word that Joconda had possessed, written by the scribe of Grosseto on the bit of yellow paper folded across the jug.
Musa listened and saw; she said nothing; she did not even notice that on that paper she had herself no name save the baptismal one from the Egyptian saint. She only thought all the while:
'She was all I had on earth and she is gone.'
The priest tried to speak a few phrases in season of counsel, to hazard a few questions, but he made no way. Musa was still and mute; she seemed to him like a statue; she said only as she looked at the pitcher—
'This is mine?'
'Surely, said the priest. 'At least there are none that I know of nearer of kin to dispute, and even if there were, the bequest, I think, would hold good. I am not sure, but so I believe.'
Musa lifted the pavement and replaced the pitcher with its coins in its hole. Then, with a sound that was half sob, half sigh, she sat down on the edge of the low bed and said to the good man:
'Father, will you go? I am best alone.'
