“She has a great sorrow, and has grieved and wept for many years. Ali, her only son, who was in service at Gabés, was sent to prison, accused of having stolen money from the tradesman he served. But he was innocent—that we know; he was a good boy, and his mother loved him. It is now four years and four months since we heard from him, and eight months more must pass before we can have him home again.”
“Do you not even know if he lives?”
“Yes, we have learnt through strangers that he is alive, and supposed to be imprisoned at Bona in Algeria.”
The old woman drew herself along the wall till she was close to me when she heard of what we were talking.
“Are you from Bona?” she asked, whimpering.
“No,” I replied, “I come from a much more distant place, and have never been in Bona.”
“Ah! then you do not know Ali,” she said, with a sob.
“No, poor woman,” I replied; “that I do not; but now you will soon see your son alive. You have waited so long for him that the remaining time will soon pass ere he return to you and be happy with you again, for you love him. He will have thought so often of you, and he will be so good to you that both of you will rejoice.”
“Ah! it was a great misfortune, for he was innocent—I am sure of that; another must have been the culprit, for he was so young.”
“How old was he?”