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, [[85]]‘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.’