Then she got up, breathed deeply, and looked at the man, his forehead, his hands; then she stooped down again, and groped with her fingers about his neck, and pulled out a little cross on a string. She recognised the cross. There was her name on it. It was a present she had given him. ‘Theodore!’ she exclaimed in fear and doubt. ‘Theodore Ivanovitsch,’ she said again; ‘is it you who are lying here ill and burnt?’ ‘Who is it who is speaking? Who are you?’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Who is here, Unnas?’ ‘Annita,’ said she softly. ‘Annita!’ exclaimed the sick man. ‘Unnas,’ he shouted, ‘where am I? am I dead or alive? and who is this who is speaking to me?’ ‘Theodore,’ whispered Annita, while she knelt down by his bed and kissed his forehead, ‘I am Annita—your own Annita—the lost Annita; and God be for ever praised that you are alive, and that I have found you.’ The sick man lay perfectly still for a moment, altogether overcome by his feelings. ‘Is it true? is it really you, Annita, or am I dreaming, am I fancying it, and have I lost my reason?’ ‘No; it is I, Theodore, in very truth, and I came here on a pilgrimage. I have come straight from your home.’ ‘I must look at you,’ said the sick man, ‘and I will take the bandage off my eyes.’ ‘No, no, my dear,’ said Annita, and she held his hands down; ‘you must not attempt to open your eyes. Your face is burnt; it would be dangerous; you must be careful.’ ‘Give me your hand; let me kiss your hand; I will hold your hand in mine; I will grasp your hands as you once did mine, my dear Annita. Here you really are, alive, and with me in this wretched hovel! Then you are not dead? you were not robbed, not kidnapped, and not married to Anthony?’ ‘No, indeed, nothing of the sort.’ ‘How is all this possible? Where have you come from?’ ‘I have come from your home, from our home, and I have brought you a greeting from your mother.’ ‘How has all this come about?’ ‘You shall know all by-and-by, but not now; I must go to our encampment and fetch some salve for your eyes, and then I will return and tell you all. You know now that I am alive and am here, and that I shall not leave you any more.’ ‘Do you know who the woman is whom you brought here, Unnas?’ Ambrose said when Annita was gone. ‘No; but she seems to be good and kind.’ ‘Good and kind!’ said Ambrose; ‘yes, Unnas, she is an angel, dearer to me than all the angels put together. Heavenly Father,’ he exclaimed, as he folded his hands across his breast, ‘I thank Thee with all my heart, that Annita lives, and that Thou hast also spared my life, whereas all my brethren have been slain. Even the aged Gurij is dead, and has not seen Annita.’ ‘Is it your sister?’ Unnas inquired. ‘Yes, she is both my child, my sister, my beloved one, and my bride.’ Unnas did not exactly understand this, but that it was a joyful surprise to his friend was plain enough.