The sobs of the weeping woman at his feet floated through the room. "Ah, thou tender and pitying Master--best friend of the sinning, the sick, and the sorrowing--we offer to thee this bruised child. We find no sin, no guile, in her; for after the ignorant code of men she has paid the last farthing for satisfying the wolf's greed. Dost thou bid her come?" In the presence of death he felt his own terrible impotence. Of what avail then was his Christianity? Or the Church's traditional words of comfort? The priest's tears fell fast. But something within--perhaps that "something not ourselves"--the voice of Israel's almost forgotten God--whispered a hope that blossomed in this petition of tenderest love and pity. He had long since ceased to pray for himself; but in this, the only prayer that had welled from his chilled heart in months, his pitying desire to humor the wishes of a dying girl had unconsciously formulated his own soul's appeal. "Blessed Saviour, take her to thine arms; shield her forever more from the carnal lust of the wolf; lift her above the deadening superstitions and hypocritical creeds of those who touch but to stain; take her, Saviour, for we find her pure, innocent, clean; suffering and sorrow have purged away the sin. Dost thou bid her come?" The scent of roses and orange blossoms from the garden below drifted into the room on the warm breeze. A bird, awakened by the swaying of its nest, peeped a few sweet notes of contentment, and slept again. "We would save her--we would cure her--but we, too, have strayed from thee and forgotten thy commands--and the precious gift of healing which thou didst leave with men has long been lost. But thou art here--thy compassionate touch still heals and saves. Jesus, unique son of God, behold thy child. Wilt thou bid her come?" "What says he, Padre?" murmured the sinking girl. The priest bent close to her. "He says come, _carita_--come!" With a fluttering sigh the tired child sank back into the priest's arms and dropped softly into her long sleep. CHAPTER 17