THE WITCH OF PRAGUE

A FANTASTIC TALE

By F. Marion Crawford

CHAPTER I

A great multitude of people filled the church, crowded together inthe old black pews, standing closely thronged in the nave and aisles, pressing shoulder to shoulder even in the two chapels on the right andleft of the apse, a vast gathering of pale men and women whose eyeswere sad and in whose faces was written the history of their nation. Themighty shafts and pilasters of the Gothic edifice rose like the stems ofgiant trees in a primeval forest from a dusky undergrowth, spreading outand uniting their stony branches far above in the upper gloom. From theclerestory windows of the nave an uncertain light descended halfway tothe depths and seemed to float upon the darkness below as oil upon thewater of a well. Over the western entrance the huge fantastic organbristled with blackened pipes and dusty gilded ornaments of colossalsize, like some enormous kingly crown long forgotten in the lumberroom of the universe, tarnished and overlaid with the dust of ages. Eastwards, before the rail which separated the high altar from thepeople, wax torches, so thick that a man might not span one of them withboth his hands, were set up at irregular intervals, some taller, someshorter, burning with steady, golden flames, each one surrounded withheavy funeral wreaths, and each having a tablet below it, whereon wereset forth in the Bohemian idiom, the names, titles, and qualities ofhim or her in whose memory it was lighted. Innumerable lamps and tapersbefore the side altars and under the strange canopied shrines at thebases of the pillars, struggled ineffectually with the gloom, sheddingbut a few sickly yellow rays upon the pallid faces of the personsnearest to their light. 

Suddenly the heavy vibration of a single pedal note burst from theorgan upon the breathing silence, long drawn out, rich, voluminous, and imposing. Presently, upon the massive bass, great chords grew up, succeeding each other in a simple modulation, rising then with theblare of trumpets and the simultaneous crash of mixtures, fifteenthsand coupled pedals to a deafening peal, then subsiding quickly againand terminating in one long sustained common chord. And now, as thecelebrant bowed at the lowest step before the high altar, the voices ofthe innumerable congregation joined the harmony of the organ, ringingup to the groined roof in an ancient Slavonic melody, melancholyand beautiful, and rendered yet more unlike all other music by theundefinable character of the Bohemian language, in which tones softerthan those of the softest southern tongue alternate so oddly with roughgutturals and strident sibilants. 

The Wanderer stood in the midst of the throng, erect, taller than themen near him, holding his head high, so that a little of the light fromthe memorial torches reached his thoughtful, manly face, making thenoble and passionate features to stand out clearly, while losing itspower of illumination in the dark beard and among the shadows of hishair. His was a face such as Rembrandt would have painted, seen underthe light that Rembrandt loved best; for the expression seemed toovercome the surrounding gloom by its own luminous quality, while thedeep gray eyes were made almost black by the wide expansion of thepupils; the dusky brows clearly defined the boundary in the face betweenpassion and thought, and the pale forehead, by its slight recession intothe shade from its middle prominence, proclaimed the man of heart, theman of faith, the man of devotion, as well as the intuitive nature ofthe delicately sensitive mind and the quick, elastic qualities of theman's finely organized, but nervous bodily constitution. The long whitefingers of one hand stirred restlessly, twitching at the fur of hisbroad lapel which was turned back across his chest, and from time totime he drew a deep breath and sighed, not painfully, but wearily andhopelessly, as a man sighs who knows that his happiness is long pastand that his liberation from the burden of life is yet far off in thefuture. 

The celebrant reached the reading of the Gospel and the men and womenin the pews rose to their feet. Still the singing of the long-drawn-outstanzas of the hymn continued with unflagging devotion, and still thedeep accompaniment of the ancient organ sustained the mighty chorus ofvoices. The Gospel over, the people sank into their seats again, notstanding, as is the custom in some countries, until the Creed hadbeen said. Here and there, indeed, a woman, perhaps a stranger in thecountry, remained upon her feet, noticeable among the many figuresseated in the pews. The Wanderer, familiar with many lands and manyvarying traditions of worship, unconsciously noted these exceptions, looking with a vague curiosity from one to the other. Then, all at once, his tall frame shivered from head to foot, and his fingers convulsivelygrasped the yielding sable on which they lay. 

She was there, the woman he had sought so long, whose face he had notfound in the cities and dwellings of the living, neither her grave inthe silent communities of the dead. There, before the uncouth monumentof dark red marble beneath which Tycho Brahe rests in peace, there shestood; not as he had seen her last on that day when his senses had lefthim in the delirium of his sickness, not in the freshness of her bloomand of her dark loveliness, but changed as he had dreamed in evil dreamsthat death would have power to change her. The warm olive of her cheekwas turned to the hue of wax, the soft shadows beneath her velvet eyeswere deepened and hardened, her expression, once yielding and changingunder the breath of thought and feeling as a field of flowers whenthe west wind blows, was now set, as though for ever, in a death-likefixity. The delicate features were drawn and pinched, the nostrilscontracted, the colourless lips straightened out of the lines of beautyinto the mould of a lifeless mask. It was the face of a dead woman, butit was her face still, and the Wanderer knew it well; in the kingdomof his soul the whole resistless commonwealth of the emotions revoltedtogether to dethrone death's regent--sorrow, while the thrice-temperedsprings of passion, bent but not broken, stirred suddenly in the palaceof his body and shook the strong foundations of his being. 

During the seconds that followed, his eyes were riveted upon the belovedhead. Then, as the Creed ended, the vision sank down and was lost to hissight. She was seated now, and the broad sea of humanity hid her fromhim, though he raised himself the full height of his stature in theeffort to distinguish even the least part of her head-dress. To movefrom his place was all but impossible, though the fierce longing to benear her bade him trample even upon the shoulders of the throng to reachher, as men have done more than once to save themselves from death byfire in crowded places. Still the singing of the hymn continued, andwould continue, as he knew, until the moment of the Elevation. Hestrained his hearing to catch the sounds that came from the quarterwhere she sat. In a chorus of a thousand singers he fancied that hecould have distinguished the tender, heart-stirring vibration of hertones. Never woman sang, never could woman sing again, as she had oncesung, though her voice had been as soft as it had been sweet, and tunedto vibrate in the heart rather than in the ear. As the strains roseand fell, the Wanderer bowed his head and closed his eyes, listening, through the maze of sounds, for the silvery ring of her magic note. Something he heard at last, something that sent a thrill from his ear tohis heart, unless indeed his heart itself were making music for hisears to hear. The impression reached him fitfully, often interrupted andlost, but as often renewing itself and reawakening in the listener thecertainty of recognition which he had felt at the sight of the singer'sface. 

He who loves with his whole soul has a knowledge and a learning whichsurpass the wisdom of those who spend their lives in the study of thingsliving or long dead, or never animate. They, indeed, can constructthe figure of a flower from the dried web of a single leaf, or by theexamination of a dusty seed, and they can set up the scheme of life of ashadowy mammoth out of a fragment of its skeleton, or tell the storyof hill and valley from the contemplation of a handful of earth or ofa broken pebble. Often they are right, sometimes they are driven deeperand deeper into error by the complicated imperfections of their ownscience. But he who loves greatly possesses in his intuition thecapacities of all instruments of observation which man has invented andapplied to his use. The lenses of his eyes can magnify the infinitesimaldetail to the dimensions of common things, and bring objects to hisvision from immeasurable distances; the labyrinth of his ear can chooseand distinguish amidst the harmonies and the discords of the world, muffling in its tortuous passages the reverberation of ordinary soundswhile multiplying a hundredfold the faint tones of the one belovedvoice. His whole body and his whole intelligence form together aninstrument of exquisite sensibility whereby the perceptions of hisinmost soul are hourly tortured, delighted, caught up into ecstasy, tornand crushed by jealousy and fear, or plunged into the frigid waters ofdespair. 

The melancholy hymn resounded through the vast church, but though theWanderer stretched the faculty of hearing to the utmost, he could nolonger find the note he sought amongst the vibrations of the dank andheavy air. Then an irresistible longing came upon him to turn and forcehis way through the dense throng of men and women, to reach the aisleand press past the huge pillar till he could slip between the tombstoneof the astronomer and the row of back wooden seats. Once there, heshould see her face to face. 

He turned, indeed, as he stood, and he tried to move a few steps. On allsides curious looks were directed upon him, but no one offered to makeway, and still the monotonous singing continued until he felt himselfdeafened, as he faced the great congregation. 

"I am ill, " he said in a low voice to those nearest to him. "Pray let mepass!"

His face was white, indeed, and those who heard his words believed him. A mild old man raised his sad blue eyes, gazed at him, and while tryingto draw back, gently shook his head. A pale woman, whose sickly featureswere half veiled in the folds of a torn black shawl, moved as far asshe could, shrinking as the very poor and miserable shrink when they areexpected to make way before the rich and the strong. A lad of fifteenstood upon tiptoe to make himself even slighter than he was and thus towiden the way, and the Wanderer found himself, after repeated efforts, as much as two steps distant from his former position. He was stilltrying to divide the crowd when the music suddenly ceased, and thetones of the organ died away far up under the western window. It was themoment of the Elevation, and the first silvery tinkling of the bell, the people swayed a little, all those who were able kneeling, and thosewhose movements were impeded by the press of worshippers bending towardsthe altar as a field of grain before the gale. The Wanderer turned againand bowed himself with the rest, devoutly and humbly, with half-closedeyes, as he strove to collect and control his thoughts in the presenceof the chief mystery of his Faith. Three times the tiny bell was rung, apause followed, and thrice again the clear jingle of the metal broke thesolemn stillness. Then once more the people stirred, and the soft soundof their simultaneous motion was like a mighty sigh breathed up from thesecret vaults and the deep foundations of the ancient church; again thepedal note of the organ boomed through the nave and aisles, and againthe thousands of human voices took up the strain of song. 

The Wanderer glanced about him, measuring the distance he must traverseto reach the monument of the Danish astronomer and confronting it withthe short time which now remained before the end of the Mass. He sawthat in such a throng he would have no chance of gaining the position hewished to occupy in less than half an hour, and he had not but ascant ten minutes at his disposal. He gave up the attempt therefore, determining that when the celebration should be over he would moveforward with the crowd, trusting to his superior stature and energyto keep him within sight of the woman he sought, until both he and shecould meet, either just within or just without the narrow entrance ofthe church. 

Very soon the moment of action came. The singing died away, thebenediction was given, the second Gospel was read, the priest and thepeople repeated the Bohemian prayers, and all was over. The countlessheads began to move onward, the shuffling of innumerable feet sentheavy, tuneless echoes through vaulted space, broken every moment by thesharp, painful cough of a suffering child whom no one could see in themultitude, or by the dull thud of some heavy foot striking against thewooden seats in the press. The Wanderer moved forward with the rest. Reaching the entrance of the pew where she had sat he was kept backduring a few seconds by the half dozen men and women who were forcingtheir way out of it before him. But at the farthest end, a figureclothed in black was still kneeling. A moment more and he might enterthe pew and be at her side. One of the other women dropped somethingbefore she was out of the narrow space, and stooped, fumbling andsearching in the darkness. At the minute, the slight, girlish figurerose swiftly and passed like a shadow before the heavy marble monument. The Wanderer saw that the pew was open at the other end, and withoutheeding the woman who stood in his way, he sprang upon the low seat, passed her, stepped to the floor upon the other side and was out inthe aisle in a moment. Many persons had already left the church and thespace was comparatively free. 

She was before him, gliding quickly toward the door. Ere he could reachher, he saw her touch the thick ice which filled the marble basin, crossherself hurriedly and pass out. But he had seen her face again, and heknew that he was not mistaken. The thin, waxen features were as those ofthe dead, but they were hers, nevertheless. In an instant he could be byher side. But again his progress was momentarily impeded by a number ofpersons who were entering the building hastily to attend the next Mass. Scarcely ten seconds later he was out in the narrow and dismal passagewhich winds between the north side of the Teyn Kirche and the buildingsbehind the Kinsky Palace. The vast buttresses and towers cast deepshadows below them, and the blackened houses opposite absorb whatremains of the uncertain winter's daylight. To the left of the church alow arch spans the lane, affording a covered communication between thenorth aisle and the sacristy. To the right the open space is somewhatbroader, and three dark archways give access to as many passages, leading in radiating directions and under the old houses to the streetsbeyond. 

The Wanderer stood upon the steps, beneath the rich stone carvings whichset forth the Crucifixion over the door of the church, and his quickeyes scanned everything within sight. To the left, no figure resemblingthe one he sought was to be seen, but on the right, he fancied thatamong a score of persons now rapidly dispersing he could distinguishjust within one of the archways a moving shadow, black against theblackness. In an instant he had crossed the way and was hurrying throughthe gloom. Already far before him, but visible and, as he believed, unmistakable, the shade was speeding onward, light as mist, noiseless asthought, but yet clearly to be seen and followed. He cried aloud, as heran, "Beatrice! Beatrice!"

His strong voice echoed along the dank walls and out into the courtbeyond. It was intensely cold, and the still air carried the soundclearly to the distance. She must have heard him, she must have knownhis voice, but as she crossed the open place, and the gray light fellupon her, he could see that she did not raise her bent head nor slackenher speed. 

He ran on, sure of overtaking her in the passage she had now entered, for she seemed to be only walking, while he was pursuing her at aheadlong pace. But in the narrow tunnel, when he reached it, she wasnot, though at the farther end he imagined that the fold of a blackgarment was just disappearing. He emerged into the street, in which hecould now see in both directions to a distance of fifty yards or more. He was alone. The rusty iron shutters of the little shops were allbarred and fastened, and every door within the range of his vision wasclosed. He stood still in surprise and listened. There was no sound tobe heard, not the grating of a lock, nor the tinkling of a bell, nor thefall of a footstep. 

He did not pause long, for he made up his mind as to what he should doin the flash of a moment's intuition. It was physically impossible thatshe should have disappeared into any one of the houses which had theirentrances within the dark tunnel he had just traversed. Apart from thepresumptive impossibility of her being lodged in such a quarter, therewas the self-evident fact that he must have heard the door opened andclosed. Secondly, she could not have turned to the right, for in thatdirection the street was straight and without any lateral exit, so thathe must have seen her. Therefore she must have gone to the left, sinceon that side there was a narrow alley leading out of the lane, at somedistance from the point where he was now standing--too far, indeed, forher to have reached it unnoticed, unless, as was possible, he had beengreatly deceived in the distance which had lately separated her fromhim. 

Without further hesitation, he turned to the left. He found no onein the way, for it was not yet noon, and at that hour the people wereeither at their prayers or at their Sunday morning's potations, and theplace was as deserted as a disused cemetery. Still he hastened onward, never pausing for breath, till he found himself all at once in thegreat Ring. He knew the city well, but in his race he had bestowed noattention upon the familiar windings and turnings, thinking only ofovertaking the fleeting vision, no matter how, no matter where. Now, ona sudden, the great, irregular square opened before him, flanked on theone side by the fantastic spires of the Teyn Church, and the blackenedfront of the huge Kinsky Palace, on the other by the half-modern TownHall with its ancient tower, its beautiful porch, and the graceful orielwhich forms the apse of the chapel in the second story. 

One of the city watchmen, muffled in his military overcoat, andconspicuous by the great bunch of dark feathers that drooped from hisblack hat, was standing idly at the corner from which the Wandereremerged. The latter thought of inquiring whether the man had seen a ladypass, but the fellow's vacant stare convinced him that no questioningwould elicit a satisfactory answer. Moreover, as he looked across thesquare he caught sight of a retreating figure dressed in black, alreadyat such a distance as to make positive recognition impossible. In hishaste he found no time to convince himself that no living woman couldhave thus outrun him, and he instantly resumed his pursuit, gainingrapidly upon her he was following. But it is not an easy matter toovertake even a woman, when she has an advantage of a couple ofhundred yards, and when the race is a short one. He passed the ancientastronomical clock, just as the little bell was striking the thirdquarter after eleven, but he did not raise his head to watch thesad-faced apostles as they presented their stiff figures in successionat the two square windows. When the blackened cock under the smallGothic arch above flapped his wooden wings and uttered his melancholycrow, the Wanderer was already at the corner of the little Ring, andhe could see the object of his pursuit disappearing before him into theKarlsgasse. He noticed uneasily that the resemblance between the womanhe was following and the object of his loving search seemed now todiminish, as in a bad dream, as the distance between himself and herdecreased. But he held resolutely on, nearing her at every step, rounda sharp corner to the right, then to the left, to the right again, andonce more in the opposite direction, always, as he knew, approachingthe old stone bridge. He was not a dozen paces behind her as she turnedquickly a third time to the right, round the wall of the ancient housewhich faces the little square over against the enormous buildingscomprising the Clementine Jesuit monastery and the astronomicalobservatory. As he sprang past the corner he saw the heavy door justclosing and heard the sharp resounding clang of its iron fastening. Thelady had disappeared, and he felt sure that she had gone through thatentrance. 

He knew the house well, for it is distinguished from all others inPrague, both by its shape and its oddly ornamented, unnaturally narrowfront. It is built in the figure of an irregular triangle, the bluntapex of one angle facing the little square, the sides being erected onthe one hand along the Karlsgasse and on the other upon a narrow alleywhich leads away towards the Jews' quarter. Overhanging passages arebuilt out over this dim lane, as though to facilitate the interiorcommunications of the dwelling, and in the shadow beneath them there isa small door studded with iron nails which is invariably shut. The mainentrance takes in all the scant breadth of the truncated angle whichlooks towards the monastery. Immediately over it is a great window, above that another, and, highest of all, under the pointed gable, around and unglazed aperture, within which there is inky darkness. Thewindows of the first and second stories are flanked by huge figures ofsaints, standing forth in strangely contorted attitudes, black with thedust of ages, black as all old Prague is black, with the smoke of thebrown Bohemian coal, with the dark and unctuous mists of many autumns, with the cruel, petrifying frosts of ten score winters. 

He who knew the cities of men as few have known them, knew alsothis house. Many a time had he paused before it by day and by night, wondering who lived within its massive, irregular walls, behind thoseuncouth, barbarously sculptured saints who kept their interminable watchhigh up by the lozenged windows. He would know now. Since she whomhe sought had entered, he would enter too; and in some corner of thatdwelling which had long possessed a mysterious attraction for his eyes, he would find at last that being who held power over his heart, thatBeatrice whom he had learned to think of as dead, while still believingthat somewhere she must be yet alive, that dear lady whom, dead orliving, he loved beyond all others, with a great love, passing words. 

