They went slowly through the darkness; no one spoke a word. Dismas was
sunk in thought. Past days, when he had rested like this child in his
mother's arms and his father had led them over the Arabian desert, rose
before him. Many a holy saying of the prophets had echoed through his
robber life and would not be silenced.

After they had waded through the sand and clambered over the rocks for
hours, a golden band of light shone in the east. The bushes and trees
of the oasis of Descheme stood out against it.

Here Dismas left the wanderers to their safe road, in order to return
to the cave. When he turned back with good wishes for the rest of
their journey, he was met by a look from the child's shining eyes. The
beaming glance terrified him with the terror of wonderment. Never
before had child or man looked at him with look so grateful, so
glowing, so loving as this boy, his pretty curly head turned towards
him, his hands stretched out in form of a cross, as if he wished to
embrace him. Dismas's limbs trembled as if a flash of lightning had
fallen at his side, and yet it was only a child's eyes. Holding his
head with both hands, he fled, without knowing why he fled, for he
would rather have fallen on his knees before the wondrous child. But
something like a judgment seemed to thrust him forth, back into the
horror of the desert.

For three days our fugitives rested in the oasis. Mary liked to sit on
the grass under an olive-tree near the spring, and let the boy stretch
his little soft arms to pluck a flower. He reached it, but did not
break it from its stem; he only stroked it with his soft fingers.

And when the child fell asleep in the flowers, his mother kneeled