At the table three persons were seated. One was a tall man of fine presence, with clear-cut features, soft brown eyes, long white hair and beard. He wore the loose white tunic and pantaloons of a Chinaman, but the cross that hung by a cord round his neck was not Chinese. Jean Mayenobe was a Frenchman, a priest, one of those devoted missionaries who cut themselves off from home and kindred to live a life of self-denial, peril, and humble Christian service in remote unfriendly corners of the globe.
His companions were a woman and a girl. The former was plain-featured and plainly dressed, with placid expression and humble mien. The latter seemed strangely out of place in her surroundings. She was young, apparently of some seventeen years. Her features were beautiful, with a dignity and a look of self-command rare in one of her age. Her complexion was ruddy brown; her bright hair, gathered in a knot behind, rebelled against the black riband that bound it, and fell behind her ears in crispy waves. Before her on the table was a samovar, and she had just handed a cup of tea to the missionary.
"Father," she said in French, "I am so tired of waiting. I am beginning to think that permission will never come. But why should it be refused? It is not as if I were seeking some benefit. In appearance I lose, not gain."
"True, my child, you have nothing personally to gain. I have said before, it is not every daughter who would come thousands of miles and suffer hardship in order to bear her father company in exile and imprisonment. And such exile! The little I know of Sakhalin is frightful. It gives me pain to think of your knowing even so much."
"I am not afraid. And if the treatment of prisoners in Sakhalin is so bad, that is all the more reason why I should be at my father's side, to help and comfort him a little. Why do they refuse to let me go?"
"Probably they have forgotten all about you. The war occupies them completely. And I repeat, if you have patience your father may come to you. I have no belief that the Russians will win in this terrible war. I heard but a little while ago from a brother priest near the scene of operations at Hai-cheng, who has studied the combatants, that he is convinced of the ultimate success of the Japanese. If they are victorious they will probably demand that Sakhalin shall be restored to them, and it will no longer be a place for Russian prisoners. Rest in the Lord, my child; wait patiently for Him, and He will give thee thy heart's desire."
Gabriele Walewska was silent. Father Mayenobe sank into a reverie. The elderly woman looked sympathetically at her mistress, laid her hand on hers, and murmured a few words in Polish, to which the girl responded with a grateful smile. The sound of a distant shot coming through the open window shook the missionary from his musing.
"Russian officers out snipe-shooting again, I suppose," he said. "It reminds me I must go, my child. That poor Korean convert of mine is at the point of death, I fear. I must go to him. I may be absent all day."
"We shall be quite happy, father. I shall pick the last of your strawberries to-day, and make some of your favourite tartlets for supper."
"You will spoil me," said the priest with a smile. "Dominus vobiscum."