CHAPTER II

The Wanderer stood still before the door. In the freezing air, hisquick-drawn breath made fantastic wreaths of mist, white and full ofodd shapes as he watched the tiny clouds curling quickly into each otherbefore the blackened oak. Then he laid his hand boldly upon the chain ofthe bell. He expected to hear the harsh jingling of cracked metal, buthe was surprised by the silvery clearness and musical quality of theringing tones which reached his ear. He was pleased, and unconsciouslytook the pleasant infusion for a favourable omen. The heavy door swungback almost immediately, and he was confronted by a tall porter in darkgreen cloth and gold lacings, whose imposing appearance was made stillmore striking by the magnificent fair beard which flowed down almost tohis waist. The man lifted his heavy cocked hat and held it low athis side as he drew back to let the visitor enter. The latter had notexpected to be admitted thus without question, and paused under thebright light which illuminated the arched entrance, intending to makesome inquiry of the porter. But the latter seemed to expect nothing ofthe sort. He carefully closed the door, and then, bearing his hat in onehand and his gold-headed staff in the other, he proceeded gravely to theother end of the vaulted porch, opened a great glazed door and held itback for the visitor to pass. 

The Wanderer recognized that the farther he was allowed to penetrateunhindered into the interior of the house, the nearer he should be tothe object of his search. He did not know where he was, nor what hemight find. For all that he knew, he might be in a club, in a greatbanking-house, or in some semi-public institution of the nature of alibrary, an academy or a conservatory of music. There are many suchestablishments in Prague, though he was not acquainted with any in whichthe internal arrangements so closely resembled those of a luxuriousprivate residence. But there was no time for hesitation, and he ascendedthe broad staircase with a firm step, glancing at the rich tapestrieswhich covered the walls, at the polished surface of the marble stepson either side of the heavy carpet, and at the elaborate and beautifuliron-work of the hand-rail. As he mounted higher, he heard the quickrapping of an electric signal above him, and he understood that theporter had announced his coming. Reaching the landing, he was met by aservant in black, as correct at all points as the porter himself, andwho bowed low as he held back the thick curtain which hung before theentrance. Without a word the man followed the visitor into a high roomof irregular shape, which served as a vestibule, and stood waiting toreceive the guest's furs, should it please him to lay them aside. Topause now, and to enter into an explanation with a servant, would havebeen to reject an opportunity which might never return. In such anestablishment, he was sure of finding himself before long in thepresence of some more or less intelligent person of his own class, ofwhom he could make such inquiries as might enlighten him, and to whom hecould present such excuses for his intrusion as might seem most fittingin so difficult a case. He let his sables fall into the hands of theservant and followed the latter along a short passage. 

The man introduced him into a spacious hall and closed the door, leavinghim to his own reflections. The place was very wide and high and withoutwindows, but the broad daylight descended abundantly from above throughthe glazed roof and illuminated every corner. He would have taken theroom for a conservatory, for it contained a forest of tropical trees andplants, and whole gardens of rare southern flowers. Tall letonias, date palms, mimosas and rubber trees of many varieties stretched theirfantastic spikes and heavy leaves half-way up to the crystal ceiling;giant ferns swept the polished marble floor with their soft embroideriesand dark green laces; Indian creepers, full of bright blossoms, madescreens and curtains of their intertwining foliage; orchids of everyhue and of every exotic species bloomed in thick banks along the walls. Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of the valley, closely set andluxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss around the roots of the largerplants and in many open spaces. The air was very soft and warm, moistand full of heavy odours as the still atmosphere of an island insouthern seas, and the silence was broken only by the light plash ofsoftly-falling water. 

Having advanced a few steps from the door, the Wanderer stood still andwaited, supposing that the owner of the dwelling would be made awareof a visitor's presence and would soon appear. But no one came. Thena gentle voice spoke from amidst the verdure, apparently from no greatdistance. 

"I am here, " it said. 

He moved forward amidst the ferns and the tall plants, until he foundhimself on the farther side of a thick network of creepers. Then hepaused, for he was in the presence of a woman, of her who dwelt amongthe flowers. She was sitting before him, motionless and upright in ahigh, carved chair, and so placed that the pointed leaves of the palmwhich rose above her cast sharp, star-shaped shadows over the broadfolds of her white dress. One hand, as white, as cold, as heavilyperfect as the sculpture of a Praxiteles or a Phidias, rested withdrooping fingers on the arm of the chair. The other pressed the pagesof a great book which lay open on the lady's knee. Her face was turnedtoward the visitor, and her eyes examined his face; calmly and with nosurprise in them, but not without a look of interest. Their expressionwas at once so unusual, so disquieting, and yet so inexplicablyattractive as to fascinate the Wanderer's gaze. He did not remember thathe had ever seen a pair of eyes of distinctly different colours, the oneof a clear, cold gray, the other of a deep, warm brown, so dark as toseem almost black, and he would not have believed that nature could sofar transgress the canons of her own art and yet preserve the appearanceof beauty. For the lady was beautiful, from the diadem of her red goldhair to the proud curve of her fresh young lips; from her broad, paleforehead, prominent and boldly modelled at the angles of the brows, tothe strong mouldings of the well-balanced chin, which gave evidence ofstrength and resolution wherewith to carry out the promise of the highaquiline features and of the wide and sensitive nostrils. 

"Madame, " said the Wanderer, bending his head courteously and advancinganother step, "I can neither frame excuses for having entered your houseunbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my intrusion, unless you arewilling in the first place to hear my short story. May I expect so muchkindness?"

He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously. Withouttaking her eyes from his face, and without speaking, she closed the bookshe had held on her knee, and laid it beside her upon a low table. TheWanderer did not avoid her gaze, for he had nothing to conceal, nor anysense of timidity. He was an intruder upon the privacy of one whom hedid not know, but he was ready to explain his presence and to make suchamends as courtesy required, if he had given offence. 

The heavy odours of the flowers filled his nostrils with an unknown, luxurious delight, as he stood there, gazing into the lady's eyes; hefancied that a gentle breath of perfumed air was blowing softly over hishair and face out of the motionless palms, and the faint plashing of thehidden fountain was like an exquisite melody in his ears. It was good tobe in such a place, to look on such a woman, to breathe such odours, andto hear such tuneful music. A dreamlike, half-mysterious satisfaction ofthe senses dulled the keen self-knowledge of body and soul for oneshort moment. In the stormy play of his troubled life there was a briefinterlude of peace. He tasted the fruit of the lotus, his lips weremoistened in the sweet waters of forgetfulness. 

The lady spoke at last, and the spell left him, not broken, as by asudden shock, but losing its strong power by quick degrees until it waswholly gone. 

"I will answer your question by another, " said the lady. "Let your replybe the plain truth. It will be better so. "

"Ask what you will. I have nothing to conceal. "

"Do you know who and what I am? Do you come here out of curiosity, inthe vain hope of knowing me, having heard of me from others?"

"Assuredly not. " A faint flush rose in the man's pale and noble face. "You have my word, " he said, in the tone of one who is sure of beingbelieved, "that I have never, to my knowledge, heard of your existence, that I am ignorant even of your name--forgive my ignorance--and that Ientered this house, not knowing whose it might be, seeking and followingafter one for whom I have searched the world, one dearly loved, longlost, long sought. "

"It is enough. Be seated. I am Unorna. "

"Unorna?" repeated the Wanderer, with an unconscious question in hisvoice, as though the name recalled some half-forgotten association. 

"Unorna--yes. I have another name, " she added, with a shade ofbitterness, "but it is hardly mine. Tell me your story. You loved--youlost--you seek--so much I know. What else?"

The Wanderer sighed. 

"You have told in those few words the story of my life--the unfinishedstory. A wanderer I was born, a wanderer I am, a wanderer I must everbe, until at last I find her whom I seek. I knew her in a strange land, far from my birthplace, in a city where I was known but to a few, andI loved her. She loved me, too, and that against her father's will. Hewould not have his daughter wed with one not of her race; for he himselfhad taken a wife among strangers, and while she was yet alive he hadrepented of what he had done. But I would have overcome his reasons andhis arguments--she and I could have overcome them together, for he didnot hate me, he bore me no ill-will. We were almost friends when I lasttook his hand. Then the hour of destiny came upon me. The air of thatcity was treacherous and deadly. I had left her with her father, and myheart was full of many things, and of words both spoken and unuttered. Ilingered upon an ancient bridge that spanned the river, and the sun wentdown. Then the evil fever of the south laid hold upon me andpoisoned the blood in my veins, and stole the consciousness from myunderstanding. Weeks passed away, and memory returned, with the strengthto speak. I learned that she I loved and her father were gone, and noneknew whither. I rose and left the accursed city, being at that timescarce able to stand upright upon my feet. Finding no trace of those Isought, I journeyed to their own country, for I knew where her fatherheld his lands. I had been ill many weeks and much time had passed, fromthe day on which I had left her, until I was able to move from my bed. When I reached the gates of her home, I was told that all had beenlately sold, and that others now dwelt within the walls. I inquired ofthose new owners of the land, but neither they or any of all those whomI questioned could tell me whither I should direct my search. The fatherwas a strange man, loving travel and change and movement, restless andunsatisfied with the world, rich and free to make his own caprice hisguide through life; reticent he was, moreover, and thoughtful, not givento speaking out his intentions. Those who administered his affairs inhis absence were honourable men, bound by his especial injunction not toreveal his ever-varying plans. Many times, in my ceaseless search, I metpersons who had lately seen him and his daughter and spoken with them. I was ever on their track, from hemisphere to hemisphere, from continentto continent, from country to country, from city to city, oftenbelieving myself close upon them, often learning suddenly that an oceanlay between them and me. Was he eluding me, purposely, resolutely, orwas he unconscious of my desperate pursuit, being served by chance aloneand by his own restless temper? I do not know. At last, some one told methat she was dead, speaking thoughtlessly, not knowing that I loved her. He who told me had heard the news from another, who had received it onhearsay from a third. None knew in what place her spirit had parted;none knew by what manner of sickness she had died. Since then, I haveheard others say that she is not dead, that they have heard in theirturn from others that she yet lives. An hour ago, I knew not what tothink. To-day, I saw her in a crowded church. I heard her voice, thoughI could not reach her in the throng, struggle how I would. I followedher in haste, I lost her at one turning, I saw her before me at thenext. At last a figure, clothed as she had been clothed, entered yourhouse. Whether it was she I know not certainly, but I do know that inthe church I saw her. She cannot be within your dwelling without yourknowledge; if she be here--then I have found her, my journey is ended, my wanderings have led me home at last. If she be not here, if I havebeen mistaken, I entreat you to let me set eyes on that other whom Imistook for her, to forgive then my mannerless intrusion and to let mego. "

Unorna had listened with half-closed eyes, but with unfalteringattention, watching the speaker's face from beneath her drooping lids, making no effort to read his thoughts, but weighing his words andimpressing every detail of his story upon her mind. When he had donethere was silence for a time, broken only by the plash and ripple of thefalling water. 

"She is not here, " said Unorna at last. "You shall see for yourself. There is indeed in this house a young girl to whom I am deeply attached, who has grown up at my side and has always lived under my roof. She isvery pale and dark, and is dressed always in black. "

"Like her I saw. "

"You shall see her again. I will send for her. " Unorna pressed an ivorykey in the silver ball which lay beside her, attached to a thick cord ofwhite silk. "Ask Sletchna Axenia to come to me, " she said to the servantwho opened the door in the distance, out of sight behind the forest ofplants. 

Amid less unusual surroundings the Wanderer would have rejected withcontempt the last remnants of his belief in the identity of Unorna'scompanion, with Beatrice. But, being where he was, he felt unable todecide between the possible and the impossible, between what he mightreasonably expect and what lay beyond the bounds of reason itself. The air he breathed was so loaded with rich exotic perfumes, the womanbefore him was so little like other women, her strangely mismatched eyeshad for his own such a disquieting attraction, all that he saw and feltand heard was so far removed from the commonplaces of daily life as tomake him feel that he himself was becoming a part of some other person'sexistence, that he was being gradually drawn away from his identity, andwas losing the power of thinking his own thoughts. He reasoned asthe shadows reason in dreamland, the boundaries of common probabilityreceded to an immeasurable distance, and he almost ceased to know wherereality ended and where imagination took up the sequence of events. 

Who was this woman, who called herself Unorna? He tried to consider thequestion, and to bring his intelligence to bear upon it. Was she a greatlady of Prague, rich, capricious, creating a mysterious existence forherself, merely for her own good pleasure? Her language, her voice, her evident refinement gave colour to the idea, which was in itselfattractive to a man who had long ceased to expect novelty in thisworking-day world. He glanced at her face, musing and wondering, inhaling the sweet, intoxicating odours of the flowers and listening tothe tinkling of the hidden fountain. Her eyes were gazing into his, andagain, as if by magic, the curtain of life's stage was drawn togetherin misty folds, shutting out the past, the present, and the future, thefact, the doubt, and the hope, in an interval of perfect peace. 

He was roused by the sound of a light footfall upon the marble pavement. Unorna's eyes were turned from his, and with something like a movementof surprise he himself looked towards the new comer. A young girl wasstanding under the shadow of a great letonia at a short distance fromhim. She was very pale indeed, but not with that death-like, waxenpallor which had chilled him when he had looked upon that other face. There was a faint resemblance in the small, aquiline features, the dresswas black, and the figure of the girl before him was assuredly neithermuch taller nor much shorter than that of the woman he loved and sought. But the likeness went no further, and he knew that he had been utterlymistaken. 

Unorna exchanged a few indifferent words with Axenia and dismissed her. 

"You have seen, " she said, when the young girl was gone. "Was it she whoentered the house just now?"

"Yes. I was misled by a mere resemblance. Forgive me for myimportunity--let me thank you most sincerely for your great kindness. "He rose as he spoke. 

"Do not go, " said Unorna, looking at him earnestly. 

He stood still, silent, as though his attitude should explain itself, and yet expecting that she would say something further. He felt that hereyes were upon him, and he raised his own to meet the look frankly, aswas his wont. For the first time since he had entered her presencehe felt that there was more than a mere disquieting attraction in hersteady gaze; there was a strong, resistless fascination, from which hehad no power to withdraw himself. Almost unconsciously he resumed hisseat, still looking at her, while telling himself with a severe effortthat he would look but one instant longer and then turn away. Tenseconds passed, twenty, half a minute, in total silence. He wasconfused, disturbed, and yet wholly unable to shut out her penetratingglance. His fast ebbing consciousness barely allowed him to wonderwhether he was weakened by the strong emotions he had felt in thechurch, or by the first beginning of some unknown and unexpected malady. He was utterly weak and unstrung. He could neither rise from his seat, nor lift his hand, nor close the lids of his eyes. It was as thoughan irresistible force were drawing him into the depths of a fathomlesswhirlpool, down, down, by its endless giddy spirals, robbing him of aportion of his consciousness at every gyration, so that he left behindhim at every instant something of his individuality, something of thecentral faculty of self-recognition. He felt no pain, but he didnot feel that inexpressible delight of peace which already twice haddescended upon him. He experienced a rapid diminution of all perception, of all feeling, of all intelligence. Thought, and the memory of thought, ebbed from his brain and left it vacant, as the waters of a lock subsidewhen the gates are opened, leaving emptiness in their place. 

Unorna's eyes turned from him, and she raised her hand a moment, lettingit fall again upon her knee. Instantly the strong man was restored tohimself; his weakness vanished, his sight was clear, his intelligencewas awake. Instantly the certainty flashed upon him that Unornapossessed the power of imposing the hypnotic sleep and had exercisedthat gift upon him, unexpectedly and against his will. He would havemore willingly supposed that he had been the victim of a momentaryphysical faintness, for the idea of having been thus subjected to theinfluence of a woman, and of a woman whom he hardly knew, was repugnantto him, and had in it something humiliating to his pride, or at leastto his vanity. But he could not escape the conviction forced upon him bythe circumstances. 

"Do not go far, for I may yet help you, " said Unorna, quietly. "Let ustalk of this matter and consult what is best to be done. Will you accepta woman's help?"

"Readily. But I cannot accept her will as mine, nor resign myconsciousness into her keeping. "

"Not for the sake of seeing her whom you say you love?"

The Wanderer was silent, being yet undetermined how to act, and stillunsteadied by what he had experienced. But he was able to reason, and heasked of his judgment what he should do, wondering what manner of womanUnorna might prove to be, and whether she was anything more than one ofthose who live and even enrich themselves by the exercise of the unusualfaculties of powers nature has given them. He had seen many of thatclass, and he considered most of them to be but half fanatics, halfcharlatans, worshipping in themselves as something almost divine thatwhich was but a physical power, or weakness, beyond their own limitedcomprehension. Though a whole school of wise and thoughtful men hadalready produced remarkable results and elicited astounding facts bysifting the truth through a fine web of closely logical experiment, it did not follow that either Unorna, or any other self-convinced, self-taught operator could do more than grope blindly towards the light, guided by intuition alone amongst the varied and misleading phenomenaof hypnotism. The thought of accepting the help of one who was probably, like most of her kind, a deceiver of herself and therefore, and thereby, of others, was an affront to the dignity of his distress, a desecrationof his love's sanctity, a frivolous invasion of love's holiest ground. But, on the other hand, he was stimulated to catch at the veriestshadows of possibility by the certainty that he was at last within thesame city with her he loved, and he knew that hypnotic subjects aresometimes able to determine the abode of persons whom no one else canfind. To-morrow it might be too late. Even before to-day's sun had setBeatrice might be once more taken from him, snatched away to the endsof the earth by her father's ever-changing caprice. To lose a moment nowmight be to lose all. 

He was tempted to yield, to resign his will into Unorna's hands, and hissight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and see the truth. Butthen, with a sudden reaction of his individuality, he realized thathe had another course, surer, simpler, more dignified. Beatrice was inPrague. It was little probable that she was permanently established inthe city, and in all likelihood she and her father were lodged in one ofthe two or three great hotels. To be driven from the one to the other ofthese would be but an affair of minutes. Failing information from thissource, there remained the registers of the Austrian police, whosevigilance takes note of every stranger's name and dwelling-place. 

"I thank you, " he said. "If all my inquiries fail, and if you will letme visit you once more to-day, I will then ask your help. "

"You are right, " Unorna answered. 

