“By the koran, who is now speaking to thee of imposts? Of _Karadj_ and _Miri_ I hold thee acquitted, thou and thine, forever, and thou art free, and shalt leave here carrying with thee more piastres than I demanded of thee; but before we separate thou must call down the curses of thy God on that dog there.” Then, turning to his other captive, he continued: “Yes, thou art about to die, and die accursed by a priest of thy religion. Inch Allah, wilt thou speak now?” With an heroic resignation Ferdinand, as his only reply, kneels and bows his head, devoted at once to the sabre and anathema, when he hears the old Cenobite of Libanus, raising his trembling hands above his head, say to him, in a soft voice, “If thou art a Christian, I bless thee, my son.” These holy words were scarcely pronounced when the old man fell, shot dead. Baïla fell backward with a movement of horror, and the pacha, with unbounded impassibility, replaced his pistol in his belt. He interrupted this movement suddenly to restrain his lion by the mane, which, animated by the sight of blood, was about to spring with a roar on the body of the Maronite. “Carry off that corpse,” said Djezzar to the Mangrebian, “and leave us.” The dead body carried off, the Mangrebian gone, turning to the lion, which, with open mouth and thirsty and trembling lips, was uttering low growls and darting his brilliant glance toward the prey which was carried from him, Djezzar, restraining him by voice and gesture, said: “Be patient, Haïder; thy part shalt soon come—thou shalt not lose by the exchange.” He then resumed his first position, and whilst the lion, restrained by him, continued its low roaring, with its eyes fixed on a large spot of blood on the carpet, and addressing Baïla, without appearing to notice the emotions of terror by which she was agitated, said: “Yes, the giaour is for us three—for each a part. For me, his head; for the lion, his body; and for thee, my beautiful rose of Incour—my faithful, for thee, his heart. Has he not given thee that heart? Well, go take it.” Baïla, undecided, troubled with horror, knew not what meaning to attach to his words. “Go, take it,” repeated Djezzar. “look, behold! powerless to defend himself, does he not appear himself to offer it to thee? Go, my soul, and if thy dagger is not enough for the work, use mine.” The odalisk bent toward him—“Thou art sporting with me, Ali—is it not so?” she murmured in his ear. “Dost thou not hear me, or art thou unwilling to understand me?” he replied, in a formidable tone. “This man dies—dies at once, by thy hand, or I shall believe thee to be his accomplice, and thy head shall fall before his. I swear it, by Mahomet and the four caliphs.” Baïla, having to choose between inflicting or receiving death, felt an icy coldness in her veins; her forehead became lividly pale. “Thou hesitatest!” said the pacha. She carried a trembling hand to her dagger. “Take mine,” he said.