“She looked at me the closer when I spoke thus, signor, the light of recognition leaping suddenly into her eyes.
“‘It is Father Andrea,’ she cried at last; and then she put her hand into mine. But there was no gladness in her word or greeting; and while the surprise of this was still upon me, she led the way into the hut which was her home. Never was there a cleaner or prettier place in Zlarin. A little bed with the whitest sheets stood in one corner of it; a big cupboard of mahogany contained unlooked-for possessions; there was a crucifix and an old gilt mirror; a clock to tick merrily, and a table set out with cup and platter. Even a stove, with the embers of a fire in it, had come by some magic into this house of marvels. I remembered when I saw it that the priest had spoken of Christine as a beggar—a vagrant of the hills—worthless and idle, and to be avoided. His words were not to be reconciled with that which I observed all about me in the hut; and when I had seen all that was to be seen I sat down upon her rough-hewn bench and began to question her.
“‘Child,’ said I, ‘how comes it that all these months have passed and you have not written to me?’
“She was sitting upon her bed, thumbing the strings of her fiddle; but now she looked up at me very frankly, and with no fear.
“‘What was news of me to you, Father Andrea, who broke your promise to me from the first?’
“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘it is true that I broke my promise; yet necessity carried me to Pola, and so kept me from you. But I wrote often to ask of you, and have sent you many gifts, as you know——’
“‘Nay,’ cried she, and there was truth in her voice, ‘no gifts have I received. Nicolò and the priest must answer for those.’
“‘Speak not so lightly of one who serves Christ,’ said I; ‘as for Nicolò, they tell me that he did well to you here, and that you rewarded him but ill.’
“Now, at this question, excellency, she did not answer me directly, but laughed with much bitterness; and presently, tearing the chemise off her arms and back, she shewed me her flesh scarred and riven where the blows of whip or staff had fallen upon it.
“‘God help me,’ said she, ‘if that were well! Look for yourself and see what Nicolò did for the sister who was left to him. Oh, I have suffered, Andrea—I, the child that loved all and was loved by none—I have suffered, as the Blessed Mother is my witness. Think you that there can be any room in my heart for love now?’