“She is here,” whispered the priest to himself. The door led into a rather low but very comfortable room. There were no sentinels now. The candle near the bed shed a feeble light on the other part of the room, through a purposely arranged silk curtain. The room was close, and a faint odour of medicine and incense pervaded it. The priest glanced around, and silently stepped behind the screen.
The sick girl lay motionless on her bed, but was quite conscious.
She slowly raised her eyes to the visitor, and recognising that it was the priest by his dress, gently sighed, and held out her hand.
“I am very, very glad, Holy Father,” she whispered in French. “Perhaps you would prefer German?”
“Oui! Oui, comme il vous plaît,” stammered Father Peter, shivering involuntarily at the sound of that deep, broken contralto.
“I am ready; ask,” stammered the captive. “Pray for me.”