"Mitsos, Mitsos?" said Andréa. "Yes, the tall Mitsos, who lives in that house near the bay." Father Andréa stopped. "What do you know of Mitsos?" he said, almost fiercely, and as the girl's tears answered him, he bowed his head in amazed wonder. As soon as he had left her there and was out of sight he knelt down on the hill-side. "O God, O merciful and loving One," he cried, in an agony of supplication; "if this be possible, if this be possible, for to Thee all things are possible! Did she not speak to me and call me 'father'? Oh, in Thy infinite compassion let her word be true! Did I not call her daughter while my heart burned within me? O merciful and loving One!" He found Suleima where he had left her, and the food and wine made her strength revive. When she had finished he came and sat by her. His voice trembled so that at first he could not form the words, but at last, getting it more in control: "My daughter," he said, "we will rest here a little until the noon heat is past. And--and, for the love of God, answer me a few questions. When was it you were taken to the house of the Turk?" His anxiety made his voice harsh and fierce, and the girl shrank from him. He saw it, and it cut him to the heart. "Ah, my poor lamb!" he said, "have pity on me and answer me." "It was ten years ago," said Suleima, "or perhaps twelve. I do not very well know." "Can you remember anything about it?" Suleima shook her head wearily. "I do not know; I was so young. And I am so tired, father. Let me sleep a little, and when I wake up I will think and tell you all I know. You have been very kind to me." And she dozed off and slept without moving for near an hour, with Andréa sitting by her. Then she stirred in her sleep, and without opening her eyes shifted her head so that it rested on his knee, and so slept again. At last she woke, and seeing him above her, sat up. "Has Mitsos come?" she asked. "Will he come soon? I have slept so well," and she smiled at him like a child for no reason except that she smiled. "You were asking me--" she said, at length. "Yes, yes," said Andréa. "It is so little I remember," she said; "I was so young. But it was near Athens somewhere, and on a journey with my father, that I was carried off to the house of Abdul Achmet." "Abdul Achmet?" whispered Andréa. "Yes, Abdul Achmet. He lived in Athens then; he moved to Nauplia afterwards. It was in the summer, too, I remember that, and that I was with my father." She had sunk down again with her head on his knee, but here she raised herself on her elbow and looked at him. "He was a priest--yes, he must have been a priest, for he had long black robes and long hair; only his hair was black, not gray, like yours. Ah--" Then to Andréa the blessed relief of tears came--the great sobs that come from a man's heart--a pain and an exquisite happiness; and lifting her closer to him, he kissed her.