They both raised their eyes. Looking at them from the open window was the smiling face of the black-eyed Nelidova. “Come in; I’m quite free now. I was waiting for you, and so began to sing. Come in.” The visitors retraced their steps. Anna Romanovna presented her companion to Nelidova, who made her sit down beside her. “So young, and yet in such a gloomy dress,” she said; “speak now, without any ceremony, tell me all, I am listening.” Irena began about Konsov, then went on to the arrest and captivity of Tarakanova. At each of her words, at each detail of the sad event, the bright playful face of Nelidova became more and more troubled and sad. “Great God! what mysteries, what tragedies!” thought she, shivering; “and all that in our days. But it’s the dark middle ages over again, and no one knowing anything of it.” “Thank you, Mademoiselle Irena,” said Ekaterina Ivanovna, after having listened attentively to Rakitina. “I am very much obliged to you for all you have related to me; if you will allow me, I will tell it all again to their Imperial Highnesses.… I am convinced that the Tzarevitch, that wise just knight, that angel of goodness and honour … will do everything for you. But to whom must he apply?” “How! to whom?” asked the astonished Irena. “You see, I do not know very well how to explain it,” continued Nelidova; “the Tzarevitch takes no part in State affairs, he can only ask others. On whom does all this depend?” “The Prince Potemkin might …” answered Irena, remembering the counsels of Father Peter, that the Prince could send orders to the different ambassadors and consuls. “Lieutenant Konsov is perhaps now a prisoner of the Moors or negroes, on some wild island in the Atlantic Ocean.” “Will you remain long here?” asked Nelidova. “The Mother Superior of the Nunnery where I live has been summoning me to return this long while. Every one blames me; calls my researches sinful.” “How and where can I send you a message?” Irena named the convent, and then became thoughtful, looking at the cushion worked by the grand-duchess. “I’ve suffered so much, I’ve waited so long,” she murmured, stifling her tears. “Do not write anything--not one word--but, see, send me, should there be success, a rose; if failure, a myrtle leaf.” Nelidova kissed Irena. “I will do everything I can,” she said gently. “I will appeal to the grand-duchess, to the Tzarevitch. There remains nothing more for you to do here. Better leave, my dear one; as soon as I learn anything, I will let you know.” CHAPTER XXXIII. _PAVEL PETROVITCH AND THE ENCHANTER._