“That is all there is to tell in a way. For inside the grave, if grave it were, there was nothing at all that it was given to our eyes to see—not a bone, not a shred of a habit, nor book nor beads. If ever a body or treasures of any sort had been there, the receptacle had been rifled long before, and entirely forgotten. So there is literally no more to tell. Of course the affair made great excitement. The chief and all his people came to see, and came once again the day after when I lowered Mwezi into the grave and replaced the altar stone. After that the door and the windows were blocked up at my request, against the day of the coming of the Faith once more to Mtaka-tifuni. For that, the space about the sanctuary is to be kept clear of undergrowth, by order of the chief. For that old Mwezi waits beneath the altar, and maybe he whom he saw waits also.”
The dinner bugle had sounded a few moments before Père Etienne had finished, and now we rose to go. We stood a second, and I gazed over the side at the star-shine on the water, for the night was fine. When I looked up, Père Etienne was staring out into the darkness, a far-away look on his face, but he must have felt my eyes on him, for he turned quickly and smiled. Possibly he read a question I rather wanted to ask, but did not dare. Anyway, he smiled, as I say, and shook his head. “I have lived too long in Africa to have theories, my friend,” he said, “but to me the memory of Mwezi and his chapel is a very precious thing. We are all of us souls on pilgrimage, and we rarely understand why or how, or remember that we have a Guide. But I like to think in the end, the Good God willing, we shall find a hidden sanctuary and that we have been led to a place prepared.”