"You were with her, then, in her last hours?"
"And afterwards. She had sent for me."
"It was you who closed her eyes?"
Zeneida bowed her head silently.
"I thank you," said the Czar, and, taking from her the white-bound diary, he held out his hand to her—a soft, thin hand—but the action was not a cordial one.
Zeneida kissed the hand.
"Have you any wish, Fräulein Ilmarinen?"
"Only one, sire! That you should graciously please to read the last three pages of Sophie's diary in my presence."
The Czar glanced back, as though to ask Araktseieff's permission. Then only did he resolve to accede to her wish, and, opening the diary, he read.
He bit his lips to conceal his emotion. But Zeneida well knew what it was he was reading; she knew the whole contents of the diary, as well as those last confused lines written by the convulsed hand of an unhappy child, looking forward with yearning and dread to the cold embrace of death. And the Czar, as he concluded the last page, looking up at Zeneida, saw that her eyes were filled with tears.