"She is known as Sister Magdalen—perhaps you know her—she may even be staying at the same convent as yourself," eagerly.
"I know one Sister Magdalen, a sweet, quiet woman, lately from Malta, whither she went to consult the head of our order."
Her words arouse John.
"It is she. If you would only take me to her, I would at once be rid of all these doubts and fears."
"Would you come?"
John has forgotten the warning of Mustapha, forgotten all former experiences. There is a crowd gathering around them, and this is one of the things he was to guard against, still he pays little attention to this fact, his mind is so bent upon accomplishing his object.
"Eagerly. Once this night I have risked much to find my mother, and I am ready to do more."
"Then follow me. Better still, walk at my side, for I see ugly faces around. You have made enemies, but I will stand between. My garb is sacred, and they will respect it."
"I am ready, lead on."
What is this that plucks at his sleeve? He half-turns impatiently, and looks into a face he ought to know full well, but which he now sees with something of annoyance.