They came from a
little bower ten steps before him; and as past scenes rushed to his
memory, his heart beat tremulously in his bosom; the monk recognized a
barcarole which he had often sung in his younger days: but although the
air was lively, the voice which sung it was mournful and sad. Stepping
noiselessly, he stood at the entrance of the bower. The stranger started
and arose! Their separation had been a long one, but neither the
furrowed cheeks and sallow complexion of the one, nor the turbaned head
of the other, could deceive them; and the two brothers fell in each
others arms.
On its return, the Persian caravan had one driver the less, for the
apostate was on his death-bed in the humble dwelling of his brother.
Once more a Christian, again reconciled to his God, he calmly awaited
his summons to a better world. For two weeks he lingered on, repenting
his error and praying for mercy. He died, and in the little jessamine
bower where he had met with the Mussulman, the monk buried the
Christian; he placed a cross upon his grave and mourned him long; but a
heavy load had been removed from his breast, and since that time he had
felt happy, having no weight on his mind to disturb him in the execution
of his sacred ministry.
Having narrated this passage in his history, the Padre Marini bid me
good night, and we prepared to sleep.
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