“What a strange contradiction is the heart of man! I, who had so much desired to speak of things mysterious to her whom I already loved like the sun, suddenly became troubled and confused, and felt as though I should have preferred to be thrown amongst the crocodiles in the fountain to finding myself alone with Atala. The daughter of the desert was as much affected as her prisoner. We observed a profound silence; for the genii of love had deprived us of speech. After an interval, Atala, making an effort, spoke thus: ‘Warrior, you are held but slightly: you can easily escape.’ At these words courage returned to my tongue, and I replied, ‘But slightly held, O woman!’---- I could not complete my phrase. Atala hesitated some moments, and then said, ‘Fly!’ at the same time liberating me from the trunk of the tree. I seized the cord, and returned it to the hand of the foreign maiden, forcing her beautiful fingers to close themselves upon my chain. ‘Take it back! Take it back!’ I cried. ‘You are mad!’ said Atala, in a voice full of emotion. ‘Wretched man, do you not know that you will be burnt? What do you mean? Do you reflect that I am the daughter of a redoubtable sachem?’ ‘There was a time,’ I replied, with tears, ‘when I also was carried about in a beaver-skin on the shoulders of a mother: my father also had a fine cottage, and his fawns drank of the waters of a thousand torrents; but I now wander without a country. When I shall have ceased to exist, no friend will place a little grass over my body, to keep the insects away from it. The corpse of an unhappy stranger interests no one.’ “These words touched Atala. Her tears fell into the fountain. ‘Ah,’ I continued with vivacity, ‘if your heart spoke like mine! Is not the desert free? Do not the forests contain folds in which we could conceal ourselves? And, in order to be happy, are there so many things necessary for the children of the huts? O maiden, more beautiful than the first dream of a spouse! O my well-beloved, dare to follow me!’ Such was my language. Atala replied to me in a tender tone of voice, ‘My young friend, you have learnt the expressions of the white men; it is easy to deceive an Indian girl!’ ‘What!’ I exclaimed, ‘you call me your young friend. Ah, if a poor slave’---- ‘Well,’ said she, leaning upon me, ‘a poor slave’---- I continued with ardor, ‘Let a kiss assure him of your faith!’ Atala listened to my prayers. As a fawn appears to cling to the flowers of the rosy creepers which it seizes with its delicate tongue on the mountain-steeps, so I remained attached to the lips of my well-beloved. [Illustration: 027]