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Updated: July 17, 2025
Hadj's countenance fell. He looked at his cousin sideways, always showing his teeth. "Do you not know, Hadj-ben-Ibrahim?" They had reached the end of the little street. The whiteness of the great road which stretched straight through the oasis into the desert lay before them, with the statue of Cardinal Lavigerie staring down it in the night.
There was something childlike in the mobility of his face. "I am glad," he said simply. "We are not a rich community in Beni-Mora, but we have been fortunate in bygone years. Our great Cardinal, the Father of Africa, loved this place and cherished his children here." "Cardinal Lavigerie?" "Yes, Madame. His house is now a native hospital.
"Yes, and I have noticed it in our dead Cardinal." "Cardinal Lavigerie." Androvsky bent over his plate. He seemed suddenly to withdraw his mind forcibly from this conversation in which he was taking no active part, as if he refused even to listen to it. "He is your hero, I know," the Count said sympathetically. "He did a great deal for me." "And for Africa. And he was wise."
Such, however, was not the view taken at the time. Not long before, the Continent had rung with the sermons and speeches of Cardinal Lavigerie, Bishop of Algiers, who, like a second Peter the Hermit, called all Christians to unite in a great crusade for the extirpation of slavery.
Then there was a babel of voices, a torrent of cries full of barbaric gaiety. Before it had died out of Domini's ears she stood by the statue of Cardinal Lavigerie. Rather militant than priestly, raised high on a marble pedestal, it faced the long road which, melting at last into a faint desert track, stretched away to Tombouctou.
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