Jack waited, feeling more and more exhausted, and wondering how long his irksome durance was to last. By and by he again heard horses galloping. The Buriat sergeant and one of his men had returned from their fruitless chase. Min-chin, the Korean servant, had outridden them, and they had lost trace of him. They pulled up at the missionary's house to ask the whereabouts of the remainder of the troop, then they rode on. Watching them out of sight, and waiting for some time to assure himself that danger was past, Father Mayenobe carried the ladder to the tree, and soon Jack, pale, worn, and hungry, lay in the priest's own bed. The father, like most of the French missionaries in China, knew something of medicine and surgery; he examined Jack's wound, dressed and bound up his arm, and said that he was not to think of getting up for several days. It was in fact nearly a week before he was allowed to leave the bed, and the missionary saw that watch was kept night and day to guard against a surprise visit from the Russians.
During this period of enforced seclusion Father Mayenobe learnt Jack's story. Though it made him feel more than ever the gravity of his position if his guest should be discovered, it did not abate by a jot his determination to do what he could for him. Indeed, his sympathy for Jack was enhanced by a certain similarity between his circumstances and Gabriele's. He told Jack her story. Her father was a large land-owner, the descendant of a great Polish family, a man of noble character, greatly beloved of his tenants and respected by his peers. Like every true Pole he was a strong patriot, and had been a member of one of the secret associations that have for their object the restoration of Polish liberties. Some six years before, the society had been betrayed by one of its members; Count Walewski, with several of his compatriots, was arrested and sent without trial into exile; and as a deterrent to other Poles who might contemplate revolt, the place selected for his punishment was the bleak barren island of Sakhalin, the farthest eastern limit of the Russian empire. There was special cruelty and indignity involved in this choice, for the island was reserved as a rule for murderers and the lowest class of criminals; and his friends in Poland were aghast when they heard to what a living death he had been condemned.
At the time of the count's arrest and banishment, his daughter Gabriele was only eleven years of age. Her father's estates being confiscated, and she a motherless child, she was adopted by her paternal aunt, an unmarried lady of ample means, who took her to her home in Paris, educated her, and treated her with a mother's care. But as the girl grew older and learned to understand more fully the hopelessness of her father's fate, she resolved at all costs to share his exile, and to do what lay in her power to alleviate and sweeten his terrible lot. Her aunt, fearful of allowing a young girl to undertake a mission so terrible, and being too infirm to accompany her, did all that she could to turn her from her purpose. But with increasing years the girl's determination became ever stronger. She grew up quickly into a thoughtful strong-willed maiden, full of patriotic ardour, of passionate resentment against the Russian government, and of an overflowing love for the father whose affection she remembered so well, and whose noble qualities she had not been too young to appreciate. While grateful for all the kindness her aunt had showered upon her, she was possessed by an overmastering sense of duty to her father. At last, when she was nearly seventeen, but in looks and mind older than her years, she threatened to set forth without assistance if her aunt refused her assent and help. Having no alternative the poor lady yielded, only stipulating that Gabriele's old nurse should accompany her. For some months they vainly tried to get permission from St. Petersburg for the girl to join her father. In the case of ordinary criminals no difficulty was usually made; it was clear that, as happens so often in Russia, the political offence was to be visited more heavily than the worst of crimes. Then she started without permission, hoping to obtain the necessary authorization at Vladivostok. She was provided with letters of introduction to a Polish family in Siberia, and one to Father Mayenobe, whose sister had been a teacher at the pension Gabriele had attended in Paris. But the outbreak of the war had so much disorganized things that the Polish friends were not to be found. She arrived in Vladivostok; there her request for permission to go to Sakhalin had been referred by one official to another, shelved, and finally ignored. Then, friendless and despairing, she had written to the missionary asking his advice. He had already heard of her from his sister. Riding at once into Vladivostok he endeavoured to get the required permission; but the governor and officials had something more important to consider than the romantic impulses of a Polish school-girl, and they politely shunted all his representations. At his suggestion Gabriele and her nurse had returned with him to his little mission station in the hills, where they had since remained, hoping that in course of time they would gain their object.
When Jack was well enough to leave his bedroom and share the simple life of the missionary and his household, it was apparent that the two young people were drawn together by the common circumstances of their fate. From the first moment Jack had felt a strong admiration for the girl whose resourcefulness had saved him from capture; while Gabriele regarded his position as even worse than her own, for she knew at any rate where her father was. They had many long conversations together; the girl put her own sorrows into the background, and entered heartily into Jack's perplexities and plans. Father Mayenobe often joined them in talking things over, and soon won Jack's admiration for his character, and respect for his wise counsel.
Jack had opportunities of seeing something and learning more of his new friend's mission work. Jean Mayenobe had been a favourite pupil of Monsieur Venault, the young nobleman who gave up his career as a courtier of Louis XVIII, and devoted his whole fortune and forty-two years of his life to his labour of love in Manchuria. A great part of a French missionary's work consists in relieving the poor and sick and caring for orphans. He does little actual preaching of the Gospel; he conducts service in a small church or oratory attached to his house, but converts are made chiefly through the agency of native Christians, and through the training of orphan children from tender years. The priest dresses and fares little better than the poorest of his flock, and is never absent from his charge, fulfilling with absolute literalness the Divine command.
One day a Korean youth in training for the priesthood came in with a message from the Sister in charge of the orphanage at Almazovsk. He remained for several days in the house. Observing his manly open countenance and his air of energy and enthusiasm, so much in contrast to the average Korean's flabby effeminacy, Jack understood what an influence for good the Christian missionary can wield.
The talk in the little mission-house turned again and again upon the mystery of Mr. Brown's fate.
Father Mayenobe confessed that he was unable to make a likely guess as to the merchant's whereabouts.
"There are so many places in Siberia to which he may have been sent. Sakhalin, you suggest? Sakhalin is little used now for political prisoners, although, as in Count Walewski's case, some few are still sent there."
"How am I to find out? It is the uncertainty that is so terrible."