"Abdul Achmet?" whispered Andréa.
"Yes, Abdul Achmet. He lived in Athens then; he moved to Nauplia afterwards. It was in the summer, too, I remember that, and that I was with my father."
She had sunk down again with her head on his knee, but here she raised herself on her elbow and looked at him.
"He was a priest—yes, he must have been a priest, for he had long black robes and long hair; only his hair was black, not gray, like yours. Ah—"
Then to Andréa the blessed relief of tears came—the great sobs that come from a man's heart—a pain and an exquisite happiness; and lifting her closer to him, he kissed her.
"Theodora," he cried, "little lost one. Ah, ah, merciful and compassionate God. Do you not remember, my little one? Do you not know? Your father—am I not he whom you called 'father' as soon as you saw me? God put that word in your mouth, my darling. God sent me to fetch you; and I who would have murdered you—O blessed Mother of compassion and sorrows—I—Theodora, Theodora—the gift of God."
Thus spoke they together, with many questions and answerings, till Andréa was certain and content.