When she reached the priest’s house Beni-Mora was astir with a pleasant bustle of life. The military note pealed through its symphony. Spahis were galloping along the white roads. Tirailleurs went by bearing despatches. Zouaves stood under the palms, staring calmly at the morning, their sunburned hands loosely clasped upon muskets whose butts rested in the sand. But Domini scarcely noticed the brilliant gaiety of the life about her. She was preoccupied, even sad. Yet, as she entered the little garden of the priest, and tapped gently at his door, a sensation of hope sprang up in her heart, born of the sustaining power of her religion.
An Arab boy answered her knock, said that the Father was in and led her at once to a small, plainly-furnished room, with whitewashed walls, and a window opening on to an enclosure at the back, where several large palm trees reared their tufted heads above the smoothly-raked sand. In a moment the priest came in, smiling with pleasure and holding out his hands in welcome.
“Father,” she said at once, “I am come to have a little talk with you. Have you a few moments to give me?”
“Sit down, my child,” he said.
He drew forward a straw chair for her and took one opposite.
“You are not in trouble?”
“I don’t know why I should be, but——”
She was silent for a moment. Then she said:
“I want to tell you a little about my life.”
He looked at her kindly without a word.