The priest carefully put the chalice on the table, drew a chair near the bed, passed his fingers through his bushy hair, and glancing at the image over the head of the sick girl, gently bent over her.
“Your name?” he asked.
“Princess Elizabeth.…”
“I conjure you, speak the truth,” continued Father Peter, trying to recollect the French words. “Who were your parents, and where were you born?”
“I swear by the Almighty God that I do not know,” answered the captive, with a hollow cough. “I knew and believed only what others told me.”
She answered all the other questions in a voice broken and so low as to be scarcely heard. She touched lightly on her childhood, the South of Russia, the village where she had lived, Siberia, her flight to Persia, and her residence in Europe.
“You are a Christian?” asked the priest.
“I was baptized into the Russian faith, and therefore look upon myself as belonging to the Russian Church, although until now, for many reasons, I have been deprived of the blessings of Confession and Holy Communion.… I have sinned a great deal. Trying to tear myself from my awful position, I gave my friendship to people who only betrayed me.… Oh, how thankful I am for your visit!”
“Among your papers were found two wills.… From whom did you receive them, and—hide nothing from God and from me—by whom was your Manifesto to the Russian fleet written?”