“Misericordia! how can that be?”
“His excellency the Nawab Fateh Mohammed will explain better than it is possible for me to do.”
Thus impelled, his “Excellency” did, indeed, give the Countess and her companions a cheering message, which the half-caste women joyfully interpreted for those who did not follow the native words with complete understanding. Then, after many days, some broken hearts found relief again in tears.
At last, not venturing to search too eagerly, yet missing none he passed in this Via Dolorosa, Mowbray found the Franciscan. Utterly spent, unable to move one foot before the other, Fra Pietro would have been dead a week gone had not some bullock-driver, whose crushed fingers he had dressed, lifted him into a grain cart and kept him there in defiance of repeated advice to throw the Giaour into the jungle and let him glut the jackals.
Nevertheless, the good monk, broken in body and exhausted for want of food suited to his condition, had not benefited greatly by the jolting repose thus given him. He was still exceedingly ill, and when Mowbray, who knew him instantly, could not refrain from leaping to the ground and bending over him, the parched blue-white lips were moving in fitful prayer:—
“De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine!... Dona me requiem æternam ... Ostende me, Domine, misericordiam tuam!”
“The Lord has heard thee, good friend, though happily thy days of eternal rest may be long deferred for the good of mankind,” murmured Walter to himself, for he dared not be too openly recognized by the Franciscan, lest Fateh Mohammed should be moved to ponder upon all that had taken place.
Yet something must be done, and quickly, too, if that flickering soul were to stay in its earthly tabernacle.
He turned to the nawab.
“Here is one who, I have good reason to believe, will be highly esteemed by the Sultana. He should be carried to a tent, given a little wine and milk, and receive the most careful attendance. If, indeed, his name be Fra Pietro, his life is of the utmost value to all concerned.”