The Prince was only too pleased at such an honour. She drew Ouvaroff, much to Volkonski’s surprise, from the entrance hall to the moonlight outside and began to whisper her tidings.
“She here!” muttered the Prince, confounded, “and preparing to fly.”
“She has been living in concealment here since the night of the Sumaroff Masquerade. Now before you pronounce her guilty read this.”—She handed him a letter.—“It is a confession written by Nadia, once maid at the Inn of the Silver Birch.”
By the light of the harvest moon Ouvaroff rapidly ran his eye over the document. His face wore at first an expression of surprise that finally merged into joy.
“This establishes her innocence,” he said looking up from the paper, “at least as regards the affair at the inn.” And then, with a look of deep dismay, he added in a stammering voice, “And I—it was I who accused her to Alexander——”
“Well, you can atone for that error by helping her now.”
“But—but,” exclaimed the perplexed Prince, as he handed back the letter, “since she can now prove her innocence what need is there for flight?”
“Because the Empress has lost her memory, and—But we’ve no time to lose. Come with me and I’ll explain matters as we go along.”
He followed Pauline, and, as they went, she put him in possession of the chief events of the story, finishing her recital just as they reached the Silver Strand.
Close to the shore with which it was connected by a broad plank, lay a handsome gondola, The Pauline, capable of holding eight or ten persons. Within it and resting upon their oars were four sturdy Finlanders, ready to undertake any charge, however perilous, at the bidding of their mistress.