There is no man, however brave he may think himself, who would not tremble at the idea that he has, just by a miracle, escaped from the assassin’s hand. There is not one who would not feel his blood grow chill in his veins¹ at the thought that those who have failed in their attempt once will no doubt renew their efforts, and that perhaps the miracle may not be repeated.  
That was Daniel’s position.
 
He felt henceforth this terrible certainty, that war had been declared against him, a savage⁴ warfare⁵, merciless, pitiless, a war of treachery and cunning, of snare⁶ and ambush⁷. It had been proved to him that at his side, so to say, as his very shadow, there was ever a terrible enemy, stimulated⁸ by the thirst of gain, watching all his steps, ever awake and on the watch, and ready to seize the first opportunity to strike. The infernal cunning of the first two attempts enabled Daniel to measure the superior wickedness of the man who had been chosen and enlisted—at least Daniel thought so—by Sarah Brandon.
 
Still he did not say a word of the danger to which he was exposed, and even assumed, as soon as he had recovered from the first shock, a certain cheerfulness which he had not shown during the whole voyage, and under which he concealed¹⁰ his apprehensions¹¹.
 
“I do not want my enemy,” he said to himself, “to suspect my suspicions.”
 
But from that moment his suspicions never fell asleep; and every step he took was guided by most careful circumspection¹². He never put one foot before the other, so to say, without first having examined the ground; he never seized a man-rope without having first tried its solidity; he had made it a law to eat and drink nothing, not even a glass of water, but what came from the officers’ table.
 
These perpetual precautions, these ceaseless apprehensions, were extremely repugnant to his daring temper; but he felt, that, under such circumstances, careless would be no longer courage, but simple folly¹³. He had engaged in a duel¹⁴ in which he wanted to be victorious¹⁵; hence he must at least defend himself against the attack. He felt, moreover, that he was the only protector his beloved had now; and that, if he died, she would certainly be lost. But he also thought not only of defending himself, but of getting at the assassin, and, through him, at the infamous¹⁶ creature by whom he was employed, Sarah Brandon.
 
He therefore pursued his search quietly, slowly, but indefatigably¹⁷. Certain circumstances which he had at first forgotten, and a few points skilfully¹⁸ put together, gave him some hope. He had, for instance, ascertained²¹ that none but the crews of the boats had been on shore, and that, of these, not one had been for ten minutes out of sight of the others. Hence the pretended boatman was not a sailor on board “The Conquest.” Nor could it have been one of the marines, as none of them had been allowed to leave the vessel²³. There remained the emigrants²⁴, fifty or sixty of whom had spent the night in Saigon.
 
But was not the idea that one of these men might have led Daniel into the trap contradicted by the circumstances of the first attempt? By no means; for many of the younger men among these emigrants had asked permission to help in the working of the ship in order to break the monotony of the long voyage. After careful inquiry²⁵, Daniel ascertained even that four of them had been with the sailors on the yards from which the heavy block fell that came so near ending his life.
 
Which were they? This he could not ascertain²⁰.
 
Still the result was enough for Daniel to make his life more endurable. He could breathe again on board ship; he went and came in all safety, since he was sure that the guilty man was not one of the crew. He even felt real and great relief at the thought that his would-be assassin was not to be looked for among these brave and frank sailors; none of them, at least, had been bribed²⁶ with gold to commit a murder. Moreover, the limits of his investigations²⁷ had now narrowed down in such a manner, that he might begin to hope for success in the end.
 
Unfortunately the emigrants had, a fortnight after the landing, scattered²⁸ abroad, going according as they were wanted, to the different establishments in the colony, which were far apart from each other. Daniel had therefore, at least for the moment, to give up a plan he had formed, to talk with every one of them until he should recognize the voice of the false boatman.
 
He himself, besides, was not to remain at Saigon. After a first expedition, which kept him away for two months, he obtained command of a steam-sloop, which was ordered to explore and to take all the bearings of the River Kamboja, from the sea to Mitho, the second city of Cochin China. This was no easy task; for the Kamboja had already defeated the efforts of several hydrographic engineers by its capricious and constant changes, every pass and every turn nearly changing with the monsoons²⁹ in direction and depth.
 
But the mission had its own difficulties and dangers. The Kamboja is not only obstructed³⁰ by foul³¹ swamps; but it flows through vast marshy³² plains, which, in the season of rains, are covered with water; while in the dry season, under the burning rays of the sun, they exhale³³ that fatal malaria³⁴ which has cost already thousands of valuable lives.
 
Daniel was to experience its effects but too soon. In less than a week after he had set out, he saw three of the men who had been put under his orders die before his eyes, after a few hours’ illness, and amid atrocious convulsions. They had the cholera³⁵. During the next four months, seven succumbed³⁶ to fevers which they had contracted in these pestilential swamps. And towards the end of the expedition, when the work was nearly done, the survivors³⁷ were so emaciated³⁸, that they had hardly strength enough to hold themselves up. Daniel alone had not yet suffered from these terrible scourges³⁹. God knows, however, that he had not spared himself, nor ever hesitated to do what he thought he ought to do. To sustain, to electrify⁴⁰ these men, exhausted⁴¹ as they were by sickness, and irritated at wasting their lives upon work that had no reward, a leader was required who should possess uncommon⁴² intrepidity⁴³, and who should treat danger as an enemy who is to be defied only by facing him; and such a leader they found in Daniel.
 
