“Ah, yes, indeed,” he answered. “I was once in a frightful storm of sand in the desert of Arabia Petrea. But what a delightful trip, travelling with the caravans in the daytime, and sleeping in a tent at night!” And he described his dress, consisting of a cloak of camel’s hair with red and black stripes, a dagger of Damascus hanging from a Bagdad belt, and the long lance of the Bedouins.
“That must have been very becoming to you.”
“Very; I have some photographs of myself taken in that dress. I will give you one. Do you know that I have brought you some presents?” he ended.
“Indeed!” she said, her eyes brightening.
“The best one first,—a rosary.”
“A rosary?”
“Yes; a relic blessed first by the Patriarch of Jerusalem on the tomb of Christ, and afterwards by the Pope.” For he had seen the Pope, he said,—a little old man dressed in white.
“Formerly you were not very devout,” said Luiza.
“No; but I don’t like to show a want of respect for those things,” he answered, laughing. “Do you remember the chapel in our house at Almada?”
In this chapel they had spent many a delightful hour. In front of it was a court, full of tall flowering plants, and the poppies, at the least breath of wind, trembled like red-winged butterflies balancing themselves on a stem.