‘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.’
The band of pilgrims soon left the ruins of the monastery at Petschenga, and went southwards again, and one of them promised to make for Olonets, and inform Theodore’s mother that he and Annita were alive, and had found one another. Four weeks later it was possible to remove the bandage from Theodore’s eyes.
‘Well, Annita,’ he said, the first time he opened them, ‘now [[89]]I see you, that it is you yourself. I wasn’t absolutely certain before, but now I see the old smile upon your lips, and am quite certain. No other woman smiles like you.’
It was late one winter evening when Theodore and Annita drove into the courtyard at Olonets. The whole house was in darkness. Only in one room was a light burning, and it shone on them, and welcomed them like a friendly star on a dark night.
‘There is a light in your mother’s room,’ said Annita. ‘She is still awake. Come!’ she said, and took Theodore by the hand.
They went quietly to the window and looked in. The old lady was kneeling on a rug which she used at church, with a book before her, absorbed in prayer.
‘She has been weeping,’ said Annita; ‘she has been stricken with fear and doubt while we have been so long away.’