CHAPTER III

He had been deceived in supposing that he must inevitably find thenames of those he sought upon the ordinary registers which chroniclethe arrival and departure of travellers. He lost no time, he sparedno effort, driving from place to place as fast as two sturdy Hungarianhorses could take him, hurrying from one office to another, and againand again searching endless pages and columns which seemed full of allthe names of earth, but in which he never found the one of all otherswhich he longed to read. The gloom in the narrow streets was alreadydeepening, though it was scarcely two hours after mid-day, and theheavy air had begun to thicken with a cold gray haze, even in the broad, straight Przikopy, the wide thoroughfare which has taken the place andname of the moat before the ancient fortifications, so that distantobjects and figures lost the distinctness of their outlines. Winter inPrague is but one long, melancholy dream, broken sometimes at noon by anhour of sunshine, by an intermittent visitation of reality, by the shockand glare of a little broad daylight. The morning is not morning, the evening is not evening; as in the land of the Lotus, it is everafternoon, gray, soft, misty, sad, save when the sun, being at hismeridian height, pierces the dim streets and sweeps the open places withlow, slanting waves of pale brightness. And yet these same dusky streetsare thronged with a moving multitude, are traversed ever by ceaselessstreams of men and women, flowing onward, silently, swiftly, eagerly. The very beggars do not speak above a whisper, the very dogs are dumb. The stillness of all voices leaves nothing for the perception of thehearing save the dull thread of many thousand feet and the rough rattleof an occasional carriage. Rarely, the harsh tones of a peasant, or theclear voices of a knot of strangers, unused to such oppressivesilence, startle the ear, causing hundreds of eager, half-suspicious, half-wondering eyes to turn in the direction of the sound. 

And yet Prague is a great city, the capital of the Bohemian Crownland, the centre of a not unimportant nation, the focus in which areconcentrated the hottest, if not the brightest, rays from the fire ofregeneration kindled within the last half century by the Slavonic race. There is an ardent furnace of life hidden beneath the crust of ashes:there is a wonderful language behind that national silence. 

The Wanderer stood in deep thought under the shadow of the ancientPowder Tower. Haste had no further object now, since he had made everyinquiry within his power, and it was a relief to feel the pavementbeneath his feet and to breathe the misty frozen air after having beenso long in the closeness of his carriage. He hesitated as to whathe should do, unwilling to return to Unorna and acknowledge himselfvanquished, yet finding it hard to resist his desire to try every means, no matter how little reasonable, how evidently useless, how puerileand revolting to his sounder sense. The street behind him led directlytowards Unorna's house. Had he found himself in a more remote quarter, he might have come to another and a wiser conclusion. Being so near tothe house of which he was thinking, he yielded to the temptation. Havingreached this stage of resolution, his mind began to recapitulate theevents of the day, and he suddenly felt a strong wish to revisit thechurch, to stand in the place where Beatrice had stood, to touch in themarble basin beside the door the thick ice which her fingers had touchedso lately, to traverse again the dark passages through which he hadpursued her. To accomplish his purpose he need only turn aside a fewsteps from the path he was now following. He left the street almostimmediately, passing under a low arched way that opened on theright-hand side, and a moment later he was within the walls of the TeynKirche. 

The vast building was less gloomy than it had been in the morning. It was not yet the hour of vespers, the funeral torches had beenextinguished, as well as most of the lights upon the high altar, therewere not a dozen persons in the church, and high up beneath the roofbroad shafts of softened sunshine, floating above the mists of the citywithout, streamed through the narrow lancet windows and were diffusedin the great gloom below. The Wanderer went to the monument of Brahe andsat down in the corner of the blackened pew. His hands trembled a littleas he clasped them upon his knee, and his head sank slowly towards hisbreast. 

He thought of all that might have been if he had risked everything thatmorning. He could have used his strength to force a way for himselfthrough the press, he could have thrust the multitude to the right andleft, and he could have reached her side. Perhaps he had been weak, indolent, timid, and he accused himself of his own failure. But then, again, he seemed to see about him the closely packed crowd, the sea offaces, the thick, black mass of humanity, and he knew the tremendouspower that lay in the inert, passive resistance of a vast gatheringsuch as had been present. Had it been anywhere else, in a street, in atheatre, anywhere except in a church, all would have been well. It hadnot been his fault, for he knew, when he thought of it calmly, that thestrength of his body would have been but as a breath of air against thesilent, motionless, and immovable barrier presented by a thousand men, standing shoulder to shoulder against him. He could have done nothing. Once again his fate had defeated him at the moment of success. 

He was aware that some one was standing very near to him. He looked upand saw a very short, gray-bearded man engaged in a minute examinationof the dark red marble face on the astronomer's tomb. The man's head, covered with closely-cropped gray hair, was half buried between hishigh, broad shoulders, in an immense collar of fur, but the shape ofthe skull was so singular as to distinguish its possessor, when hatless, from all other men. The cranium was abnormally shaped, reaching a greatelevation at the summit, then sinking suddenly, then spreading forwardto an enormous development at the temple just visible as he was thenstanding, and at the same time forming unusual protuberances behind thelarge and pointed ears. No one who knew the man could mistake his head, when even the least portion of it could be seen. The Wanderer recognisedhim at once. 

As though he were conscious of being watched, the little man turnedsharply, exhibiting his wrinkled forehead, broad at the brows, narrowand high in the middle, showing, too, a Socratic nose half buried in themidst of the gray hair which grew as high as the prominent cheek bones, and suggesting the idea of a polished ivory ball lying in a nest ofgrayish wool. Indeed all that was visible of the face above the beardmight have been carved out of old ivory, so far as the hue and qualityof the surface were concerned; and if it had been necessary to sculpturea portrait of the man, no material could have been chosen more fittedto reproduce faithfully the deep cutting of the features, to render theclose network of the wrinkles which covered them like the shadings of aline engraving, and at the same time to give the whole that appearanceof hardness and smoothness which was peculiar to the clear, tough skin. The only positive colour which relieved the half tints of the face layin the sharp bright eyes which gleamed beneath the busy eyebrows liketiny patches of vivid blue sky seen through little rifts in a curtain ofcloud. All expression, all mobility, all life were concentrated in thosetwo points. 

The Wanderer rose to his feet. 

"Keyork Arabian!" he exclaimed, extending his hand. The little manimmediately gripped it in his small fingers, which, soft and delicatelymade as they were, possessed a strength hardly to have been expectedeither from their shape, or from the small proportions of him to whomthey belonged. 

"Still wandering?" asked the little man, with a slightly sarcasticintonation. He spoke in a deep, caressing bass, not loud, but rich inquality and free from that jarring harshness which often belongs to verymanly voices. A musician would have discovered that the pitch was thatof those Russian choristers whose deep throats yield organ tones, a fulloctave below the compass of ordinary singers in other lands. 

"You must have wandered, too, since we last met, " replied the tallerman. 

"I never wander, " said Keyork. "When a man knows what he wants, knows where it is to be found, and goes thither to take it, he is notwandering. Moreover, I have no thought of removing myself or my goodsfrom Prague. I live here. It is a city for old men. It is saturnine. Thefoundations of its houses rest on the silurian formation, which is morethan can be said for any other capital, as far as I know. "

"Is that an advantage?" inquired the Wanderer. 

"To my mind. I would say to my son, if I had one--my thanks to a blindbut intelligent destiny for preserving me from such a calamity!--I wouldsay to him, 'Spend thy youth among flowers in the land where they arebrightest and sweetest; pass thy manhood in all lands where man striveswith man, thought for thought, blow for blow; choose for thine old agethat spot in which, all things being old, thou mayest for the longesttime consider thyself young in comparison with thy surroundings. ' A mancan never feel old if he contemplates and meditates upon thosethings only which are immeasurably older than himself. Moreover theimperishable can preserve the perishable. "

"It was not your habit to talk of death when we were together. "

"I have found it interesting of late years. The subject is connectedwith one of my inventions. Did you ever embalm a body? No? I could tellyou something singular about the newest process. "

"What is the connection?"

"I am embalming myself, body and mind. It is but an experiment, and unless it succeeds it must be the last. Embalming, as it is nowunderstood, means substituting one thing for another. Very good. Iam trying to purge from my mind its old circulating medium; the newthoughts must all be selected from a class which admits of no decay. Nothing could be simpler. "

"It seems to me that nothing could be more vague. "

"You were not formerly so slow to understand me, " said the strangelittle man with some impatience. 

"Do you know a lady of Prague who calls herself Unorna?" the Wandererasked, paying no attention to his friend's last remark. 

"I do. What of her?" Keyork Arabian glanced keenly at his companion. 

"What is she? She has an odd name. "

"As for her name, it is easily accounted for. She was born on thetwenty-ninth day of February, the year of her birth being bisextile. Unor means February, Unorna, derivative adjective, 'belonging toFebruary. ' Some one gave her the name to commemorate the circumstance. "

"Her parents, I suppose. "

"Most probably--whoever they may have been. "

"And what is she?" the Wanderer asked. 

"She calls herself a witch, " answered Keyork with considerable scorn. "Ido not know what she is, or what to call her--a sensitive, an hystericalsubject, a medium, a witch--a fool, if you like, or a charlatan if youprefer the term. Beautiful she is, at least, whatever else she may notbe. "

"Yes, she is beautiful. "

"So you have seen her, have you?" The little man again looked sharply upat his tall companion. "You have had a consultation----"

"Does she give consultations? Is she a professional seer?" The Wandererasked the question in a tone of surprise. "Do you mean that shemaintains an establishment upon such a scale out of the proceeds offortune-telling?"

"I do not mean anything of the sort. Fortune-telling is excellent! Verygood!" Keyork's bright eyes flashed with amusement. "What are you doinghere--I mean in this church?" He put the question suddenly. 

"Pursuing--an idea, if you please to call it so. "

"Not knowing what you mean I must please to call your meaning by yourown name for it. It is your nature to be enigmatic. Shall we go out?If I stay here much longer I shall be petrified instead of embalmed. Ishall turn into dirty old red marble like Tycho's effigy there, an awfulwarning to future philosophers, and an example for the edification ofthe faithful who worship here. "

They walked towards the door, and the contrast between the appearanceof the two brought the ghost of a smile to the thin lips of the palesacristan, who was occupied in renewing the tapers upon one of theside altars. Keyork Arabian might have stood for the portrait of thegnome-king. His high and pointed head, his immense beard, his stuntedbut powerful and thickset limbs, his short, sturdy strides, the fiery, half-humorous, half-threatening twinkle of his bright eyes gave himall the appearance of a fantastic figure from a fairy tale, and thediminutive height of his compact frame set off the noble stature andgraceful motion of his companion. 

"So you were pursuing an idea, " said the little man as they emerged intothe narrow street. "Now ideas may be divided variously into classes, as, for instance, ideas which are good, bad, or indifferent. Or you maycontrast the idea of Plato with ideas anything but platonic--take itas you please. Then there is my idea, which is in itself, good, interesting, and worthy of the embalming process; and there is youridea, which I am human enough to consider altogether bad, worthless, and frivolous, for the plain and substantial reason that it is not mine. Perhaps that is the best division of all. Thine eye is necessarily, fatally, irrevocably evil, because mine is essentially, predestinately, and unchangeably good. If I secretly adopt your idea, I openly assertthat it was never yours at all, but mine from the beginning, by theprerogatives of greater age, wider experience, and immeasurably superiorwisdom. If you have an idea upon any subject, I will utterly annihilateit to my own most profound satisfaction; if you have none concerning anyspecial point, I will force you to accept mine, as mine, or to die theintellectual death. That is the general theory of the idea. "

"And what does it prove?" inquired the Wanderer. 

"If you knew anything, " answered Keyork, with twinkling eyes, "you wouldknow that a theory is not a demonstration, but an explanation. But, bythe hypothesis, since you are not I, you can know nothing certainly. Now my theory explains many things, and, among others, the adamantine, imperishable, impenetrable nature of the substance vanity upon whichthe showman, Nature, projects in fast fading colours the unsubstantialimages of men. Why do you drag me through this dismal passage?"

"I passed through it this morning and missed my way. "

"In pursuit of the idea, of course. That was to be expected. Prague isconstructed on the same principle as the human brain, full of windingways, dark lanes, and gloomy arches, all of which may lead somewhere, or may not. Its topography continually misleads its inhabitants asthe convolutions of the brain mislead the thoughts that dwell there, sometimes bringing them out at last, after a patient search fordaylight, upon a fine broad street where the newest fashions in thoughtare exposed for sale in brightly illuminated shop windows and showcases;conducting them sometimes to the dark, unsavoury court where themiserable self drags out its unhealthy existence in the single room ofits hired earthly lodging. "

"The self which you propose to preserve from corruption, " observed thetall man, who was carefully examining every foot of the walls betweenwhich he was passing with his companion, "since you think so poorlyof the lodger and the lodging, I wonder that you should be anxious toprolong the sufferings of the one and his lease of the other. "

"It is all I have, " answered Keyork Arabian. "Did you think of that?"

"That circumstance may serve as an excuse, but it does not constitute areason. "

"Not a reason! Is the most abject poverty a reason for throwing away thedaily crust? My self is all I have. Shall I let it perish when an effortmay preserve it from destruction? On the one side of the line standsKeyork Arabian, on the other floats the shadow of an annihilation, whichthreatens to swallow up Keyork's self, while leaving all that he hasborrowed of life to be enjoyed, or wasted by others. Could Keyork beexpected to hesitate, so long as he may hope to remain in possessionof that inestimable treasure, his own individuality, which is his onlymeans for enjoying all that is not his, but borrowed?"

"So soon as you speak of enjoyment, argument ceases, " answered theWanderer. 

"You are wrong, as usual, " returned the other. "It is the other way. Enjoyment is the universal solvent of all arguments. No reason canresist its mordant action. It will dissolve any philosophy not foundedupon it and modelled out of its substance, as Aqua Regia will dissolveall metals, even to gold itself. Enjoyment? Enjoyment is the protest ofreality against the tyranny of fiction. "

The little man stopped short in his walk, striking his heavy sticksharply upon the pavement and looking up at his companion, very much asa man of ordinary size looks up at the face of a colossal statue. 

"Have wisdom and study led you no farther than that conclusion?"

Keyork's eyes brightened suddenly, and a peal of laughter, deep andrich, broke from his sturdy breast and rolled long echoes throughthe dismal lane, musical as a hunting-song heard among great trees inwinter. But his ivory features were not discomposed, though his whitebeard trembled and waved softly like a snowy veil blown about by thewind. 

"If wisdom can teach how to prolong the lease, what study can becompared with that of which the results may beautify the dwelling?What more can any man do for himself than make himself happy? Thevery question is absurd. What are you trying to do for yourself at thepresent moment? Is it for the sake of improving the physical conditionor of promoting the moral case of mankind at large that you are draggingme through the slums and byways and alleys of the gloomiest city on thisside of eternal perdition? It is certainly not for my welfare thatyou are sacrificing yourself. You admit that you are pursuing an idea. Perhaps you are in search of some new and curious form of mildew, andwhen you have found it--or something else--you will name your discovery_Fungus Pragensis_, or _Cryptogamus minor Errantis_--'the Wanderer'stoadstool. ' But I know you of old, my good friend. The idea you pursueis not an idea at all, but that specimen of the _genus homo_ knownas 'woman, ' species 'lady, ' variety 'true love, ' vulgar designation'sweetheart. '"

The Wanderer stared coldly at his companion. 

"The vulgarity of the designation is indeed only equalled by thatof your taste in selecting it, " he said slowly. Then he turned away, intending to leave Keyork standing where he was. 

But the little man had already repented of his speech. He ran quicklyto his friend's side and laid one hand upon his arm. The Wanderer pausedand again looked down. 

"Is it of any use to be offended with my speeches? Am I an acquaintanceof yesterday? Do you imagine that it could ever be my intention to annoyyou?" the questions were asked rapidly in tones of genuine anxiety. 

"Indeed, I hardly know how I could suppose that. You have always beenfriendly--but I confess--your names for things are not--always----"

The Wanderer did not complete the sentence, but looked gravely atKeyork as though wishing to convey very clearly again what he had beforeexpressed in words. 

"If we were fellow-countrymen and had our native language in common, we should not so easily misunderstand one another, " replied the other. "Come, forgive my lack of skill, and do not let us quarrel. Perhaps Ican help you. You may know Prague well, but I know it better. Will youallow me to say that I know also whom it is you are seeking here?"

"Yes. You know. I have not changed since we last met, nor havecircumstances favoured me. "

"Tell me--have you really seen this Unorna, and talked with her?"

"This morning. "

"And she could not help you?"

"I refused to accept her help, until I had done all that was in my ownpower to do. "

"You were rash. And have you now done all, and failed?"

"I have. "

"Then, if you will accept a humble suggestion from me, you will go backto her at once. "

"I know very little of her. I do not altogether trust her--"

"Trust! Powers of Eblis--or any other powers! Who talks of trust? Doesthe wise man trust himself? Never. Then how can he dare trust any oneelse?"

"Your cynical philosophy again!" exclaimed the Wanderer. 

"Philosophy? I am a mysosophist! All wisdom is vanity, and I hate it!Autology is my study, autosophy my ambition, autonomy my pride. I am thegreat Panegoist, the would-be Conservator of Self, the inspired prophetof the Universal I. I--I--I! My creed has but one word, and that wordbut one letter, that letter represents Unity, and Unity is Strength. Iam I, one, indivisible, central! O I! Hail and live for ever!"

Again the little man's rich bass voice rang out in mellow laughter. Avery faint smile appeared upon his companion's sad face. 

"You are happy, Keyork, " he said. "You must be, since you can laugh atyourself so honestly. "

"At myself? Vain man! I am laughing at you, and at every one else, ateverything except myself. Will you go to Unorna? You need not trust herany more than the natural infirmity of your judgment suggests. "

"Can you tell me nothing more of her? Do you know her well?"

"She does not offer her help to every one. You would have done well toaccept it in the first instance. You may not find her in the same humouragain. "

"I had supposed from what you said of her that she made a profession ofclairvoyance, or hypnotism, or mesmerism--whatever may be the right termnowadays. "

"It matters very little, " answered Keyork, gravely. "I used to wonder atAdam's ingenuity in naming all living things, but I think he would havemade but a poor figure in a tournament of modern terminologists. No. Unorna does not accept remuneration for her help when she vouchsafes togive it. "

"And yet I was introduced to her presence without even giving my name. "

"That is her fancy. She will see any one who wishes to see her, beggar, gentleman, or prince. But she only answers such questions as she pleasesto answer. "

"That is to say, inquiries for which she is already prepared with areply, " suggested the Wanderer. 

