"Yes, the tall Mitsos, who lives in that house near the bay."
Father Andréa stopped.
"What do you know of Mitsos?" he said, almost fiercely, and as the girl's tears answered him, he bowed his head in amazed wonder.
As soon as he had left her there and was out of sight he knelt down on the hill-side.
"O God, O merciful and loving One," he cried, in an agony of supplication; "if this be possible, if this be possible, for to Thee all things are possible! Did she not speak to me and call me 'father'? Oh, in Thy infinite compassion let her word be true! Did I not call her daughter while my heart burned within me? O merciful and loving One!"
He found Suleima where he had left her, and the food and wine made her strength revive. When she had finished he came and sat by her.
His voice trembled so that at first he could not form the words, but at last, getting it more in control:
"My daughter," he said, "we will rest here a little until the noon heat is past. And—and, for the love of God, answer me a few questions. When was it you were taken to the house of the Turk?"
His anxiety made his voice harsh and fierce, and the girl shrank from him. He saw it, and it cut him to the heart.
"Ah, my poor lamb!" he said, "have pity on me and answer me."