My trial and condemnation plunged all three into misery; and Marya, believing that I could have justified myself had I chosen, and suspecting the motive which had kept me silent, and holding herself the sole cause of my misfortune, determined to save me.

All at once she informed my parents that she was obliged to start for Petersburg, and begged them to give her the means to do so.

“Why must you go to Petersburg?” said my mother, in distress.  “You, too—­are you also going to forsake us?”

Marya answered that she was going to seek help from people in high position for the daughter of a man who had fallen a victim to his fidelity.

My father could only bow his head.  “Go,” he said.  “I do not wish to cast any obstacles between you and your happiness.  May God grant you an honest man, and not a convicted traitor, for husband.”

To my mother alone Marya confided her plans, and then, with her maid Palashka and the faithful Saveluetch—­who, parted from me, consoled himself by remembering he was serving my betrothed—­set out for the capital.

Arrived at Sofia, Marya learnt that the court was at the summer palace of Tzarskoe-Selo, and at once resolved to stop there.  She was able to get a lodging at the post-house, and the postmaster’s wife, who was a regular gossip, began to tell her all the routine of the palace, at what hour the tzarina rose, had her coffee, and walked in the gardens.

Next morning, very early, Marya dressed herself and went to the imperial gardens.  She saw a lady seated on a little rustic bench near the large lake, and went and seated herself at the other end of the bench.  The lady wore a cap and a white morning gown, and a light cloak.  She appeared to be about fifty years old, and the repose and gravity of her face, and the sweetness of her blue eyes and her smile, all attracted Marya and inspired confidence.  The lady was the first to speak.

“You do not belong to this place?”

“No, madame.  I only arrived yesterday from the country.”

“You came with your parents?”

“No, madame, alone.  I have neither father nor mother.”

“You are very young to travel by yourself.  You have come on business?”

“Yes, madame.  I have come to present a petition to the tzarina.”

“You are an orphan.  It is some injustice or wrong you complain of?  What is your name?”

“I am the daughter of Captain Mironoff, and it is for mercy I have come to ask.”

“Captain Mironoff?  He commanded one of the forts in the Orenburg district?”

“Yes, madame.”

The lady seemed moved.

“Forgive me,” she said, speaking even more gently, “if I meddle in your affairs; but I am going to court.  Perhaps if you explain to me what it is you want, I may be able to help you.”

Marya rose and curtsied; then she took from her pocket a folded paper, and handed it to her protectress, who read it over.  Suddenly the gentleness turned to hardness in the face of the unknown lady.