He had told Sarah Brandon on the eve of his departure,—
 
“With a love like mine, with a hatred⁴⁴ like mine, in the heart, one can defy all things. The murderous climate is not going to harm me; and, if I had six balls in my body, I should still find strength enough to come and call you to account for what you have done to Henrietta before I die.”
 
He certainly had had need of all that dauntless energy which passion inspires to sustain him in his trials. But alas⁴⁵! his bodily sufferings were as nothing in comparison with his mental anxiety. At night, while his men were asleep, he kept awake, his heart torn with anguish⁴⁶, now crushed under the thought of his helplessness, and now asking himself if rage would not deprive him of his reason.
 
It was a year now since he had left Paris to go on board “The Conquest,” a whole year.
 
And he had not received a single letter from Henrietta,—not one. Every time a vessel arrived from France with despatches, his hopes revived; and every time they were disappointed.
 
“Well,” he would say to himself, “I can wait for the next.” And then he began counting the days. Then it arrived at last, this long-expected ship, and never, never once brought a letter from Henrietta—
 
How could this silence be explained? What strange events could have happened? What must he think, hope, fear?
 
To be chained by honor to a place a thousand leagues from the woman he loved to distraction⁴⁷, to know nothing about her, her life, her actions and her thoughts, to be reduced to such extreme wretchedness, to doubt—
 
Daniel would have been much less unhappy if some one had suddenly come and told him, “Miss Ville-Handry is no more.”
 
Yes, less unhappy; for true love in its savage selfishness suffers less from death than from treason. If Henrietta had died, Daniel would have been crushed; and maybe despair would have driven him to extreme measures; but he would have been relieved of that horrible struggle within him, between his faith in the promises of his beloved and certain suspicions, which caused his hair to stand on end.
 
But he knew that she was alive; for there was hardly a vessel coming from France or from England which did not bring him a letter from Maxime, or from the Countess Sarah. For Sarah insisted upon writing to him, as if there existed a mysterious bond between them, which she defied him to break.
 
“I obey,” she said, “an impulse more powerful than reason and will alike. It is stronger than I am, stronger than all things else; I must write to you, I cannot help it.”
 
At another time she said,—
 
“Do you remember that evening, O Daniel! when, pressing Sarah Brandon to your heart, you swore to be hers forever? The Countess Ville-Handry cannot forget it.”
 
Under the most indifferent words there seemed to palpitate and to struggle a passion which was but partially⁴⁹ restrained, and ever on the point of breaking forth². Her letters read like the conversations of timid lovers, who talk about the rain and the weather in a tone of voice trembling with desire, and with looks burning with passion.
 
“Could she really be in love with me?” Daniel thought, “and could that be her punishment?”
 
Then, again, swearing, like the roughest of his men, he added,—
 
“Am I to be a fool forever? Is it not quite clear that this wicked woman only tries to put my suspicions to sleep? She is evidently preparing for her defence, in case the rascal⁵⁰ who attempted my life should be caught, and compromise her by his confessions⁵².”
 
Every letter; moreover, brought from the Countess Sarah some news about his betrothed⁵³, her “stepdaughter.” But she always spoke⁵⁴ of her with extreme reserve and reticence⁵⁵, and in ambiguous terms, as if counting upon Daniel’s sagacity to guess what she could not or would not write. According to her account, Henrietta had become reconciled to her father’s marriage. The poor child’s melancholy⁵⁶ had entirely⁵⁷ disappeared. Miss Henrietta was very friendly with Sir Thorn. The coquettish ways of the young girl became quite alarming; and her indiscretion provoked the gossip of visitors. Daniel might as well accustom⁵⁸ himself to the idea, that, on his return, he might find Henrietta a married woman.
 
“She lies, the wretch⁴⁸!” said Daniel; “yes, she lies!”
 
But he tried in vain to resist; every letter from Sarah brought him the germ of some new suspicion, which fermented⁵⁹ in his mind as the miasma⁶⁰ fermented in the veins of his men.
 
The information furnished by Maxime de Brevan was different, and often contradictory⁶¹ even, but by no means more reassuring⁶². His letters portrayed⁶³ the perplexity and the hesitation⁶⁴ of a man who is all anxiety to soften⁶⁵ hard truths. According to him, the Countess Sarah and Miss Ville-Handry did not get on well with each other; but he declared he was bound to say that the wrong was all on the young lady’s side, who seemed to make it the study of her life to mortify⁶⁶ her step-mother, while the latter bore the most irritating provocations⁶⁷ with unchanging sweetness. He alluded⁶⁸ to the calumnies⁶⁹ which endangered Miss Henrietta’s reputation, admitting that she had given some ground for them by thoughtless acts. He finally added that he foresaw the moment when she would leave her father’s house in spite of all his advice to the contrary.
 
