“So you wish to know the fate of that naval officer?” he said. “Yes,” answered Pavel, prepared, however, to hear some tomfoolery, some imposture. “Send that certain person awaiting your news a myrtle leaf.” “How? what did you say? Say it again,” cried out Pavel. “Myrtle! myrtle? then he is lost.…” “He was saved on a fragment of the ship near the island of Teneriffe, and for some time remained with the poor monks of the coast.” “And now? oh! speak, I implore you.” “A year after he was killed by pirates, who pillaged the monastery where he was living.” “How did you learn all this?” “At that time I was myself living on the isle of Teneriffe,” he answered. “I was copying an old Latin manuscript, which was very precious to me, from the archives of the monastery.” “But what does all this mean? Is he only a juggler, or an all-powerful seer?” thought Pavel, torn with doubts. “A clever diviner, or a bold charlatan, but from where?… All my most secret … coast of Africa … the name of the lost ship … and then that token, the fatal myrtle. Is it possible Ekaterina Ivanovna should have betrayed me? But he never saw her; she is ill, has never been once out of her room, received no visits, and has been nowhere.…” Pavel wanted to say something else, but could find no words. Beyond the schooner the dawn was breaking. “I will accompany your Highness to the palace,” said the stranger with elaborate politeness and a cringing bow; “have I your permission?” Pavel slightly glanced at the tawdry cotton-velvet bespangled costume of the wizard, looking so shabby in the morning light, and taking off his mask, without saying one word more, strode gloomily and proudly along the deserted shore. “Poor sorrowing Penelope! unfortunate lovely Irena!” thought he. “No one has been able to solve that anguishful enigma--neither ministers, nor knights, nor ambassadors; let us send her the myrtle leaf of the Italian wizard and juggler.” CHAPTER XXXV. _FIFTEEN YEARS AFTER._ Fifteen years had passed away; the year 1796 was drawing to its end. It was in the beginning of the reign of Pavel I. All Petersburg was hailing joyfully the liberation of the celebrated Novikoff from the fortress, and the return from Siberia of Radischeff. The emperor, with his august consort and several courtiers, went to visit the fortress of Petropavlovski. The chief of the police, Arharoff, asked the emperor if he would not like to visit the Ravelin of Alexéef, where great alterations and repairs were taking place. One of the dungeons attracted the attention of the Imperial visitors. “Were any Italians ever confined here?” asked the emperor of the commandant. “Never, your Highness; only schismatics.” “Well, look here,” and the Emperor pointed to the window, “here’s an inscription on the glass, cut with a diamond. ‘O, Dio mio.’”