“No, I come from the frontier, but my friend is in the Carlino regiment.”
“Ah, he has been getting into trouble with his sergeant, I suppose? I know how it is: they always think the sergeant is hard upon them, until they become sergeants themselves, and then they can see no good in the men. My Elisaveta’s husband is a sergeant in the city guard himself, and he has told me some fine tales! But your sweetheart—ah, we all know what ‘friend’ means—must have done something very foolish indeed to get himself into such trouble.”
“If they kill him, it will be a shameful, horrible murder!” cried Nadia, hotly.
“Well, I suppose you have information to prove what you say. Are you going to appeal to the Minister for War?”
“Oh no, no! To the King.”
“The King? Ah, that is wise, no doubt. He is young, and every one says he is kind-hearted, and he is going to be married, so that your sweetheart’s case ought to touch his feelings.”
“Yes,” murmured Nadia, seeing at a glance the full irony of the situation.
“Yes, I think that on the whole you have come at a very favourable time. Have you written out your petition?”
“No, I never thought of that,” said Nadia. “I meant to try and speak to him.”
“But he might not catch sight of you, or he might have no time to listen. If he had a paper which would remind him of you, he might tell his brother, Prince Kyrillo,”—Nadia did not at first recognise Cyril under this designation,—“to inquire into the case afterwards. We must certainly get one drawn up. To-morrow morning the train stops for half an hour at a place where a cousin of mine lives. She is the station-master’s wife, and she will be able to write for us. Or perhaps you can write? But it ought to be in French. Our King is learning Thracian, they say, but he certainly cannot know it well yet, and it would be a great advantage if he was able to read the petition at once.”