“And not one line from her,” exclaimed Daniel,—“not one line!”
 
And he wrote her letter after letter, beseeching⁷⁰ her to answer him, whatever might be the matter, and to fear nothing, as the certainty even of a misfortune would be a blessing⁷¹ to him in comparison with this torturing uncertainty⁷².
 
He wrote without imagining for a moment that Henrietta suffered all the torments⁷³ he endured, that their letters were intercepted⁷⁴, and that she had no more news of him than he had of her.
 
Time passed, however, carrying with it the evil as well as the good days. Daniel returned to Saigon, bringing back with him one of the finest hydrographic works that exist on Cochin China. It was well known that this work had cost an immense outlay⁷⁵ of labor⁷⁶, of privations, and of life; hence he was rewarded as if he had won a battle, and he was rewarded instantly, thanks to special powers conferred upon his chief, reserving only the confirmation⁷⁷ in France, which was never refused.
 
All the survivors of the expedition were mentioned in public orders and in the official report; two were decorated; and Daniel was promoted to officer of the Legion of Honor. Under other circumstances, this distinction, doubly valuable to so young a man, would have made him supremely⁷⁹ happy; now it left him cold.
 
The fact was, that these long trials had worn out the elasticity⁸⁰ of his heart; and the sources of joy, as well as the sources of sorrow, had dried up. He no longer struggled against despair, and came to believe that Henrietta had forgotten him, and would never be his wife. Now, as he knew he never could love another, or rather as no other existed for him; as, without Henrietta, the world seemed to him empty, absurd, intolerable,—he asked himself why he should continue to live. There were moments in which he looked lovingly at his pistols, and said to himself,—
 
“Why should I not spare Sarah Brandon the trouble?”
 
What kept his hand back was the leaven⁸¹ of hatred which still rose in him at times. He ought to have the courage, at least, to live long enough to avenge⁸² himself. Harassed⁸³ by these anxieties, he withdrew more and more from society; never went on shore; and his comrades on board “The Conquest” felt anxious as they looked at him walking restlessly up and down the quarter-deck, pale, and with eyes on fire.
 
For they loved Daniel. His superiority was so evident, that none disputed it; they might envy him; but they could never be jealous of him. Some of them thought he had brought back with him from Kamboja the germ of one of those implacable diseases which demoralize the strongest, and which break out suddenly, carrying a man off in a few hours.
 
“You ought not to become a misanthrope⁸⁴, my dear Champcey,” they would say. “Come, for Heaven’s sake shake off that sadness, which might make an end of you before you are aware of it!”
 
And jestingly they added,—
 
“Decidedly, you regret the banks of the Kamboja!”
 
They thought it a jest: it was the truth. Daniel did regret even the worst days of his mission. At that time his grave responsibility, overwhelming fatigues⁸⁵, hard work, and daily danger, had procured⁸⁶ him at least some hours of oblivion. Now idleness left him, without respite⁸⁷ or time, face to face with his distressing⁸⁸ thoughts. It was the desire, the necessity almost, of escaping in some manner from himself, which made him accept an invitation to join a number of his comrades who wanted to try the charms of a great hunting party.
 
On the morning of the expedition, however, he had a kind of presentiment⁸⁹.
 
“A fine opportunity,” he thought, “for the assassin hired by Sarah Brandon!”
 
Then, shrugging his shoulders, he said with a bitter laugh,—
 
“How can I hesitate? As if a life like mine was worth the trouble of protecting it against danger!”
 
When they arrived on the following day on the hunting ground, he, as well as the other hunters, received their instructions, and had their posts assigned them by the leader. He found himself placed between two of his comrades, in front of a thicket⁹⁰, and facing a narrow ravine, through which all the game must necessarily pass as it was driven down by a crowd of Annamites.
 
They had been firing for an hour, when Daniel’s neighbors saw him suddenly let go his rifle, turn over, and fall.
 
They hurried up to catch him; but he fell, face forward, to the ground, saying aloud, and very distinctly,—
 
“This time they have not missed me!”
 
At the outcry raised by the two neighbors of Daniel, other hunters had hastened up, and among them the chief surgeon of “The Conquest,” one of those old “pill-makers,” who, under a jovial⁹¹ scepticism, and a rough, almost brutal⁹² outside, conceal⁹ great skill and an almost feminine tenderness. As soon as he looked at the wounded man, whom his friends had stretched out on his back, making a pillow of their overcoats, and who lay there pale and inanimate, the good doctor frowned, and growled⁹³ out,—
 
“He won’t live.”
 
The officers were thunderstruck.
 
“Poor Champcey!” said one of them, “to escape the Kamboja fevers, and to be killed here at a pleasure party! Do you recollect⁹⁴, doctor, what you said on the occasion of his second accident,—‘Mind the third’?”
 
The old doct............