"See for yourself. At all events, she is a very interesting specimen. Ihave never known any one like her. "

Keyork Arabian was silent, as though he were reflecting upon Unorna'scharacter and peculiar gifts, before describing them to his friend. Hisivory features softened almost imperceptibly, and his sharp blue eyessuddenly lost their light, as though they no longer saw the outerworld. But the Wanderer cared for none of these things, and bestowedno attention upon his companion's face. He preferred the little man'ssilence to his wild talk, but he was determined, if possible, to extractsome further information concerning Unorna, and before many seconds hadelapsed he interrupted Keyork's meditations with a question. 

"You tell me to see for myself, " he said. "I would like to know what Iam to expect. Will you not enlighten me?"

"What?" asked the other vaguely, as though roused from sleep. 

"If I go to Unorna and ask a consultation of her, as though she werea common somnambulist, and if she deigns to place her powers at mydisposal what sort of assistance shall I most probably get?"

They had been walking slowly forward, and Keyork again stopped, rappingthe pavement with his iron-shod stick, and looking up from under hisbushy, overhanging eyebrows. 

"Of two things, one will happen, " he answered. "Either she will herselffall into the abnormal state and will answer correctly any questions youput to her, or she will hypnotise you, and you will yourself see--whatyou wish to see. "

"I myself?"

"You yourself. The peculiarity of the woman is her duality, herdouble power. She can, by an act of volition, become hypnotic, clairvoyant--whatever you choose to call it. Or, if her visitor is atall sensitive, she can reverse the situation and play the part of thehypnotiser. I never heard of a like case. "

"After all, I do not see why it should not be so, " said the Wandererthoughtfully. "At all events, whatever she can do, is evidently done byhypnotism, and such extraordinary experiments have succeeded of late--"

"I did not say that there was nothing but hypnotism in her processes. "

"What then? Magic?" The Wanderer's lip curled scornfully. 

"I do not know, " replied the little man, speaking slowly. "Whatever hersecret may be, she keeps it, even when speaking in sleep. This I cantell you. I suspect that there is some other being, or person, in thatqueer old house of hers whom she consults on grave occasions. At a lossfor an answer to a difficult scientific question, I have known her toleave the room and to come back in the course of a few minutes with areply which I am positive she could never have framed herself. "

"She may have consulted books, " suggested the Wanderer. 

"I am an old man, " said Keyork Arabian suddenly. "I am a very old man;there are not many books which I have not seen and partially read at onetime or at another, and my memory is surprisingly good. I have excellentreasons for believing that her information is not got from anything thatwas ever written or printed. "

"May I ask of what general nature your questions were?" inquired theother, more interested than he had hitherto been in the conversation. 

"They referred to the principles of embalmment. "

"Much has been written about that since the days of the Egyptians. "

"The Egyptians!" exclaimed Keyork with great scorn. "They embalmed theirdead after a fashion. Did you ever hear that they embalmed the living?"The little man's eyes shot fire. 

"No, nor will I believe in any such outrageous impossibilities! If thatis all, I have little faith in Unorna's mysterious counsellor. "

"The faith which removes mountains is generally gained by experiencewhen it is gained at all, and the craving for explanation takes theplace, in some minds, of a willingness to learn. It is not my businessto find explanations, nor to raise my little self to your higher level, by standing upon this curbstone, in order to deliver a lecture in thepopular form, upon matters that interest me. It is enough that I havefound what I wanted. Go and do likewise. See for yourself. You havenothing to lose and everything to gain. You are unhappy, and unhappinessis dangerous, in rare cases fatal. If you tell me to-morrow that Unornais a charlatan, you will be in no worse plight than to-day, nor willyour opinion of her influence mine. If she helps you to find what youwant--so much the better for you--how much the better, and how great therisk you run, are questions for your judgment. "

"I will go, " answered the Wanderer, after a moment's hesitation. 

"Very good, " said Keyork Arabian. "If you want to find me again, come tomy lodging. Do you know the house of the Black Mother of God?"

"Yes--there is a legend about a Spanish picture of our Lady oncepreserved there--"

"Exactly, it takes its name from that black picture. It is on the cornerof the Fruit Market, over against the window at which the PrincessWindischgratz was shot. I live in the upper story. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye. "

CHAPTER IV

After the Wanderer had left her, Unorna continued to hold in herhand the book she had again taken up, following the printed linesmechanically from left to right, from the top of the page to the foot. Having reached that point, however, she did not turn over the leaf. Shewas vaguely aware that she had not understood the sense of the words, and she returned to the place at which she had begun, trying toconcentrate her attention upon the matter, moving her fresh lips to formthe syllables, and bending her brows in the effort of understanding, so that a short, straight furrow appeared, like a sharp vertical cutextending from between the eyes to the midst of the broad forehead. One, two and three sentences she grasped and comprehended; then her thoughtswandered again, and the groups of letters passed meaningless beforeher sight. She was accustomed to directing her intelligence without anyperceptible effort, and she was annoyed at being thus led away from heroccupation, against her will and in spite of her determination. A thirdattempt showed her that it was useless to force herself any longer, andwith a gesture and look of irritation she once more laid the volume uponthe table at her side. 

During a few minutes she sat motionless in her chair, her elbow leaningon the carved arm-piece, her chin supported upon the back of herhalf-closed hand, of which the heavy, perfect fingers were turnedinwards, drooping in classic curves towards the lace about her throat. Her strangely mismatched eyes stared vacantly towards an imaginaryhorizon, not bounded by banks of flowers, nor obscured by the fantasticfoliage of exotic trees. 

Presently she held up her head, her white hand dropped upon her knee, she hesitated an instant, and then rose to her feet, swiftly, as thoughshe had made a resolution and was about to act upon it. She made a stepforward, and then paused again, while a half-scornful smile passed likea shadow over her face. Very slowly she began to pace the marble floor, up and down in the open space before her chair, turning and turningagain, the soft folds of her white gown following her across the smoothpavement with a gentle, sweeping sound, such as the breeze makes amongflowers in spring. 

"Is it he?" she asked aloud in a voice ringing with the joy and thefear of a passion that has waited long and is at last approaching thefulfilment of satisfaction. 

No answer came to her from among the thick foliage nor in the scentedbreath of the violets and the lilies. The murmuring song of the littlefountain alone disturbed the stillness, and the rustle of her owngarments as she moved. 

"Is it he? Is it he? Is it he?" she repeated again and again, invarying tones, chiming the changes of hope and fear, of certaintyand vacillation, of sadness and of gladness, of eager passion and ofchilling doubt. 

She stood still, staring at the pavement, her fingers clasped together, the palms of her hands turned downward, her arms relaxed. She did notsee the dark red squares of marble, alternating with the white andthe gray, but as she looked a face and a form rose before her, inthe contemplation of which all her senses and faculties concentratedthemselves. The pale and noble head grew very distinct in her innersight, the dark gray eyes gazed sadly upon her, the passionate featureswere fixed in the expression of a great sorrow. 

"Are you indeed he?" she asked, speaking softly and doubtfully, and yetunconsciously projecting her strong will upon the vision, as though toforce it to give the answer for which she longed. 

And the answer came, imposed by the effort of her imagination upon thething imagined. The face suddenly became luminous, as with a radiancewithin itself; the shadows of grief melted away, and in their placetrembled the rising light of a dawning love. The lips moved and thevoice spoke, not as it had spoken to her lately, but in tones longfamiliar to her in dreams by day and night. 

"I am he, I am that love for whom you have waited; you are that dear onewhom I have long sought throughout the world. The hour of our joy hasstruck, the new life begins to-day, and there shall be no end. "

Unorna's arms went out to grasp the shadow, and she drew it to her inher fancy and kissed its radiant face. 

"To ages of ages!" she cried. 

Then she covered her eyes as though to impress the sight they had seenupon the mind within, and groping blindly for her chair sank backinto her seat. But the mechanical effort of will and memory could notpreserve the image. In spite of all inward concentration of thought, its colours faded, its outlines trembled, grew faint and vanished, anddarkness was in its place. Unorna's hand dropped to her side, and aquick throb of pain stabbed her through and through, agonising as thewound of a blunt and jagged knife, though it was gone almost before sheknew where she had felt it. Then her eyes flashed with unlike fires, theone dark and passionate as the light of a black diamond, the other keenand daring as the gleam of blue steel in the sun. 

"Ah, but I will!" she exclaimed. "And what I will--shall be. "

As though she were satisfied with the promise thus made to herself, shesmiled, her eyelids drooped, the tension of her frame was relaxed, andshe sank again into the indolent attitude in which the Wanderer hadfound her. A moment later the distant door turned softly upon its hingesand a light footfall broke the stillness. There was no need for Unornato speak in order that the sound of her voice might guide the new comerto her retreat. The footsteps approached swiftly and surely. A young manof singular beauty came out of the green shadows and stood beside thechair in the open space. 

Unorna betrayed no surprise as she looked up into her visitor's face. She knew it well. In form and feature the youth represented the noblesttype of the Jewish race. It was impossible to see him without thinkingof a young eagle of the mountains, eager, swift, sure, instinct withelasticity, far-sighted and untiring, strong to grasp and to hold, beautiful with the glossy and unruffled beauty of a plumage continuallysmoothed in the sweep and the rush of high, bright air. 

Israel Kafka stood still, gazing down upon the woman he loved, anddrawing his breath hard between his parted lips. His piercing eyesdevoured every detail of the sight before him, while the dark blood rosein his lean olive cheek, and the veins of his temples swelled with thebeating of his quickened pulse. 

"Well?"

The single indifferent word received the value of a longer speech fromthe tone in which it was uttered, and from the look and gesturewhich accompanied it. Unorna's voice was gentle, soft, half-indolent, half-caressing, half-expectant, and half-careless. There was somethingalmost insolent in its assumption of superiority, which was borne out bythe little defiant tapping of two long white fingers upon the arm of thecarved chair. And yet, with the rising inflection of the monosyllablethere went a raising of the brows, a sidelong glance of the eyes, aslowly wreathing smile that curved the fresh lips just enough tounmask two perfect teeth, all of which lent to the voice a meaning, a familiarity, a pliant possibility of favourable interpretation, fitrather to flatter a hope than to chill a passion. 

The blood beat more fiercely in the young man's veins, his black eyesgleamed yet more brightly, his pale, high-curved nostrils quivered atevery breath he drew. The throbbings of his heart unseated his thoughtsand strongly took possession of the government of his body. Under anirresistible impulse he fell upon his knees beside Unorna, covering hermarble hand with all his lean, dark fingers and pressing his foreheadupon them, as though he had found and grasped all that could be dear tohim in life. 

"Unorna! My golden Unorna!" he cried, as he knelt. 

Unorna looked down upon his bent head. The smile faded from her face, and for a moment a look of hardness lingered there, which gave way toan expression of pain and regret. As though collecting her thoughts sheclosed her eyes, as she tried to draw back her hand; then as he held itstill, she leaned back and spoke to him. 

"You have not understood me, " she said, as quietly as she could. 

The strong fingers were not lifted from hers, but the white face, nowbloodless and transparent, was raised to hers, and a look of such fearas she had never dreamed of was in the wide black eyes. 

"Not--understood?" he repeated in startled, broken tones. 

Unorna sighed, and turned away, for the sight hurt her and accused her. 

"No, you have not understood. Is it my fault? Israel Kafka, that hand isnot yours to hold. "

"Not mine? Unorna!" Yet he could not quite believe what she said. 

"I am in earnest, " she answered, not without a lingering tenderness inthe intonation. "Do you think I am jesting with you, or with myself?"

Neither of the two stirred during the silence which followed. Unorna satquite still, staring fixedly into the green shadows of the foliage, asthough not daring to meet the gaze she felt upon her. Israel Kafka stillknelt beside her, motionless and hardly breathing, like a dangerous wildanimal startled by an unexpected enemy, and momentarily paralysed inthe very act of springing, whether backward in flight, or forward in theteeth of the foe, it is not possible to guess. 

"I have been mistaken, " Unorna continued at last. "Forgive--forget--"

Israel Kafka rose to his feet and drew back a step from her side. All his movements were smooth and graceful. The perfect man is mostbeautiful in motion, the perfect woman in repose. 

"How easy it is for you!" exclaimed the Moravian. "How easy! How simple!You call me, and I come. You let your eyes rest on me, and I kneelbefore you. You sigh, and I speak words of love. You lift your hand andI crouch at your feet. You frown--and I humbly leave you. How easy!"

"You are wrong, and you speak foolishly. You are angry, and you do notweigh your words. "

"Angry! What have I to do with so common a madness as anger? I am morethan angry. Do you think that because I have submitted to the veeringgusts of your good and evil humours these many months, I have lost allconsciousness of myself? Do you think that you can blow upon me as upona feather, from east and west, from north and south, hotly or coldly, asyour unstable nature moves you? Have you promised me nothing? Have yougiven me no hope? Have you said and done nothing whereby you are bound?Or can no pledge bind you, no promise find a foothold in your slipperymemory, no word of yours have meaning for those who hear it?"

"I never gave you either pledge or promise, " answered Unorna in a hardertone. "The only hope I have ever extended to you was this, that I wouldone day answer you plainly. I have done so. You are not satisfied. Isthere anything more to be said? I do not bid you leave my house forever, any more than I mean to drive you from my friendship. "

"From your friendship! Ah, I thank you, Unorna; I most humbly thankyou! For the mercy you extend in allowing me to linger near you, I amgrateful! Your friend, you say? Ay, truly, your friend and servant, yourservant and your slave, your slave and your dog. Is the friend impatientand dissatisfied with his lot? A soft word shall turn away his anger. Isthe servant over-presumptuous? Your scorn will soon teach him his duty. Is the slave disobedient? Blows will cure him of his faults. Does yourdog fawn upon you too familiarly? Thrust him from you with your foot andhe will cringe and cower till you smile again. Your friendship--I haveno words for thanks!"

"Take it, or take it not--as you will. " Unorna glanced at his angry faceand quickly looked away. 

"Take it? Yes, and more too, whether you will give it or not, " answeredIsrael Kafka, moving nearer to her. "Yes. Whether you will, or whetheryou will not, I have all, your friendship, your love, your life, yourbreath, your soul--all, or nothing!"

"You are wise to suggest the latter alternative as a possibility, " saidUnorna coldly and not heeding his approach. 

The young man stood still, and folded his arms. The colour had returnedto his face and a deep flush was rising under his olive skin. 

"Do you mean what you say?" he asked slowly. "Do you mean that I shallnot have all, but nothing? Do you still dare to mean that, after allthat has passed between you and me?"

Unorna raised her eyes and looked steadily into his. 

"Israel Kafka, do not speak to me of daring. "

But the young man's glance did not waver. The angry expression of hisfeatures did not relax; he neither drew back nor bent his head. Unornaseemed to be exerting all the strength of her will in the attempt todominate him, but without result. In the effort she made to concentrateher determination her face grew pale and her lips trembled. Kafkafaced her resolutely, his eyes on fire, the rich colour mantling in hischeeks. 

"Where is your power now?" he asked suddenly. "Where is your witchery?You are only a woman, after all. You are only a weak woman!"

Very slowly he drew nearer to her side, his lithe figure bending alittle as he looked down upon her. Unorna leaned far back, withdrawingher face from his as far as she could, but still trying to impose herwill upon him. 

"You cannot, " he said between his teeth, answering her thought. 

Men who have tamed wild beasts alone know what such a moment is like. Ahundred times the brave man has held the tiger spell-bound and crouchingunder his cold, fearless gaze. The beast, ever docile and submissive, has cringed at his feet, fawned to his touch, and licked the hand thatsnatched away the half-devoured morsel. Obedient to voice and eye, thegiant strength and sinewy grace have been debased to make the sport ofmultitudes; the noble, pliant frame has contorted itself to execute themean antics of the low-comedy ape--to counterfeit death like a poodledog; to leap through gaudily-painted rings at the word of command; tofetch and carry like a spaniel. A hundred times the changing crowd haspaid its paltry fee to watch the little play that is daily acted behindthe stout iron bars by the man and the beast. The man, the nobler, braver creature, is arrayed in a wretched flimsy finery of tights andspangles, parading his physical weakness and inferiority in thetoggery of a mountebank. The tiger, vast, sleepy-eyed, mysterious, liesmotionless in the front of his cage, the gorgeous stripes of his velvetcoat following each curve of his body, from the cushions of his greatfore paws to the arch of his gathered haunches. The watchfulness andflexible activity of the serpent and the strength that knows no masterare clothed in the magnificent robes of the native-born sovereign. Timeand times again the beautiful giant has gone through the slavishround of his mechanical tricks, obedient to the fragile creature ofintelligence, to the little dwarf, man, whose power is in his eyes andheart only. He is accustomed to the lights, to the spectators, to thelaughter, to the applause, to the frightened scream of the hystericalwomen in the audience, to the close air and to the narrow stage behindthe bars. The tamer in his tights and tinsel has grown used to histiger, to his emotions, to his hourly danger. He even finds at last thathis mind wanders during the performance, and that at the very instantwhen he is holding the ring for the leap, or thrusting his head into thebeast's fearful jaws, he is thinking of his wife, of his little child, of his domestic happiness or household troubles, rather than of whathe is doing. Many times, perhaps many hundreds of times, all passes offquietly and successfully. Then, inevitably, comes the struggle. Whocan tell the causes? The tiger is growing old, or is ill fed, or is notwell, or is merely in one of those evil humours to which animals aresubject as well as their masters. One day he refuses to go through withthe performance. First one trick fails, and then another. The publicgrows impatient, the man in spangles grows nervous, raises his voice, stamps loudly with his foot, and strikes his terrible slave with hislight switch. A low, deep sound breaks from the enormous throat, thespectators hold their breath, the huge, flexible limbs are gathered forthe leap, and in the gaslight and the dead silence man and beast areface to face. Life hangs in the balance, and death is at the door. 

Then the tamer's heart beats loud, his chest heaves, his brows arefurrowed. Even then, in the instant that still separates him fromtriumph or destruction, the thought of his sleeping child or of hiswatching wife darts through his brain. But the struggle has begun andthere is no escape. One of two things must happen: he must overcome orhe must die. To draw back, to let his glance waver, to show so much asthe least sign of fear, is death. The moment is supreme, and he knowsit. 

Unorna grasped the arms of her chair as though seeking for physicalsupport in her extremity. She could not yield. Before her eyes arose avision unlike the reality in all its respects. She saw an older face, a taller figure, a look of deeper thought between her and the angry manwho was trying to conquer her resistance with a glance. Between her andher mistake the image of what should be stood out, bright, vivid, andstrong. A new conviction had taken the place of the old, a real passionwas flaming upon the altar whereon she had fed with dreams the semblanceof a sacred fire. 

"You do not really love me, " she said softly. 

