‘The nuns, or the abbess of the convent, probably received money, according to some agreement with your father, not to give the slightest information. I wrote several times, but the letters, of course, were never sent. Some time after your father’s death they became much less strict in watching me. News of his death had reached the convent, and more money was not sent. I ran away one day from the convent, and travelled on foot as a pilgrim in my nun’s dress, begging all the way, to your home.’ ‘Was my mother glad to see you again?’ ‘Yes; she embraced me with tears when she saw me again. All the servants and people in the village were glad to see me again. “But where is Theodore?” you may be sure I asked at once, when I did not see you there. ‘“Theodore,” said your mother with a sigh—“Theodore has gone away.” ‘“Where?” ‘“Ah, my dear child!” your mother exclaimed, and began to cry bitterly, “Theodore has gone to Solowetski monastery to be a monk.” ‘“To be a monk!” I exclaimed in alarm. ‘“Yes; when he gave up the hope of finding you again, or believed that you were either dead, or had been compelled by our father to marry Anthony, he decided to become a monk.” ‘“Marry Anthony!” I exclaimed, “how could he think such a thing?” ‘“Father could have made you.” ‘“Never!” I said. “I would have taken my own life before that.” ‘Neither your mother nor I knew exactly where Solowetski monastery lay, or how far it was from our home, but a short time afterwards a troop of pilgrims passed by, and were housed on the estate. You may be sure that I was glad when I heard that the object of their journey was to visit Solowetski. I at once told your mother that I would go with them. Then it was my turn to hunt for you. But you were not at Solowetski. The monks stated that you had gone further northwards, to a monastery which I knew still less about. Then, as a part of our company decided to go on to Petschenga, I gladly joined them, and now here I am.’ ‘Yes, indeed—God be praised!’ ‘And are you now a monk, Theodore?’ ‘No, Annita, thank God, I have not taken full vows. I should have taken them on Christmas Eve, when the monastery was attacked, the brothers were slain, and everything was burnt to the ground.’ ‘Then you can return back again to the world, and to your home?’ ‘Yes, when I am well enough to travel, and have recovered my sight, you may be sure that I shall leave this place.’ ‘And will you take me with you? Will you give me leave to go home with you?’ ‘Annita, kiss my forehead, let me feel your lips upon my brow, as I cannot kiss your lips. What would it be to me to return without you, Annita? What do I care for castle, and estate, when there are no sunbeams on them? What good does it do to a man if he conquers all the world, but cannot win a woman’s heart? All with you, Annita, or nothing without you.’