“Yes, Madame. His house is now a native hospital. His statue faces the beginning of the great desert road, But we remember him and his spirit is still among us.” The priest’s eyes lit up as he spoke. The almost tragic expression of his face changed to one of enthusiasm. “He loved Africa, I believe,” Domini said. “His heart was here. And what he did! I was to have been one of his _freres armes_, but my health prevented, and afterwards the association was dissolved.” The sad expression returned to his face. “There are many temptations in such a land and climate as this,” he said. “And men are weak. But there are still the White Fathers whom he founded. Glorious men. They carry the Cross into the wildest places of the world. The most fanatical Arabs respect the White Marabouts.” “You wish you were with them?” “Yes, Madame. But my health only permits me to be a humble parish priest here. Not all who desire to enter the most severe life can do so. If it were otherwise I should long since have been a monk. The Cardinal himself showed me that my duty lay in other paths.” He pointed out to Domini one or two things in the church which he admired and thought worthy; the carving of the altar rail into grapes, ears of corn, crosses, anchors; the white embroidered muslin that draped the tabernacle; the statue of a bishop in a red and gold mitre holding a staff and Bible, and another statue representing a saint with a languid and consumptive expression stretching out a Bible, on the leaves of which a tiny, smiling child was walking. As they were about to leave the church he made Domini pause in front of a painting of Saint Bruno dressed in a white monkish robe, beneath which was written in gilt letters: “Saint Bruno ordonne a ses disciples De renoncer aux biens terrestres Pour acquerir les biens celestes.” The disciples stood around the saint in grotesque attitudes of pious attention. “That, I think, is very beautiful,” he said. “Who could look at it without feeling that the greatest act of man is renunciation?” His dark eyes flamed. Just then a faint soprano bark came to them from outside the church door, a very discreet and even humble, but at the same time anxious, bark. The priest’s face changed. The almost passionate asceticism of it was replaced by a soft and gentle look. “Bous-Bous wants me,” he said, and he opened the door for Domini to pass out. A small white and yellow dog, very clean and well brushed, was sitting on the step in an attentive attitude. Directly the priest appeared it began to wag its short tail violently and to run round his feet, curving its body into semi-circles. He bent down and patted it. “My little companion, Madame,” he said. “He was not with me yesterday, as he was being washed.” Then he took off his hat and walked towards his house, accompanied by Bous-Bous, who had suddenly assumed an air of conscious majesty, as of one born to preside over the fate of an important personage.