Israel Kafka started, as a man who is struck unawares. The monstrousuntruth which filled the words broke down his guard, sudden tears veiledthe penetrating sharpness of his gaze, and his hand trembled. 

"I do not love you? I! Unorna--Unorna!"

The first words broke from him in a cry of horror and stupefaction. Buther name, when he spoke it, sounded as the death moan of a young wildanimal wounded beyond all power to turn at bay. 

He moved unsteadily and laid hold of the tall chair in which she sat. He was behind her now, standing, but bending down so that his foreheadpressed his fingers. He could not bear to look upon her hair, still lessupon her face. Even his hands were white and bloodless. Unorna couldhear his quick breathing just above her shoulder. She sat quite still, and her lips were smiling, though her brow was thoughtful and almostsad. She knew that the struggle was over and that she had gained themastery, though the price of victory might be a broken heart. 

"You thought I was jesting, " she said in a low voice, looking before herinto the deep foliage, but knowing that her softest whisper would reachhim. "But there was no jest in what I said--nor any unkindness in whatI meant, though it is all my fault. But that is true--you never loved meas I would be loved. "

"Unorna----"

"No, I am not unkind. Your love is young, fierce, inconstant; halfterrible, half boyish, aflame to-day, asleep to-morrow, ready to turninto hatred at one moment, to melt into tears at the next, intermittent, unstable as water, fleeting as a cloud's shadow on the mountain side--"

"It pleased you once, " said Israel Kafka in broken tones. "It is notless love because you are weary of it, and of me. "

"Weary, you say? No, not weary--and very truly not of you. You willbelieve that to-day, to-morrow, you will still try to force life intoyour belief--and then it will be dead and gone like all thoughts whichhave never entered into the shapes of reality. We have not loved eachother. We have but fancied that it would be sweet to love, and the knifeof truth has parted the web of our dreams, keenly, in the midst, so thatwe see before us what is, though the ghost of what might have been isyet lingering near. "

"Who wove that web, Unorna? You, or I?" He lifted his heavy eyes andgazed at her coiled hair. 

"What matters it whether it was your doing or mine? But we wove ittogether--and together we must see the truth. "

"If this is true, there is no more 'together' for you and me. "

"We may yet glean friendship in the fields where love has grown. "

"Friendship! The very word is a wound! Friendship! The very dregs andlees of the wine of life! Friendship! The sour drainings of the heart'scup, left to moisten the lips of the damned when the blessed have drunktheir fill! I hate the word, as I hate the thought!"

Unorna sighed, partly, perhaps, that he might hear the sigh, and putupon it an interpretation soothing to his vanity, but partly, too, from a sincere regret that he should need to suffer as he was evidentlysuffering. She had half believed that she loved him, and she owed himpity. Women's hearts pay such debts unwillingly, but they do pay them, nevertheless. She wished that she had never set eyes upon Israel Kafka;she wished that she might never see him again; even his death wouldhardly have cost her a pang, and yet she was sorry for him. Diana, thehuntress, shot her arrows with unfailing aim; Diana, the goddess, mayhave sighed and shed one bright immortal tear, as she looked into thefast-glazing eyes of the dying stag--may not Diana, the maiden, havefelt a touch of human sympathy and pain as she listened to the deep noteof her hounds baying on poor Actaeon's track! No one is all bad, or allgood. No woman is all earthly, nor any goddess all divine. 

"I am sorry, " said Unorna. "You will not understand----"

"I have understood enough. I have understood that a woman can havetwo faces and two hearts, two minds, two souls; it is enough, myunderstanding need go no farther. You sighed before you spoke. It wasnot for me; it was for yourself. You never felt pain or sorrow foranother. "

He was trying hard to grow cold and to find cold words to say, whichmight lead her to believe him stronger than he was and able to masterhis grief. But he was too young, too hot, too changeable for such apart. Moreover, in his first violent outbreak Unorna had dominated him, and he could not now regain the advantage. 

"You are wrong, Israel Kafka. You would make me less than human. IfI sighed, it was indeed for you. See--I confess that I have done youwrong, not in deeds, but in letting you hope. Truly, I myself have hopedalso. I have thought that the star of love was trembling just below theeast, and that you and I might be one to another--what we cannot be now. My wisdom has failed me, my sight has been deceived. Am I the onlywoman in this world who has been mistaken? Can you not forgive? If Ihad promised, if I had said one word--and yet, you are right, too, forI have let you think in earnest what has been but a passing dream ofmy own thoughts. It was all wrong; it was all my fault. There, lay yourhand in mine and say that you forgive, as I ask forgiveness. "

He was still standing behind her, leaning against the back of her chair. Without looking round she raised her hand above her shoulder as thoughseeking for his. But he would not take it. 

"Is it so hard?" she asked softly. "Is it even harder for you to givethan for me to ask? Shall we part like this--not to meet again--eachbearing a wound, when both might be whole? Can you not say the word?"

"What is it to you whether I forgive you or not?"

"Since I ask it, believe that it is much to me, " she answered, slowlyturning her head until, without catching sight of his face, she couldjust see where his fingers were resting on her chair. Then, over hershoulder, she touched them, and drew them to her cheek. He made noresistance. 

"Shall we part without one kind thought?" Her voice was softer still andso low and sweet that it seemed as though the words were spoken in theripple of the tiny fountain. There was magic in the place, in the air, in the sounds, above all in the fair woman's touch. 

"Is this friendship?" asked Kafka. Then he sank upon his knees besideher, and looked up into her face. 

"It is friendship; yes--why not? Am I like other women?"

"Then why need there be any parting?"

"If you will be my friend there need be none. You have forgiven menow--I see it in your eyes. Is it not true?"

He was at her feet, passive at last under the superior power which hehad never been able to resist. Unorna's fascination was upon him, andhe could only echo her words, as he would have executed her slightestcommand, without consciousness of free will or individual thought. Itwas enough that for one moment his anger should cease to give life tohis resistance; it was sufficient that Unorna should touch him thus, and speak softly, his eyelids quivered and his look became fixed, hisstrength was absorbed in hers and incapable of acting except under herdirection. So long as she might please the spell would endure. 

"Sit beside me now, and let us talk, " she said. 

Like a man in a dream, he rose and sat down near her. 

Unorna laughed, and there was something in the tone that was not good tohear. A moment earlier it would have wounded Israel Kafka to the quickand brought the hot, angry blood to his face. Now he laughed with her, vacantly, as though not knowing the cause of his mirth. 

"You are only my slave, after all, " said Unorna scornfully. 

"I am only your slave, after all, " he repeated. 

"I could touch you with my hand and you would hate me, and forget thatyou ever loved me. "

This time the man was silent. There was a contraction of pain in hisface, as though a violent mental struggle were going on within him. Unorna tapped the pavement impatiently with her foot and bent her brows. 

"You would hate me and forget that you ever loved me, " she repeated, dwelling on each word as though to impress it on his consciousness. "Sayit. I order you. "

The contraction of his features disappeared. 

"I should hate you and forget that I ever loved you, " he said slowly. 

"You never loved me. "

"I never loved you. "

Again Unorna laughed, and he joined in her laughter, unintelligently, as he had done before. She leaned back in her seat, and her face grewgrave. Israel Kafka sat motionless in his chair, staring at her withunwinking eyes. But his gaze did not disturb her. There was no moremeaning in it than in the expression of a marble statue, far less thanin that of a painted portrait. Yet the man was alive and in the fullstrength of his magnificent youth, supple, active, fierce by nature, able to have killed her with his hands in the struggle of a moment. Yetshe knew that without a word from her he could neither turn his head normove in his seat. 

For a long time Unorna was absorbed in her meditations. Again and againthe vision of a newer happiness took shape and colour before her, soclearly and vividly that she could have clasped it and held it andbelieved in its reality, as she had done before Israel Kafka hadentered. But there was a doubt now, which constantly arose between herand it, the dark and shapeless shadow of a reasoning she hated and yetknew to be strong. 

"I must ask him, " she said unconsciously. 

"You must ask him, " repeated Israel Kafka from his seat. 

For the third time Unorna laughed aloud as she heard the echo of her ownwords. 

"Whom shall I ask?" she inquired contemptuously, as she rose to herfeet. 

The dull, glassy eyes sought hers in painful perplexity, following herface as she moved. 

"I do not know, " answered the powerless man. 

Unorna came close to him and laid her hand upon his head. 

"Sleep, until I wake you, " she said. 

The eyelids drooped and closed at her command, and instantly the man'sbreathing became heavy and regular. Unorna's full lips curled as shelooked down at him. 

"And you would be my master!" she exclaimed. 

Then she turned and disappeared among the plants, leaving him alone. 

CHAPTER V

Unorna passed through a corridor which was, indeed, only a long balconycovered in with arches and closed with windows against the outer air. At the farther end three steps descended to a dark door, through thethickness of a massive wall, showing that at this point Unorna's househad at some former time been joined with another building beyond, withwhich it thus formed one habitation. Unorna paused, holding the keyas though hesitating whether she should put it into the lock. It wasevident that much depended upon her decision, for her face expressedthe anxiety she felt. Once she turned away, as though to abandon herintention, hesitated, and then, with an impatient frown, opened thedoor and went in. She passed through a small, well-lighted vestibule andentered the room beyond. 

The apartment was furnished with luxury, but a stranger would havereceived an oddly disquieting impression of the whole at a first glance. There was everything in the place which is considered necessary for abedroom, and everything was perfect of its kind, spotless and dustless, and carefully arranged in order. But almost everything was of an unusualand unfamiliar shape, as though designed for some especial reason toremain in equilibrium in any possible position, and to be moved fromplace to place with the smallest imaginable physical effort. The carvedbedstead was fitted with wheels which did not touch the ground, andlevers so placed as to be within the reach of a person lying in it. Thetables were each supported at one end only by one strong column, fixedto a heavy base set on broad rollers, so that the board could be runacross a bed or a lounge with the greatest ease. There was but one chairmade like ordinary chairs; the rest were so constructed that the leastmotion of the occupant must be accompanied by a corresponding changeof position of the back and arms, and some of them bore a curiousresemblance to a surgeon's operating table, having attachments ofsilver-plated metal at many points, of which the object was notimmediately evident. Before a closed door a sort of wheeled conveyance, partaking of the nature of a chair and of a perambulator, stood uponpolished rails, which disappeared under the door itself, showing thatthe thing was intended to be moved from one room to another in a certainway and in a fixed line. The rails, had the door been opened, would havebeen seen to descend upon the other side by a gentle inclined planeinto the centre of a huge marble basin, and the contrivance thus madeit possible to wheel a person into a bath and out again withoutnecessitating the slightest effort or change of position in the body. Inthe bedroom the windows were arranged so that the light and air couldbe regulated to a nicety. The walls were covered with fine basket work, apparently adapted in panels; but these panels were in reality movabletrays, as it were, forming shallow boxes fitted with closely-wovenwicker covers, and filled with charcoal and other porous substancesintended to absorb the impurities of the air, and thus easily changedand renewed from time to time. Immediately beneath the ceiling wereplaced delicate glass globes of various soft colours, with silkenshades, movable from below by means of brass rods and handles. In theceiling itself there were large ventilators, easily regulated as mightbe required, and there was a curious arrangement of rails and wheelsfrom which depended a sort of swing, apparently adapted for moving aperson or a weight to different parts of the room without touching thefloor. In one of the lounges, not far from the window, lay a colossalold man, wrapped in a loose robe of warm white stuff, and fast asleep. 

He was a very old man, so old, indeed, as to make it hard to guess hisage from his face and his hands, the only parts visible as he lay atrest, the vast body and limbs lying motionless under his garment, asbeneath a heavy white pall. He could not be less than a hundred yearsold, but how much older than that he might really be, it was impossibleto say. What might be called the waxen period had set in, and the highcolourless features seemed to be modelled in that soft, semi-transparentmaterial. The time had come when the stern furrows of age had brokenup into countless minutely-traced lines, so close and fine as to seema part of the texture of the skin, mere shadings, evenly distributedthroughout, and no longer affecting the expression of the face asthe deep wrinkles had done in former days; at threescore and ten, atfourscore, and even at ninety years. The century that had passed hadtaken with it its marks and scars, leaving the great features in theiroriginal purity of design, lean, smooth, and clearly defined. That lastchange in living man is rare enough, but when once seen is not to beforgotten. There is something in the faces of the very, very old whichhardly suggests age at all, but rather the vague possibility of areturning prime. Only the hands tell the tale, with their huge, shining, fleshless joints, their shadowy hollows, and their unnatural yellownails. 

The old man lay quite still, breathing softly through his snowy beard. Unorna came to his side. There was something of wonder and admirationin her own eyes as she stood there gazing upon the face which othergenerations of men and women, all long dead, had looked upon and known. The secret of life and death was before her each day when she enteredthat room, and on the very verge of solution. The wisdom hardly gainedin many lands was striving with all its concentrated power to preservethat life; the rare and subtle gifts which she herself possessed weredaily exercised to their full in the suggestion of vitality; the mostelaborate inventions of skilled mechanicians were employed in reducingthe labour of living to the lowest conceivable degree of effort. Thegreat experiment was being tried. What Keyork Arabian described as theembalming of a man still alive was being attempted. And he lived. Foryears they had watched him and tended him, and looked critically forthe least signs of a diminution or an augmentation in his strength. Theyknew that he was now in his one hundred and seventh year, and yet helived and was no weaker. Was there a limit; or was there not, since thedestruction of the tissues was arrested beyond doubt, so far as the mostminute tests could show? Might there not be, in the slow oscillationsof nature, a degree of decay, on this side of death, from which a returnshould be possible, provided that the critical moment were passed in astate of sleep and under perfect conditions? How do we know that allmen must die? We suppose the statement to be true by induction, fromthe undoubted fact that men have hitherto died within a certain limit ofage. By induction, too, our fathers, our grandfathers, knew that it wasimpossible for man to traverse the earth faster than at the full speedof a galloping horse. After several thousand years of experience thatpiece of knowledge, which seemed to be singularly certain, was suddenlyproved to be the grossest ignorance by a man who had been in the habitof playing with a tea-kettle when a boy. We ourselves, not very longago, knew positively, as all men had known since the beginning of theworld, that it was quite impossible to converse with a friend at adistance beyond the carrying power of a speaking trumpet. To-day, aboy who does not know that one may talk very agreeably with a frienda thousand miles away is an ignoramus; and experimenters whisper amongthemselves that, if the undulatory theory of light have any foundation, there is no real reason why we may not see that same friend at that samedistance, as well as talk with him. Ten years ago we were quite surethat it was beyond the bounds of natural possibility to produce a badburn upon the human body by touching the flesh with a bit of cardboardor a common lead pencil. Now we know with equal certainty that if uponone arm of a hypnotised patient we impress a letter of the alphabetcut out of wood, telling him that it is red-hot iron, the shape of theletter will on the following day be found on a raw and painful woundnot only in the place we selected but on the other arm, in the exactlycorresponding spot, and reversed as though seen in a looking-glass;and we very justly consider that a physician who does not know this andsimilar facts is dangerously behind the times, since the knowledge isopen to all. The inductive reasoning of many thousands of years hasbeen knocked to pieces in the last century by a few dozen men who havereasoned little but attempted much. It would be rash to assert thatbodily death may not some day, and under certain conditions, bealtogether escaped. It is nonsense to pretend that human life may notpossibly, and before long, be enormously prolonged, and that by someshorter cut to longevity than temperance and sanitation. No man can saythat it will, but no man of average intelligence can now deny that itmay. 

Unorna had hesitated at the door, and she hesitated now. It was in herpower, and in hers only, to wake the hoary giant, or at least tomodify his perpetual sleep so far as to obtain from him answers to herquestions. It would be an easy matter to lay one hand upon his brow, bidding him see and speak--how easy, she alone knew. But on the otherhand, to disturb his slumber was to interfere with the continuity of thegreat experiment, to break through a rule lately made, to incur the riskof an accident, if not of death itself. 

She drew back at the thought, as though fearing to startle him, and thenshe smiled at her own nervousness. To wake him she must exercise herwill. There was no danger of his ever being roused by any sound or touchnot proceeding from herself. The crash of thunder had no reverberationfor his ears, the explosion of a cannon would not have penetrated intohis lethargy. She might touch him, move him, even speak to him, butunless she laid her hand upon his waxen forehead and bid him feel andhear, he would be as unconscious as the dead. She returned to his sideand gazed into his placid face. Strange faculties were asleep in thatancient brain, and strange wisdom was stored there, gathered frommany sources long ago, and treasured unconsciously by the memory to berecalled at her command. 

The man had been a failure in his day, a scholar, a student, a searcherafter great secrets, a wanderer in the labyrinths of higher thought. He had been a failure and had starved, as failures must, in order thatvulgar success may fatten and grow healthy. He had outlived the few thathad been dear to him, he had outlived the power to feed on thought, hehad outlived generations of men, and cycles of changes, and yet therehad been life left in the huge gaunt limbs and sight in the sunken eyes. Then he had outlived pride itself, and the ancient scholar had beggedhis bread. In his hundredth year he had leaned for rest against Unorna'sdoor, and she had taken him in and cared for him, and since that timeshe had preserved his life. For his history was known in the ancientcity, and it was said that he had possessed great wisdom in his day. Unorna knew that this wisdom could be hers if she could keep alive thespark of life, and that she could employ his own learning to that end. Already she had much experience of her powers, and knew that if she oncehad the mastery of the old man's free will he must obey her fatally andunresistingly. Then she conceived the idea of embalming, as it were, theliving being, in a perpetual hypnotic lethargy, from whence she recalledhim from time to time to an intermediate state, in which she causedhim to do mechanically all those things which she judged necessary toprolong life. 

Seeing her success from the first, she had begun to fancy that thepresent condition of things might be made to continue indefinitely. Since death was to-day no nearer than it had been seven years ago, therewas no reason why it might not be guarded against during seven yearsmore, and if during seven, why not during ten, twenty, fifty? She hadfor a helper a physician of consummate practical skill--a man whoseinterest in the result of the trial was, if anything, more keen thanher own; a friend, above all, whom she believed she might trust, and whoappeared to trust her. 

But in the course of their great experiment they had together maderules by which they had mutually agreed to be bound. They had of latedetermined that the old man must not be disturbed in his profound restby any question tending to cause a state of mental activity. The test ofa very fine instrument had proved that the shortest interval of positivelucidity was followed by a slight but distinctly perceptible riseof temperature in the body, and this could mean only a waste of theprecious tissues they were so carefully preserving. They hoped andbelieved that the grand crisis was at hand, and that, if the body didnot now lose strength and vitality for a considerable time, both wouldslowly though surely increase, in consequence of the means they wereusing to instill new blood into the system. But the period was supreme, and to interfere in any way with the progress of the experiment was torun a risk of which the whole extent could only be realised by Unornaand her companion. 

