Marie had no more recollection of Ouvaroff than she had of the Czar, and gazed wonderingly at him as he knelt before her upon the sands.
“Prince Ouvaroff,” whispered Wilfrid for her enlightenment.
“Your Majesty,” said the Prince, “I—I have done you a grievous wrong, for which I know not how to atone. If the taking of my life can afford you any satisfaction it is yours to take.”
The Empress put forth her hand and raised the Prince.
“Aid me to escape, good Ouvaroff, and you are forgiven.”
The Prince vowed that he would do all he could to further her wish, for he perceived that, till the recovery of her memory, it would be unjust and cruel to force her return to the Czar. For his part, zealous to retrieve his error, he desired nothing better than to die in her service.
“As I am of like mind with you,” said Wilfrid, addressing Ouvaroff, “what is to prevent us from being the best of friends as once we were?”
The Prince grasped Wilfrid’s outstretched hand and thus the two, so long estranged, were at one again.
“Are you not coming with us?” said Marie to Pauline.