seized with an indescribable terror, and instead of flying from the prince, advanced several steps toward him, and said, in an agitated voice, while she pointed to the kandjiar, "My friend, why are you here? what ails you? why this dagger?"

Djalma made no answer. At first, the presence of Adrienne seemed to him a vision, which he attributed to the excitement of his brain, already (it might be) under the influence of the poison. But when the soft voice sounded in his earswhen his heart bounded with the species of electric shock which he always felt when he met the gaze of that woman so ardently beloved when he had contemplated for an instant that adorable face, so fresh and fair, in spite of its expression of deep uneasiness - Djalma understood that he was not the sport of a dream, but that Mademoiselle de Cardoville was really before his eyes.

Then, as he began fully to grasp the thought that Adrienne was not dead, though he could not at all explain the prodigy of her resurrection, the Hindu's countenance was transfigured, the pale gold of his complexion became warm and red, his eyes (tarnished by tears of remorse) shone with new radiance, and his features, so lately contracted with terror and despair, expressed all the phases of the most ecstatic joy. Advancing, still on his knees, toward Adrienne, he lifted up to her his trembling hands; and, too deeply affected to pronounce a word, he gazed on her with so much amazement, love, adoration, gratitude, that the young lady, fascinated by those inexplicable looks, remained mute also, motionless also, and felt, by the precipitate beating of her heart, and by the shudder which ran through her frame, that there was here some dreadful mystery to be unfolded.

At last, Djalma, clasping his hands together, exclaimed with an accent impossible to describe, "Thou art not dead!" "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,

on which she now perceived marks of blood-a terrible evidence, in confirmation of the words of Djalma - Mademoiselle 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 herself 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."

"The poison!" exclaimed Adrienne, and her teeth chattered convulsively. "What poison?"

"I thought I had killed you, and I came here to die." "To die? Oh! wherefore? who is to die?" cried the young lady, almost in delirium.

"I," replied Djalma, with inexpressible tenderness, "I thought I had killed you — and I took poison.'

"You!" exclaimed Adrienne, becoming pale as death. “You!” "Yes."

"Oh! it is not true!" said the young lady, shaking her head. "Look!" said the Asiatic. Mechanically, he turned toward the bed toward the little ivory table, on which sparkled the crystal phial.

-

With a sudden movement, swifter than thought, swifter, it may be, than the will, Adrienne rushed to the table, seized the phial, and applied it eagerly to her lips.

Djalma had hitherto remained on his knees; but he now uttered a terrible cry, made one spring to the drinker's side, and dragged away the phial, which seemed almost glued to her mouth.

"No matter! I have swallowed as much as you," said Adrienne, with an air of gloomy triumph.

For an instant there followed an awful silence. Adrienne and Djalma gazed upon each other, mute, motionless, horrorstruck. The young lady was the first to break this mournful silence, and said in a tone which she tried to make calm and steady, "Well! what is there extraordinary in this? You have killed, and death must expiate your crime. It is just. I will not survive you. That also is natural enough. Why look at me thus? This poison has a sharp taste-does it act quickly! Tell me, my Djalma."

The prince did not answer. Shuddering through all his frame, he looked down upon his hands. Faringhea had told the truth; a slight violet tint appeared already beneath the nails. Death was approaching, slowly, almost insensibly, but not the less certain. Overwhelmed with despair at the thought that Adrienne, too, was about to die, Djalma felt his courage fail him. He uttered a long groan, and hid his face in his hands. His knees shook under him, and he fell down upon the bed, near which he was standing.

66

'Already?" cried the young lady, in horror, as she threw herself on her knees at Djalma's feet. "Death already? Do you hide your face from me?"

In her fright, she pulled his hands from before his face. That face was bathed in tears.

"No, not yet," murmured he, through his sobs. "The poison is slow."

66

Really!" cried Adrienne, with ineffable joy. Then, kissing the hands of Djalma, she added tenderly, "If the poison is slow, why do you weep?"

"For you! for you!" said the Indian, in a heartrending

tone.

"You

“Think not of me," replied Adrienne, resolutely. have killed, and we must expiate the crime. I know not what has taken place; but I swear by our love that you did not do evil for evil's sake. There is some horrible mystery in all this."