She hesitated therefore, well knowing that her ally would oppose herintention with all his might, and dreading his anger, bold as she was, almost as much as she feared the danger to the old man's life. On theother hand, she had a motive which the physician could not have, andwhich, as she was aware, he would have despised and condemned. She had aquestion to ask, which she considered of vital importance to herself, to which she firmly believed that the true answer would be given, andwhich, in her womanly impetuosity and impatience, she could not bearto leave unasked until the morrow, much less until months should havepassed away. Two very powerful incentives were at work, two of the verystrongest which have influence with mankind, love and a superstitiousbelief in an especial destiny of happiness, at the present moment on thevery verge of realisation. 

She believed profoundly in herself and in the suggestions of her ownimagination. So fixed and unalterable was that belief that it amountedto positive knowledge, so far as it constituted a motive of action. Inher strange youth wild dreams had possessed her, and some of them, oftendreamed again, had become realities to her now. Her powers were natural, those gifts which from time to time are seen in men and women, which arealternately scoffed at as impostures, or accepted as facts, but whichare never understood either by their possessor or by those who witnessthe results. She had from childhood the power to charm with eye and handall living things, the fascination which takes hold of the consciousnessthrough sight and touch and word, and lulls it to sleep. It waswitchery, and she was called a witch. In earlier centuries her hideousfate would have been sealed from the first day when, under her childishgaze, a wolf that had been taken alive in the Bohemian forest crawledfawning to her feet, at the full length of its chain, and laid itssavage head under her hand, and closed its bloodshot eyes and sleptbefore her. Those who had seen had taken her and taught her how touse what she possessed according to their own shadowy beliefs and dimtraditions of the half-forgotten magic in a distant land. They hadfilled her heart with longings and her brain with dreams, and she hadgrown up to believe that one day love would come suddenly upon her andbear her away through the enchanted gates of the earthly paradise; onceonly that love would come, and the supreme danger of her life would bethat she should not know it when it was at hand. 

And now she knew that she loved, for the place of her fondness forthe one man had been taken by her passion for the other, and she feltwithout reasoning, where, before, she had tried to reason herself intofeeling. The moment had come. She had seen the man in whom her happinesswas to be, the time was short, the danger great if she should not graspwhat her destiny would offer her but once. Had the Wanderer been by herside, she would have needed to ask no question, she would have known andbeen satisfied. But hours must pass before she could see him again, andevery minute spent without him grew more full of anxiety and disturbingpassion than the last. The wild love-blossom that springs into existencein a single moment has elements which do not enter into the gentlerbeing of that other love which is sown in indifference, and which growsup in slowly increasing interest, tended and refreshed in the pleasantintercourse of close acquaintance, to bud and bloom at last asa mild-scented garden flower. Love at first sight is impatient, passionate, ruthless, cruel, as the year would be, if from the calendarof the season the months of slow transition were struck out; if theraging heat of August followed in one day upon the wild tempests of thewinter; if the fruit of the vine but yesterday in leaf grew rich andblack to-day, to be churned to foam to-morrow under the feet of thelaughing wine treaders. 

Unorna felt that the day would be intolerable if she could not hear fromother lips the promise of a predestined happiness. She was not really indoubt, but she was under the imperious impulse of a passion whichmust needs find some response, even in the useless confirmation of itsreality uttered by an indifferent person--the spirit of a mighty cryseeking its own echo in the echoless, flat waste of the Great Desert. 

Then, too, she placed a sincere faith in the old man's answers to herquestions, regardless of the matter inquired into. She believed thatin the mysterious condition between sleep and waking which she couldcommand, the knowledge of things to be was with him as certainly as thememory of what had been and of what was even now passing in the outerworld. To her, the one direction of the faculty seemed no less possiblethan the others, though she had not yet attained alone to the vision ofthe future. Hitherto the old man's utterances had been fulfilled to theletter. More than once, as Keyork Arabian had hinted, she had consultedhis second sight in preference to her own, and she had not beendeceived. His greater learning and his vast experience lent to hissayings something divine in her eyes; she looked upon him as thePythoness of Delphi looked upon the divinity of her inspiration. 

The irresistible longing to hear the passionate pleadings of her ownheart solemnly confirmed by the voice in which she trusted overcame atlast every obstacle. Unorna bent over the sleeper, looking earnestlyinto his face, and she laid one hand upon his brow. 

"You hear me, " she said, slowly and distinctly. "You are conscious ofthought, and you see into the future. "

The massive head stirred, the long limbs moved uneasily under the whiterobe, the enormous, bony hands contracted, and in the cavernous eyes thegreat lids were slowly lifted. A dull stare met her look. 

"Is it he?" she asked, speaking more quickly in spite of herself. "Is ithe at last?"

There was no answer. The lips did not part, there was not even theattempt to speak. She had been sure that the one word would be spokenunhesitatingly, and the silence startled her and brought back the doubtwhich she had half forgotten. 

"You must answer my question. I command you to answer me. Is it he?"

"You must tell me more before I can answer. "

The words came in a feeble piping voice, strangely out of keeping withthe colossal frame and imposing features. 

Unorna's face was clouded, and the ready gleam of anger flashed in hereyes as it ever did at the smallest opposition to her will. 

"Can you not see him?" she asked impatiently. 

"I cannot see him unless you lead me to him and tell me where he is. "

"Where are you?"

"In your mind. "

"And what are you?"

"I am the image in your eyes. "

"There is another man in my mind, " said Unorna. "I command you to seehim. "

"I see him. He is tall, pale, noble, suffering. You love him. "

"Is it he who shall be my life and my death? Is it he who shall love meas other women are not loved?"

The weak voice was still for a moment, and the face seemed covered witha veil of perplexity. 

"I see with your eyes, " said the old man at last. 

"And I command you to see into the future with your own!" cried Unorna, concentrating her terrible will as she grew more impatient. 

There was an evident struggle in the giant's mind, an effort to obeywhich failed to break down an obstacle. She bent over him eagerly andher whole consciousness was centered in the words she desired him tospeak. 

Suddenly the features relaxed into an expression of rest andsatisfaction. There was something unearthly in the sudden smile thatflickered over the old waxen face--it was as strange and unnatural asthough the cold marble effigy upon a sepulchre had laughed aloud in thegloom of an empty church. 

"I see. He will love you, " said the tremulous tones. 

"Then it is he?"

"It is he. "

With a suppressed cry of triumph Unorna lifted her head and stoodupright. Then she started violently and grew very pale. 

"You have probably killed him and spoiled everything, " said a rich bassvoice at her elbow--the very sub-bass of all possible voices. 

Keyork Arabian was beside her. In her intense excitement she had notheard him enter the room, and he had surprised her at once in thebreaking of their joint convention and in the revelation of her secret. If Unorna could be said to know the meaning of the word fear in anydegree whatsoever, it was in relation to Keyork Arabian, the man whoduring the last few years had been her helper and associate in the greatexperiment. Of all men she had known in her life, he was the only onewhom she felt to be beyond the influence of her powers, the only onewhom she felt that she could not charm by word, or touch, or look. Theodd shape of his head, she fancied, figured the outline and proportionsof his intelligence, which was, as it were, pyramidal, standing upon abase so broad and firm as to place the centre of its ponderous gravityfar beyond her reach to disturb. There was certainly no other being ofmaterial reality that could have made Unorna start and turn pale by itsinopportune appearance. 

"The best thing you can do is to put him to sleep at once, " said thelittle man. "You can be angry afterwards, and, I thank heaven, so canI--and shall. "

"Forget, " said Unorna, once more laying her hand upon the waxen brow. "Let it be as though I had not spoken with you. Drink, in your sleep, of the fountain of life, take new strength into your body and new bloodinto your heart. Live, and when I next wake you be younger by as manymonths as there shall pass hours till then. Sleep. "

A low sigh trembled in the hoary beard. The eyelids drooped over thesunken eyes, there was a slight motion of the limbs, and all was still, save for the soft and regular breathing. 

"The united patience of the seven archangels, coupled with that of Joband Simon Stylites, would not survive your acquaintance for a day, "observed Keyork Arabian. 

"Is he mine or yours?" Unorna asked, turning to him and pointing to thesleeper. 

She was quite ready to face her companion after the first shock of hisunexpected appearance. His small blue eyes sparkled angrily. 

"I am not versed in the law concerning real estate in human kind in theKingdom of Bohemia, " he answered. "You may have property in a couple ofhundredweight, more or less, of old bones rather the worse for the wearand tear of a century, but I certainly have some ownership in the life. Without me, you would have been the possessor of a remarkably fineskeleton by this time--and of nothing more. "

As he spoke, his extraordinary voice ran over half a dozen notes ofportentous depth, like the opening of a fugue on the pedals of an organ. Unorna laughed scornfully. 

"He is mine, Keyork Arabian, alive or dead. If the experiment fails, and he dies, the loss is mine, not yours. Moreover, what I have done isdone, and I will neither submit to your reproaches nor listen to yourupbraidings. Is that enough?"

"Of its kind, quite. I will build an altar to Ingratitude, we will buryour friend beneath the shrine, and you shall serve in the temple. Youcould deify all the cardinal sins if you would only give your attentionto the subject, merely by the monstrously imposing proportions you wouldknow how to give them. "

"Does it ease you to make such an amazing noise?" inquired Unorna, raising her eyebrows. 

"Immensely. Our friend cannot hear it, and you can. You dare to tell methat if he dies you are the only loser. Do fifty years of study countfor nothing? Look at me. I am an old man, and unless I find the secretof life here, in this very room, before many years are over, I mustdie--die, do you understand? Do you know what it means to die? How canyou comprehend that word--you girl, you child, you thing of five andtwenty summers!"

"It was to be supposed that your own fears were at the root of youranger, " observed Unorna, sitting down upon her chair and calmly foldingher hands as though to wait until the storm should pass over. 

"Is there anything at the root of anything except Self? You moth, youbutterfly, you thread of floating gossamer! How can you understand theincalculable value of Self--of that which is all to me and nothing toyou, or which, being yours, is everything to you and to me nothing? Youare so young--you still believe in things, and interests, and good andevil, and love and hate, truth and falsehood, and a hundred notionswhich are not facts, but only contrasts between one self and another!What were you doing here when I found you playing with life and death, perhaps with my life, for a gipsy trick, in the crazy delusion that thisold parcel of humanity can see the shadows of things which are not yet?I saw, I heard. How could he answer anything save that which was in yourown mind, when you were forcing him with your words and your eyes tomake a reply of some sort, or perish? Ah! You see now. You understandnow. I have opened your eyes a little. Why did he hesitate, and suffer?Because you asked that to which he knew there was no answer. And youtortured him with your will until his individuality fell into yours, andspoke your words. "

Unorna's head sank a little and she covered her eyes. The truth of whathe said flashed upon her suddenly and unexpectedly, bringing with it thedoubt which had left her at the moment when the sleeper had spoken. Shecould not hide her discomfiture and Keyork Arabian saw his advantage. 

"And for what?" he asked, beginning to pace the broad room. "To knowwhether a man will love you or not! You seem to have forgotten whatyou are. Is not such a poor and foolish thing as love at the command ofthose who can say to the soul, be this, or be that, and who are obeyed?Have you found a second Keyork Arabian, over whom your eyes have nopower--neither the one nor the other?"

He laughed rather brutally at the thought of her greatest physicalpeculiarity, but then suddenly stopped short. She had lifted her faceand those same eyes were fastened upon him, the black and the gray, in alook so savage and fierce that even he was checked, if not startled. 

"They are certainly very remarkable eyes, " he said, more calmly, andwith a certain uneasiness which Unorna did not notice. "I wonder whomyou have found who is able to look you in the face without losinghimself. I suppose it can hardly be my fascinating self whom you wish toenthrall, " he added, conscious after a moment's trial that he was proofagainst her influence. 

"Hardly, " answered Unorna, with a bitter laugh. 

"If I were the happy man you would not need that means of bringing me toyour feet. It is a pity that you do not want me. We should make a veryhappy couple. But there is much against me. I am an old man, Unorna. Myfigure was never of divine proportions, and as for my face, Nature madeit against her will. I know all that--and yet, I was young once, andeloquent. I could make love then--I believe that I could still if itwould amuse you. "

"Try it, " said Unorna, who, like most people, could not long be angrywith the gnome-like little sage. 

CHAPTER VI

"I could make love--yes, and since you tell me to try, I will. "

He came and stood before her, straightening his diminutive figure in acomical fashion as though he were imitating a soldier on parade. 

"In the first place, " he said, "in order to appreciate my skill, youshould realise the immense disadvantages under which I labour. I am adwarf, my dear Unorna. In the presence of that kingly wreck of a Homericman"--he pointed to the sleeper beside them--"I am a Thersites, if nota pigmy. To have much chance of success I should ask you to close youreyes, and to imagine that my stature matches my voice. That gift atleast, I flatter myself, would have been appreciated on the plains ofTroy. But in other respects I resemble neither the long-haired Greeksnor the trousered Trojans. I am old and hideous, and in outwardappearance I am as like Socrates as in inward disposition I am totallydifferent from him. Admit, since I admit it, that I am the ugliest andsmallest man of your acquaintance. "

"It is not to be denied, " said Unorna with a smile. 

"The admission will make the performance so much the more interesting. And now, as the conjurer says when he begins, observe that there is nodeception. That is the figure of speech called lying, because there isto be nothing but deception from beginning to end. Did you ever considerthe nature of a lie, Unorna? It is a very interesting subject. "

"I thought you were going to make love to me. "

"True; how easily one forgets those little things! And yet no woman everforgave a man who forgot to make love when she expected him to do so. For a woman, who is a woman, never forgets to be exigent. And now thereis no reprieve, for I have committed myself, am sentenced, andcondemned to be made ridiculous in your eyes. Can there be anything morecontemptible, more laughable, more utterly and hopelessly absurd, thanan old and ugly man declaring his unrequited passion for a woman whomight be his granddaughter? Is he not like a hoary old owl, who leaveshis mousing to perch upon one leg and hoot love ditties at the eveningstar, or screech out amorous sonnets to the maiden moon?"

"Very like, " said Unorna with a laugh. 

"And yet--my evening star--dear star of my fast-sinking evening--goldenUnorna--shall I be cut off from love because my years are many? Orrather, shall I not love you the more, because the years that are leftare few and scantily blessed? May not your dawn blend with my sunset andmake together one short day?"

"That is very pretty, " said Unorna, thoughtfully. He had the power ofmaking his speech sound like a deep, soft music. 

"For what is love?" he asked. "Is it a garment, a jewel, a fancifulornament which only boys and girls may wear upon a summer's holiday? Maywe take it or leave it, as we please? Wear it, if it shows well upon ourbeauty, or cast it off for others to put on when we limp aside out ofthe race of fashion to halt and breathe before we die? Is love beauty?Is love youth? Is love yellow hair or black? Is love the rose upon thelip or the peach blossom in the cheek, that only the young may call ittheirs? Is it an outward grace, which can live but so long as the otheroutward graces are its companions, to perish when the first gray hairstreaks the dark locks? Is it a glass, shivered by the first shockof care as a mirror by a sword-stroke? Is it a painted mask, washedcolourless by the first rain of autumn tears? Is it a flower, so tenderthat it must perish miserably in the frosty rime of earliest winter? Islove the accident of youth, the complement of a fresh complexion, thecorollary of a light step, the physical concomitant of swelling pulsesand unstrained sinews?"

Keyork Arabian laughed softly. Unorna was grave and looked up into hisface, resting her chin upon her hand. 

"If that is love, if that is the idol of your shrine, the vision of yourdreams, the familiar genius of your earthly paradise, why then, indeed, he who worships by your side, and who would share the habitation ofyour happiness, must wear Absalom's anointed curls and walk with Agag'sdelicate step. What matter if he be but a half-witted puppet? He isfair. What matter if he be foolish, faithless, forgetful, inconstant, changeable as the tide of the sea? He is young. His youth shall coverall his deficiencies and wipe out all his sins! Imperial love, monarchand despot of the human soul, is become the servant of boys for the wageof a girl's first thoughtless kiss. If that is love let it perish out ofthe world, with the bloom of the wood violet in spring, with the flutterof the bright moth in June, with the song of the nightingale and thecall of the mocking-bird, with all things that are fair and lovely andsweet but for a few short days. If that is love, why then love nevermade a wound, nor left a scar, nor broke a heart in this easy-goingrose-garden of a world. The rose blooms, blows, fades and withers andfeels nothing. If that is love, we may yet all develop into passionlesspromoters of a flat and unprofitable commonwealth; the earth may yet bechanged to a sweetmeat for us to feed on, and the sea to sugary lemonadefor us to drink, as the mad philosopher foretold, and we may yet all behappy after love has left us. "

Unorna smiled, while he laughed again. 

"Good, " she said. "You tell me what love is not, but you have not toldme what it is. "

"Love is the immortal essence of mortal passion, together they are assoul and body, one being; separate them, and the body without the soulis a monster, the soul without the body is no longer human, nor earthly, nor real to us at all, though still divine. Love is the world's maker, master and destroyer, the magician whose word can change water to blood, and blood to fire, the dove to a serpent, and the serpent to a dove--ay, and can make of that same dove an eagle, with an eagle's beak, andtalons, and air-cleaving wing-stroke. Love is the spirit of life and theangel of death. He speaks, and the thorny wilderness of the lonely heartis become a paradise of flowers. He is silent, and the garden is but ablackened desert over which a destroying flame has passed in the arms ofthe east wind. Love stands at the gateway of each human soul, holding inhis hands a rose and a drawn sword--the sword is for the many, the rosefor the one. "

He sighed and was silent. Unorna looked at him curiously. 

"Have you ever loved, that you should talk like that?" she asked. Heturned upon her almost fiercely. 

"Loved? Yes, as you can never love; as you, in your woman's heart, cannever dream of loving--with every thought, with every fibre, withevery pulse, with every breath; with a love that is burning the old oakthrough and through, root and branch, core and knot, to feathery ashesthat you may scatter with a sigh--the only sigh you will ever breathefor me, Unorna. Have I loved? Can I love? Do I love to-day as I lovedyesterday and shall love to-morrow? Ah, child! That you should ask that, with your angel's face, when I am in hell for you! When I would give mybody to death and my soul to darkness for a touch of your hand, for asmuch kindness and gentleness in a word from your dear lips as you givethe beggars in the street! When I would tear out my heart with my handsto feed the very dog that fawns on you--and who is more to you thanI, because he is yours, and all that is yours I love, and worship, andadore!"

Unorna had looked up and smiled at first, believing that it was all buta comedy, as he had told her that it should be. But as he spoke, and thestrong words chased each other in the torrent of his passionate speech, she was startled and surprised. There was a force in his language, afiery energy in his look, a ring of half-desperate hope in his deepvoice, which moved her to strange thoughts. His face, too, was changedand ennobled, his gestures larger, even his small stature ceased, foronce, to seem dwarfish and gnome-like. 

"Keyork Arabian, is it possible that you love me?" she cried, in herwonder. 

"Possible? True? There is neither truth nor possibility in anything elsefor me, in anything, in any one, but you, Unorna. The service of my lovefills the days and the nights and the years with you--fills the worldwith you only; makes heaven to be on earth, since heaven is but the airthat is made bright with your breath, as the temple of all temples isbut the spot whereon your dear feet stand. The light of life is whereyou are, the darkness of death is everywhere where you are not. But I amcondemned to die, cut off, predestined to be lost--for you have no pity, Unorna, you cannot find it in you to be sorry for the poor old man whoselast pulse will beat for you; whose last word will be your name; whoselast look upon your beauty will end the dream in which he lived hislife. What can it be to you, that I love you so? Why should it beanything to you? When I am gone--with the love of you in my heart, Unorna--when they have buried the ugly old body out of your sight, youwill not even remember that I was once your companion, still less thatI knelt before you, that I kissed the ground on which you stood; that Iloved you as men love whose hearts are breaking, that I touched the hemof your garment and was for one moment young--that I besought you topress my hand but once, with one thought of kindness, with one last andonly word of human pity--"

He broke off suddenly, and there was a tremor in his voice which lentintense expression to the words. He was kneeling upon one knee besideUnorna, but between her and the light, so that she saw his faceindistinctly. She could not but pity him. She took his outstretched handin hers. 

"Poor Keyork!" she said, very kindly and gently. "How could I have everguessed all this?"

"It would have been exceedingly strange if you had, " answered Keyork, ina tone that made her start. 

Then a magnificent peal of bass laughter rolled through the room, as thegnome sprang suddenly to his feet. 

"Did I not warn you?" asked Keyork, standing back and contemplatingUnorna's surprised face with delight. "Did I not tell you that I wasgoing to make love to you? That I was old and hideous and had everythingagainst me? That it was all a comedy for your amusement? That there wasto be nothing but deception from beginning to end? That I was like adecrepit owl screeching at the moon, and many other things to a similareffect?"

Unorna smiled somewhat thoughtfully. 

"You are the greatest of great actors, Keyork Arabian. There issomething diabolical about you. I sometimes almost think that you arethe devil himself!"

"Perhaps I am, " suggested the little man cheerfully. 

"Do you know that there is a horror about all this?" Unorna rose to herfeet. Her smile had vanished and she seemed to feel cold. 

As though nothing had happened, Keyork began to make his dailyexamination of his sleeping patient, applying his thermometer to thebody, feeling the pulse, listening to the beatings of the heart withhis stethoscope, gently drawing down the lower lid of one of the eyesto observe the colour of the membrane, and, in a word, doing all thosethings which he was accustomed to do under the circumstances with apromptness and briskness which showed how little he feared that theold man would wake under his touch. He noted some of the results of hisobservations in a pocket-book. Unorna stood still and watched him. 

"Do you remember ever to have been in the least degree like otherpeople?" she asked, speaking after a long silence, as he was returninghis notes to his pocket. 

"I believe not, " he answered. "Nature spared me that indignity--ordenied me that happiness--as you may look at it. I am not like otherpeople, as you justly remark. I need not say that it is the other peoplewho are the losers. "

"The strange thing is, that you should be able to believe so much ofyourself when you find it so hard to believe good of your fellow-men. "

"I object to the expression, 'fellow-men, '" returned Keyork promptly. "I dislike phrases, and, generally, maxims as a whole, and all theircomponent parts. A woman must have invented that particular phrase ofyours in order to annoy a man she disliked. "

"And why, if you please?"

"Because no one ever speaks of 'fellow-women. ' The question of woman'sduty to man has been amply discussed since the days of Menes theThinite--but no one ever heard of a woman's duty to her fellow-women;unless, indeed, her duty is to try and outdo them by fair means or foul. Then why talk of man and his fellow-men? I can put the wisest rule oflife into two short phrases. "

"Give me the advantage of your wisdom. "

"The first rule is, Beware of women. "

"And the second?"

"Beware of men, " laughed the little sage. "Observe the simplicity andsymmetry. Each rule has three words, two of which are the same in each, so that you have the result of the whole world's experience at yourdisposal at the comparatively small expenditure of one verb, onepreposition, and two nouns. "

"There is little room for love in your system, " remarked Unorna, "forsuch love, for instance, as you described to me a few minutes ago. "

"There is too much room for it in yours, " retorted Keyork. "Your systemis constantly traversed in all directions by bodies, sometimes nebulousand sometimes fiery, which move in unknown orbits at enormous rates ofspeed. In astronomy they call them comets, and astronomers would be muchhappier without them. "

"I am not an astronomer. "

"Fortunately for the peace of the solar system. You have been sendingyour comets dangerously near to our sick planet, " he added, pointing tothe sleeper. "If you do it again he will break up into asteroids. To usethat particularly disagreeable and suggestive word invented by men, hewill die. "

"He seems no worse, " said Unorna, contemplating the massive, peacefulface. 

"I do not like the word 'seems, '" answered Keyork. "It is the refugeof inaccurate persons, unable to distinguish between facts andappearances. "

"You object to everything to-day. Are there any words which I may usewithout offending your sense of fitness in language?"

"None which do not express a willing affirmation of all I say. I willreceive any original speech on your part at the point of the sword. You have done enough damage to-day, without being allowed the luxuryof dismembering common sense. Seems, you say! By all that is unholy! ByEblis, Ahriman, and the Three Black Angels! He is worse, and there isno seeming. The heat is greater, the pulse is weaker, the heart flutterslike a sick bird. "

Unorna's face showed her anxiety. 

"I am sorry, " she said, in a low voice. 

"Sorry! No doubt you are. It remains to be seen whether your sorrowcan be utilized as a simple, or macerated in tears to make a tonic, orsublimated to produce a corrosive which will destroy the canker, death. But be sorry by all means. It occupies your mind without disturbingme, or injuring the patient. Be sure that if I can find an activeapplication for your sentiment, I will give you the rare satisfaction ofbeing useful. "

"You have the art of being the most intolerably disagreeable of livingmen when it pleases you. "

"When you displease me, you should say. I warn you that if he dies--ourfriend here--I will make further studies in the art of being unbearableto you. You will certainly be surprised by the result. "

"Nothing that you could say or do would surprise me. "

"Indeed? We shall see. "

"I will leave you to your studies, then. I have been here too long as itis. "

She moved and arranged the pillow under the head of the sleeping giantand adjusted the folds of his robe. Her touch was tender and skilful inspite of her ill-suppressed anger. Then she turned away and went towardsthe door. Keyork Arabian watched her until her hand was upon the latch. His sharp eyes twinkled, as though he expected something amusing tooccur. 

"Unorna!" he said, suddenly, in an altered voice. She stopped and lookedback. 

"Well?"

"Do not be angry, Unorna. Do not go away like this. "

Unorna turned, almost fiercely, and came back a step. 

"Keyork Arabian, do you think you can play upon me as on an instrument?Do you suppose that I will come and go at your word like a child--orlike a dog? Do you think you can taunt me at one moment, and flatter methe next, and find my humour always at your command?"

The gnome-like little man looked down, made a sort of inclination of hisshort body, and laid his hand upon his heart. 

"I was never presumptuous, my dear lady. I never had the least intentionof taunting you, as you express it, and as for your humour--can yousuppose that I could expect to command, where it is only mine to obey?"

"It is of no use to talk in that way, " said Unorna, haughtily. "I am notprepared to be deceived by your comedy this time. "

"Nor I to play one. Since I have offended you, I ask your pardon. Forgive the expression, for the sake of the meaning; the thoughtlessword for the sake of the unworded thought. "

"How cleverly you turn and twist both thoughts and words!"

"Do not be so unkind, dear friend. "

"Unkind to you? I wish I had the secret of some unkindness that youshould feel!"

"The knowledge of what I can feel is mine alone, " answered Keyork, witha touch of sadness. "I am not a happy man. The world, for me, holds butone interest and one friendship. Destroy the one, or embitter the other, and Keyork's remnant of life becomes but a foretaste of death. "

"And that interest--that friendship--where are they?" asked Unorna in atone still bitter, but less scornful than before. 

"Together, in this room, and both in danger, the one through your younghaste and impetuosity, the other through my wretched weakness in beingmade angry; forgive me, Unorna, as I ask forgiveness----"

"Your repentance is too sudden; it savours of the death-bed. "

"Small wonder, when my life is in the balance. "

"Your life?" She uttered the question incredulously, but not withoutcuriosity. 

"My life--and for your word, " he answered, earnestly. He spoke soimpressively, and in so solemn a tone, that Unorna's face became grave. She advanced another step towards him, and laid her hand upon the backof the chair in which she previously had sat. 

"We must understand each other--to-day or never, " she said. "Either wemust part and abandon the great experiment--for, if we part, it must beabandoned--"

"We cannot part, Unorna. "

"Then, if we are to be associates and companions--"

"Friends, " said Keyork in a low voice. 

"Friends? Have you laid the foundation for a friendship between us?You say that your life is in the balance. That is a figure of speech, Isuppose. Or has your comedy another act? I can believe well enough thatyour greatest interest in life lies there, upon that couch, asleep. Iknow that you can do nothing without me, as you know it yourself. But inyour friendship I can never trust--never!--still less can I believe thatany words of mine can affect your happiness, unless they be those youneed for the experiment itself. Those, at least, I have not refused topronounce. "

While she was speaking, Keyork began to walk up and down the room, inevident agitation, twisting his fingers and bending down his head. 

"My accursed folly!" he exclaimed, as though speaking to himself. "Mydamnable ingenuity in being odious! It is not to be believed! That a manof my age should think one thing and say another--like a tetchy girlor a spoilt child! The stupidity of the thing! And then, to have theidiotic utterances of the tongue registered and judged as a confessionof faith--or rather, of faithlessness! But it is only just--it is onlyright--Keyork Arabian's self is ruined again by Keyork Arabian's vilespeeches, which have no more to do with his self than the clouds onearth have with the sun above them! Ruined, ruined--lost, this time. Cutoff from the only living being he respects--the only being whoserespect he covets; sent back to die in his loneliness, to perish likea friendless beast, as he is, to the funereal music of his ownirrepressible snarling! To growl himself out of the world, like abroken-down old tiger in the jungle, after scaring away all possiblepeace and happiness and help with his senseless growls! Ugh! It isperfectly just, it is absolutely right and supremely horrible to thinkof! A fool to the last, Keyork, as you always were--and who would make afriend of such a fool?"

Unorna leaned upon the back of the chair watching him, and wonderingwhether, after all, he were not in earnest this time. He jerked out hissentences excitedly, striking his hands together and then swinginghis arms in strange gestures. His tone, as he gave utterance to hisincoherent self-condemnation, was full of sincere conviction and ofanger against himself. He seemed not to see Unorna, nor to notice herpresence in the room. Suddenly, he stopped, looked at her and cametowards her. His manner became very humble. 

"You are right, my dear lady, " he said. "I have no claim to yourforbearance for my outrageous humours. I have offended you, insultedyou, spoken to you as no man should speak to any woman. I cannot evenask you to forgive me, and, if I tell you that I am sorry, you will notbelieve me. Why should you? But you are right. This cannot go on. Ratherthan run the risk of again showing you my abominable temper, I will goaway. "

His voice trembled and his bright eyes seemed to grow dull and misty. 

"Let this be our parting, " he continued, as though mastering hisemotion. "I have no right to ask anything, and yet I ask this of you. When I have left you, when you are safe for ever from my humours and mytempers and myself--then, do not think unkindly of Keyork Arabian. Hewould have seemed the friend he is, but for his unruly tongue. "

Unorna hesitated a moment. Then she put out her hand, convinced of hissincerity in spite of herself. 

"Let bygones be bygones, Keyork, " she said. "You must not go, for Ibelieve you. "

At the words, the light returned to his eyes, and a look ofineffable beatitude overspread the face which could be so immovablyexpressionless. 

"You are as kind as you are good, Unorna, and as good as you arebeautiful, " he said, and with a gesture which would have been courtly ina man of nobler stature, but which was almost grotesque in such a dwarf, he raised her fingers to his lips. 

This time, no peal of laugher followed to destroy the impression he hadproduced upon Unorna. She let her hand rest in his a few seconds, andthen gently withdrew it. 

"I must be going, " she said. 

"So soon?" exclaimed Keyork regretfully. "There were many things I hadwished to say to you to-day, but if you have no time----"

"I can spare a few minutes, " answered Unorna, pausing. "What is it?"

"One thing is this. " His face had again become impenetrable as a maskof old ivory, and he spoke in his ordinary way. "This is the question. Iwas in the Teyn Kirche before I came here. "

"In church!" exclaimed Unorna in some surprise, and with a slight smile. 

"I frequently go to church, " answered Keyork gravely. "While there, Imet an old acquaintance of mine, a strange fellow whom I have not seenfor years. The world is very small. He is a great traveller--a wandererthrough the world. "

Unorna looked up quickly, and a very slight colour appeared in hercheeks. 

"Who is he?" she asked, trying to seem indifferent. "What is his name?"

"His name? It is strange, but I cannot recall it. He is very tall, wearsa dark beard, has a pale, thoughtful face. But I need not describe him, for he told me that he had been with you this morning. That is not thepoint. "

He spoke carelessly and scarcely glanced at Unorna while speaking. 

"What of him?" she inquired, trying to seem as indifferent as hercompanion. 

"He is a little mad, poor man, that is all. It struck me that, if youwould, you might save him. I know something of his story, though notmuch. He once loved a young girl, now doubtless dead, but whom he stillbelieves to be alive, and he spends--or wastes--his life in a uselesssearch for her. You might cure him of the delusion. "

"How do you know that the girl is dead?"

"She died in Egypt, four years ago, " answered Keyork. "They had takenher there in the hope of saving her, for she was at death's dooralready, poor child. "

"But if you convince him of that. "

"There is no convincing him, and if he were really convinced he woulddie himself. I used to take an interest in the man, and I know that youcould cure him in a simpler and safer way. But of course it lies withyou. "

"If you wish it, I will try, " Unorna answered, turning her face from thelight. "But he will probably not come back to me. "

"He will. I advised him very strongly to come back, very stronglyindeed. I hope I did right. Are you displeased?"

"Not at all!" Unorna laughed a little. "And if he comes, how am I toconvince him that he is mistaken, and that the girl is dead?"

"That is very simple. You will hypnotise him, he will yield veryeasily, and you will suggest to him very forcibly to forget the girl'sexistence. You can suggest to him to come back to-morrow and the nextday, or as often as you please, and you can renew the suggestioneach time. In a week he will have forgotten--as you know people canforget--entirely, totally, without hope of recalling what is lost. "

"That is true, " said Unorna, in a low voice. "Are you sure that theeffect will be permanent?" she asked with sudden anxiety. 

"A case of the kind occurred in Hungary last year. The cure was effectedin Pesth. I was reading it only a few months ago. The oblivion was stillcomplete, as long as six months after the treatment, and there seems noreason to suppose that the patient's condition will change. I thought itmight interest you to try it. "

"It will interest me extremely. I am very grateful to you for telling meabout him. "

Unorna had watched her companion narrowly during the conversation, expecting him to betray his knowledge of a connection between theWanderer's visit and the strange question she had been asking of thesleeper when Keyork had surprised her. She was agreeably disappointed inthis however. He spoke with a calmness and ease of manner which disarmedsuspicion. 

"I am glad I did right, " said he. 

He stood at the foot of the couch upon which the sleeper was lying, andlooked thoughtfully and intently at the calm features. 

"We shall never succeed in this way, " he said at last. "This conditionmay continue indefinitely, till you are old, and I--until I am olderthan I am by many years. He may not grow weaker, but he cannot growstronger. Theories will not renew tissues. "

Unorna looked up. 

"That has always been the question, " she answered. "At least, you havetold me so. Will lengthened rest and perfect nourishment alone give anew impulse to growth or will they not?"

"They will not. I am sure of it now. We have arrested decay, or made itso slow as to be imperceptible. But we have made many attempts to renewthe old frame, and we are no farther advanced than we were nearly fouryears ago. Theories will not make tissues. "

"What will?"

"Blood, " answered Keyork Arabian very softly. 

"I have heard of that being done for young people in illness, " saidUnorna. 

"It has never been done as I would do it, " replied the gnome, shakinghis head and gathering his great beard in his hand, as he gazed at thesleeper. 

"What would you do?"

"I would make it constant for a day, or for a week if I could--aconstant circulation; the young heart and the old should beat together;it could be done in the lethargic sleep--an artery and a vein--a veinand an artery--I have often thought of it; it could not fail. The newyoung blood would create new tissue, because it would itself constantlybe renewed in the young body which is able to renew it, only expendingitself in the old. The old blood would itself become young again as itpassed to the younger man. "

"A man!" exclaimed Unorna. 

"Of course. An animal would not do, because you could not produce thelethargy nor make use of suggestion for healing purposes--"

"But it would kill him!"

"Not at all, as I would do it, especially if the young man were verystrong and full of life. When the result is obtained, an antisepticligature, suggestion of complete healing during sleep, propernourishment, such as we are giving at present, by recalling the patientto the hypnotic state, sleep again, and so on; in eight and forty hoursyour young man would be waked and would never know what had happened tohim--unless he felt a little older, by nervous sympathy, " added the sagewith a low laugh. 

"Are you perfectly sure of what you say?" asked Unorna eagerly. 

"Absolutely. I have examined the question for years. There can be nodoubt of it. Food can maintain life, blood alone can renew it. "

"Have you everything you need here?" inquired Unorna. 

"Everything. There is no hospital in Europe that has the appliances wehave prepared for every emergency. "

He looked at her face curiously. It was ghastly pale with excitement. The pupil of her brown eye was so widely expanded that the iris lookedblack, while the aperture of the gray one was contracted to the sizeof a pin's head, so that the effect was almost that of a white andsightless ball. 

"You seem interested, " said the gnome. 