"On a pretense which I felt bound to believe," replied Djalma, speaking quickly, and panting for breath, “Faringhea led me to a certain house. Once there, he told me that you had betrayed me. I did not believe him, but I know not what strange dizziness seized upon me—and then, through a half obscurity, I saw you

"Me!"

99

No- not you- but a woman resembling you, dressed

a man

like you, so that I believed the illusion- and then there came and you flew to meet him—and I — mad with rage ―stabbed her, stabbed him, saw them fall — and so came here to die. And now I find you only to cause your death. misery misery! that you should die through me!"

Oh,

And Djalma, this man of formidable energy, began again to weep with the weakness of a child. At sight of this deep, touching, passionate despair, Adrienne, with that admirable courage which women alone possess in love, thought only of consoling Djalma. By an effort of superhuman passion, as the prince revealed to her this infernal plot, the lady's countenance became so splendid with an expression of love and happiness, that the East Indian looked at her in amazement, fearing for an instant that he must have lost his reason.

“No more tears, my adored!" cried the young lady, exultingly. "No more tears- but only smiles of joy and love! Our cruel enemies shall not triumph!"

"What do you say?"

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They wished to make us miserable. We pity them. felicity shall be the envy of the world!"

"Adrienne - bethink you

Our

Listen to me, my

"Oh! I have all my senses about me. adored! I now understand it all. Falling into a snare which these wretches spread for you, you have committed murder. Now, in this country, murder leads to infamy, or the scaffold -and to-morrow-to-night, perhaps, you would be thrown into prison. But our enemies have said: 'A man like Prince Djalma does not wait for infamy - he kills himself. A woman like Adrienne de Cardoville does not survive the disgrace or death of her lover-she prefers to die. Therefore a frightful death awaits them both,' said the black-robed men ; ' and that immense inheritance, which we covet

"And for you-so young, so beautiful, so innocentdeath is frightful, and these monsters triumph!" cried Djalma. "They have spoken the truth!"

"They have lied!" answered Adrienne. "Our death shall be celestial. This poison is slow-and I adore you, my Djalma ! "

She spoke those words in a low voice, trembling with passionate love, and, leaning upon Djalma's knees, approached so near that he felt her warm breath upon his cheek. As he felt that breath, and saw the humid flame that darted from the

large, swimming eyes of Adrienne, whose half-opened lips were becoming of a still deeper and brighter hue, the Indian started - his young blood boiled in his veins - he forgot everything his despair, and the approach of death, which as yet (as with Adrienne) only showed itself in a kind of feverish ardor. His face, like the young girl's, became once more splendidly beautiful.

"Oh, my lover! my husband! how beautiful you are!" said Adrienne, with idolatry. "Those eyes-that browthose lips-how I love them! How many times has the remembrance of your grace and beauty, coupled with your love, unsettled my reason, and shaken my resolves-even to this moment, when I am wholly yours! Yes, Heaven wills that we should be united. Only this morning, I gave to the apostolic man, that was to bless our union, in thy name and mine, a royal gift—a gift that will bring joy and peace to the heart of many an unfortunate creature. Then what have we to regret, my beloved? Our immortal souls will pass away in a kiss, and ascend, full of love, to that God who is all love !" "Adrienne!"

The light, transparent curtains fell like a cloud over that nuptial and funereal couch. Yes, funereal; for, two hours after, Adrienne and Djalma breathed their last sigh in a voluptuous agony.

RAWDON CRAWLEY BECOMES A MAN.

By W. M. THACKERAY.

(From "Vanity Fair.")

[WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, English novelist and humorist, was born in Calcutta, India, July 19, 1811, and died December 24, 1863. He studied for an artist, but could not learn to draw, and after some years of struggle began to make a name in Fraser's Magazine by "The Great Hoggarty Diamond," "The Yellowplush Papers," etc. There followed "The Paris Sketch Book"; "The Book of Snobs," "Ballads of Policeman X," "Prize Novelists," etc., from Punch; and "The Rose and the Ring." "Vanity Fair," "Pendennis," "Henry Esmond," and "The Newcomes," his four great masterpieces, all came in the six years 1848-1854. His lectures on "English Humorists" and "The Four Georges" followed; then "The Virginians" (sequel to "Esmond"), "Lovel the Widower," "Philip," and the unfinished "Denis