"Would such a man--such a man as Israel Kafka answer the purpose?" sheasked. 

"Admirably, " replied the other, beginning to understand. 

"Keyork Arabian, " whispered Unorna, coming close to him and bending downto his ear, "Israel Kafka is alone under the palm tree where I alwayssit. He is asleep, and he will not wake. "

The gnome looked up and nodded gravely. But she was gone almost beforeshe had finished speaking the words. 

"As upon an instrument, " said the little man, quoting Unorna's angryspeech. "Truly I can play upon you, but it is a strange music. "

Half an hour later Unorna returned to her place among the flowers, butIsrael Kafka was gone. 

CHAPTER VII

The Wanderer, when Keyork Arabian had left him, had intended to revisitUnorna without delay, but he had not proceeded far in the direction ofher house when he turned out of his way and entered a deserted streetwhich led towards the river. He walked slowly, drawing his furs closelyabout him, for it was very cold. 

He found himself in one of those moments of life in which thepresentiment of evil almost paralyses the mind's power of makingany decision. In general, a presentiment is but the result upon theconsciousness of conscious or unconscious fear. This fear is very oftenthe natural consequence of the reaction which, in melancholy natures, comes almost inevitably after a sudden and unexpected satisfactionor after a period in which the hopes of the individual have beenmomentarily raised by some unforeseen circumstance. It is by no meanscertain that hope is of itself a good thing. The wise and mournfulsoul prefers the blessedness of that non-expectancy which shall not bedisappointed, to the exhilarating pleasures of an anticipation which mayprove empty. In this matter lies one of the great differences betweenthe normal moral state of the heathen and that of the Christian. TheGreek hoped for all things in this world and for nothing in the next;the Christian, on the contrary, looks for a happiness to come hereafter, while fundamentally denying the reality of any earthly joy whatsoeverin the present. Man, however, is so constituted as to find it almostimpossible to put faith in either bliss alone, without helping hisbelief by borrowing some little refreshment from the hope of the other. The wisest of the Greeks believed the soul to be immortal; the sternestof Christians cannot forget that once or twice in his life he had beencontemptibly happy, and condemns himself for secretly wishing that hemight be as happy again before all is over. Faith is the evidence ofthings unseen, but hope is the unreasoning belief that unseen things maysoon become evident. The definition of faith puts earthly disappointmentout of the question; that of hope introduces it into human affairs as aconstant and imminent probability. 

The development of psychologic research in our day has proved beyonda doubt that individuals of a certain disposition may be conscious ofevents actually occurring, or which have recently occurred, at a greatdistance; but it has not shown satisfactorily that things yet to happenare foreshadowed by that restless condition of the sensibilities whichwe call presentiment. We may, and perhaps must, admit that all that isor has been produces a real and perceptible impression upon all elsethat is. But there is as yet no good reason for believing that animpression of what shall be can be conveyed by anticipation--withoutreasoning--to the mind of man. 

But though the realisation of a presentiment may be as doubtful as anyevent depending upon chance alone, yet the immense influence which amere presentiment may exercise is too well known to be denied. The humanintelligence has a strong tendency to believe in its own reasonings, of which, indeed, the results are often more accurate and reliable thanthose reached by the physical perceptions alone. The problems which canbe correctly solved by inspection are few indeed compared with thosewhich fall within the province of logic. Man trusts to his reason, andthen often confounds the impressions produced by his passions with theresults gained by semi-conscious deduction. His love, his hate, hisanger create fears, and these supply him with presentiments which he isinclined to accept as so many well-reasoned grounds of action. If he isoften deceived, he becomes aware of his mistake, and, going to the otherextreme, considers a presentiment as a sort of warning that the contraryof what he expects will take place; if he chances to be often right hegrows superstitious. 

The lonely man who was pacing the icy pavement of the deserted street onthat bitter winter's day felt the difficulty very keenly. He would notyield and he could not advance. His heart was filled with forebodingswhich his wisdom bade him treat with indifference, while his passiongave them new weight and new horror with every minute that passed. 

He had seen with his eyes and heard with his ears. Beatrice had beenbefore him, and her voice had reached him among the voices of thousands, but now, since the hours has passed and he had not found her, it was asthough he had been near her in a dream, and the strong certainty tookhold of him that she was dead and that he had looked upon her wraith inthe shadowy church. 

He was a strong man, not accustomed to distrust his senses, and hisreason opposed itself instantly to the suggestion of the supernatural. He had many times, on entering a new city, felt himself suddenly elatedby the irresistible belief that his search was at an end, and thatwithin a few hours he must inevitably find her whom he had sought solong. Often as he passed through the gates of some vast burying-place, he had almost hesitated to walk through the silent ways, feeling all atonce convinced that upon the very first headstone he was about tosee the name that was ever in his heart. But the expectation offinal defeat, like the anticipation of final success, had been alwaysdeceived. Neither living nor dead had he found her. 

Two common, reasonable possibilities lay before him, and two only. Hehad either seen Beatrice, or he had not. If she had really been in theTeyn Kirche, she was in the city and not far from him. If she had notbeen there, he had been deceived by an accidental but extraordinarylikeness. Within the logical concatenation of cause and effect there wasno room for any other supposition, and it followed that his course wasperfectly clear. He must continue his search until he should find theperson he had seen, and the result would be conclusive, for he wouldagain see the same face and hear the same voice. Reason told him that hehad in all likelihood been mistaken after all. Reason reminded him thatthe church had been dark, the multitude of worshippers closelycrowded together, the voices that sang almost innumerable and whollyundistinguishable from each other. Reason showed him a throng ofpossibilities, all pointing to an error of his perceptions and all indirect contradiction with the one fact which his loving instinct heldfor true. 

The fear of evil, the presentiment of death, defied logic and put itsown construction and interpretation upon the strange event. He neitherbelieved, nor desired to believe, in a supernatural visitation, yetthe inexplicable certainty of having seen a ghostly vision overwhelmedreason and all her arguments. Beatrice was dead. Her spirit had passedin that solemn hour when the Wanderer had stood in the dusky church; hehad looked upon her shadowy wraith, and had heard the echo of a voicefrom beyond the stars, whose crystal tones already swelled the divinerharmony of an angelic strain. 

The impression was so strong at first as to be but one step removed fromconviction. The shadow of a great mourning fell upon him, of a grieftoo terrible for words, too solemn for tears, too strong to find anyexpression save in death itself. He walked heavily, bending his head, his eyes half closed as though in bodily pain, the icy pavement ranglike iron under his tread, the frozen air pierced through him, as hissorrow pierced his heart, the gloom of the fast-sinking winter's daydeepened as the darkness in his own soul. He, who was always alone, knewat last what loneliness could mean. While she had lived she had beenwith him always, a living, breathing woman, visible to his inner eyes, speaking to his inward hearing, waking in his sleepless love. He hadsought her with restless haste and untiring strength through the lengthand breadth of the whole world, but yet she had never left him, he hadnever been separated from her for one moment, never, in the years of hiswandering, had he entered the temple of his heart without finding herin its most holy place. Men had told him that she was dead, but he hadlooked within himself and had seen that she was still alive; the dreadof reading her sacred name carved upon the stone that covered herresting-place, had chilled him and made his sight tremble, but he hadentered the shrine of his soul and had found her again, untouched bydeath, unchanged by years, living, loved, and loving. But now, whenhe shut out the dismal street from view, and went to the sanctuary andkneeled upon the threshold, he saw but a dim vision, as of somethinglying upon an altar in the dark, something shrouded in white, somethingshapely and yet shapeless, something that had been and was not any more. 

He reached the end of the street, but he felt a reluctance to leaveit, and turned back again, walking still more slowly and heavily thanbefore. So far as any outward object or circumstance could be said to bein harmony with his mood, the dismal lane, the failing light, the bitterair, were at that moment sympathetic to him. The tomb itself is not moresepulchral than certain streets and places in Prague on a darkwinter's afternoon. In the certainty that the last and the greatest ofmisfortunes had befallen him, the Wanderer turned back into the gloomyby-way as the pale, wreathing ghosts, fearful of the sharp daylightand the distant voices of men, sink back at dawn into the graves outof which they have slowly risen to the outer air in the silence of thenight. 

Death, the arch-steward of eternity, walks the bounds of man's entailedestate, and the headstones of men's graves are landmarks in the greatpossession committed to his stewardship, enclosing within their narrowring the wretched plot of land which makes up all of life's inheritance. From ever to always the generations of men do bondsmen's service in thatsingle field, to plough it and sow it, and harrow it and water it, tolay the sickle to the ripe corn if so be that their serfdom falls in theyears of plenty and the ear is full, to eat the bread of tears, iftheir season of servitude be required of them in a time of scarcity andfamine. Bondsmen of death, from birth, they are sent forth out of thesublime silence of the pathless forest which hems in the open glebeland of the present and which is eternity, past and to come; bondsmenof death, from youth to age, they join in the labour of the field, they plough, they sow, they reap, perhaps, tears they shed many, and oflaughter there is also a little amongst them; bondsmen of death, to thelast, they are taken in the end, when they have served their tale ofyears, many or few, and they are led from furrow and grass land, willingor unwilling, mercifully or cruelly, to the uttermost boundary, and theyare thrust out quickly into the darkness whence they came. For theirplace is already filled, and the new husbandmen, their children, have intheir turn come into the field, to eat of the fruit they sowed, to sowin turn a seed of which they themselves shall not see the harvest, whosesheaves others shall bind, whose ears others shall thresh, and of whosecorn others shall make bread after them. With our eyes we may yet seethe graves of two hundred generations of men, whose tombs serve but tomark that boundary more clearly, whose fierce warfare, when they foughtagainst the master, could not drive back that limit by a handbreadth, whose uncomplaining labour, when they accepted their lot patiently, earned them not one scant foot of soil wherewith to broaden theirinheritance as reward for their submission; and of them all, neitherman nor woman was ever forgotten in the day of reckoning, nor was onesuffered to linger in the light. Death will bury a thousand generationsmore, in graves as deep, strengthening year by year the strong chain ofhis grim landmarks. He will remember us every one when the time comes;to some of us he will vouchsafe a peaceful end, but some shall passaway in mortal agony, and some shall be dragged unconscious to the otherside; but all must go. Some shall not see him till he is at hand, andsome shall dream of him in year-long dreams of horror, to be takenunawares at the last. He will remember us every one and will come to us, and the place of our rest shall be marked for centuries, for years, orfor seconds, for each a stone, or a few green sods laid upon a moundbeneath the sky, or the ripple on a changing wave when the loaded sackhas slipped from the smooth plank, and the sound of a dull splash hasdied away in the wind. There be strong men, as well as weak, who shudderand grow cold when they think of that yet undated day which must closewith its black letter their calendar of joy and sorrow; there areweaklings, as well as giants, who fear death for those they love, but who fear not anything else at all. The master treats courage andcowardice alike; Achilles and Thersites must alike perish, and none willbe so bold as to say that he can tell the dust of the misshapen varletfrom the ashes of the swift-footed destroyer, whose hair was once sobright, whose eyes were so fierce, whose mighty heart was so slothless, so wrathful, so inexorable and so brave. 

The Wanderer was of those who dread nothing save for the onedearly-beloved object, but who, when that fear is once roused by a realor an imaginary danger, can suffer in one short moment the agony whichshould be distributed through a whole lifetime. The magnitude of hispassion could lend to the least thought or presentiment connected withit the force of a fact and the overwhelming weight of a real calamity. 

In order to feel any great or noble passion a man must have animagination both great and sensitive in at least one direction. Theexecution of a rare melody demands as a prime condition an instrumentof wide compass and delicate construction, and one of even more rich andvaried capabilities is needed to render those grand harmonies which arewoven in the modulation of sonorous chords. A skilful hand may draw ascale from wooden blocks set upon ropes of straw, but the great musicianmust hold the violin, or must feel the keys of the organ under hisfingers and the responsive pedals at his feet, before he can expect tointerpret fittingly the immortal thought of the composer. The stringsmust vibrate in perfect tune, the priceless wood must be seasoned andpenetrated with the melodies of years, and scores of years, the latentmusic must be already trembling to be free, before the hand that drawsthe bow can command the ears and hearts of those who hear. So, too, love, the chief musician of this world, must find an instrument worthyof his touch before he can show all his power, and make heart and soulring with the lofty strains of a sublime passion. Not every one knowswhat love means; few indeed know all that love can mean. There is nomore equality among men than there is likeness between them, and no twoare alike. The many have little, the few have much. To the many is giventhe faint perception of higher things, which is either the vestige, orthe promise, of a nobler development, past or yet to come. As through aveil they see the line of beauty which it is not theirs to trace; asin a dream they hear the succession of sweet tones which they canthemselves never bring together, though their half-grown instinct feelsa vague satisfaction in the sequence; as from another world, they listento the poet's song, wondering, admiring, but powerless over the greatinstrument of human speech, from whose 15, 000 keys their touch candraw but the dull, tuneless prose of daily question and answer; as in amirage of things unreal, they see the great deeds that are done intheir time for love or hate, for race or country, for ambition and forvengeance, but though they see the result, and know the motive, theinward meaning and spirit of it all escapes them. It is theirs to be, and existence is in itself their all. To think, to create, to act, tofeel can be only for the few. To one is given the transcendent geniusthat turns the very stones along life's road to precious gems ofthought; whose gift it is to find speech in dumb things and eloquence inthe ideal half of the living world; to whom sorrow is a melody and joysweet music; to whom the humblest effort of a humble life can furnishan immortal lyric, and in whom one thought of the Divine can inspire asublime hymn. Another stoops and takes a handful of clay from the earth, and with the pressure of his fingers moulds it to the reality of anunreal image seen in dreams; or, standing before the vast, roughblock of marble, he sees within the mass the perfection of a faultlessform--he lays the chisel to the stone, the mallet strikes the steel, oneby one the shapeless fragments fly from the shapely limbs, thematchless curves are uncovered, the breathing mouth smiles through thepetrifaction of a thousand ages, the shroud of stone falls fromthe godlike brow, and the Hermes of Olympia stands forth in all hisdeathless beauty. Another is born to the heritage of this world's power, fore-destined to rule and fated to destroy; the naked sword of destinylies in his cradle; the axe of a king-maker awaits the awakening of hisstrength; the sceptre of supreme empire hangs within his reach. Unknown, he dreams and broods over the future; unheeded, he begins to move amonghis fellows; a smile, half of encouragement, half of indifference, greets his first effort; he advances a little farther, and thoughtfulmen look grave, another step, and suddenly all mankind cries out andfaces him and would beat him back; but it is too late; one strugglemore, and the hush of a great and unknown fear falls on the wranglingnations; they are silent, and the world is his. He is the man whois already thinking when others have scarcely begun to feel; who iscreating before the thoughts of his rivals have reached any conclusion;who acts suddenly, terribly and irresistibly, before their creationshave received life. And yet, the greatest and the richest inheritance ofall is not his, for it has fallen to another, to the man of heart, andit is the inheritance of the kingdom of love. 

In all ages the reason of the world has been at the mercy of bruteforce. The reign of law has never had more than a passing reality, andnever can have more than that so long as man is human. The individualintellect and the aggregate intelligence of nations and races have alikeperished in the struggles of mankind, to revive again, indeed, but assurely to be again put to the edge of the sword. Here and there greatthoughts and great masterpieces have survived the martyrdom of athinker, the extinction of a school, the death of a poet, the wreck of ahigh civilisation. Socrates is murdered with the creed of immortality onhis very lips; hardly had he spoken the wonderful words recorded in the_Phaedo_ when the fatal poison sent its deathly chill through his limbs;the Greeks are gone, yet the Hermes of Olympia remains, mutilated andmaimed, indeed, but faultless still, and still supreme. The very nameof Homer is grown wellnigh as mythic as his blindness. There are thoseto-day who, standing by the grave of William Shakespeare, say boldlythat he was not the creator of the works that bear his name. And still, through the centuries, Achilles wanders lonely by the shore of thesounding sea; Paris loves, and Helen is false; Ajax raves, and Odysseussteers his sinking ship through the raging storm. Still, Hamlet theAvenger swears, hesitates, kills at last, and then himself is slain;Romeo sighs in the ivory moonlight, and love-bound Juliet hears thetriumphant lark carolling his ringing hymn high in the cool morningair, and says it is the nightingale--Immortals all, the marble god, theGreek, the Dane, the love-sick boy, the maiden foredoomed to death. Buthow short is the roll-call of these deathless ones! Through what ragingfloods of destruction have they lived, through what tempests have theybeen tossed, upon what inhospitable shores have they been cast up bythe changing tides of time! Since they were called to life by thegreat, half-nameless departed, how often has their very existence beenforgotten by all but a score in tens of millions? Has it been given tothose embodied thoughts of transcendent genius to ride in the whirlwindof men's passions or to direct the stormy warfare of half franticnations? Since they were born in all their bright perfection, to liveon in unchanging beauty, violence has ruled the world; many a time sincethen the sword has mown down its harvest of thinkers, many a time hasthe iron harrow of war torn up and scarred the face of the earth. Athensstill stands in broken loveliness, and the Tiber still rolls its tawnywaters heavily through Rome; but Rome and Athens are to-day but placesof departed spirits; they are no longer the seats of life, their brokenhearts are petrified. All men may see the ports through which theblood flowed to the throbbing centre, the traces of the mighty arteriesthrough which it was driven to the ends of the earth. But the blood isdried up, the hearts are broken, and though in their stony ruins thosedead world-hearts be grander and more enduring than any which in ourtime are whole and beating, yet neither their endurance nor theirgrandeur have saved them from man, the destroyer, nor was the beautyof their thoughts or the thoughtfully-devised machinery of theircivilisation a shield against a few score thousand rough-hammeredblades, wielded by rough-hewn mortals who recked neither of intellectnor of civilisation, nor yet of beauty, being but very human men, fullof terribly strong and human passions. Look where you will, throughoutthe length and breadth of all that was the world five thousand, or fivehundred years ago; everywhere passion has swept thought before it, andbelief, reason. And we, too, with our reason and our thoughts, shall beswept from existence and the memory of it. Is this the age of reason, and is this the reign of law? In the midst of this civilisation of oursthree millions of men lie down nightly by their arms, men trained tohandle rifle and sword, taught to destroy and to do nothing else; andnearly as many more wait but a summons to leave their homes and join theranks. And often it is said that we are on the eve of a universal war. At the command of a few individuals, at the touch of a few wires, morethan five millions of men in the very prime and glory of strength, armed as men never were armed since time began, will arise and will killcivilisation and thought, as both the one and the other have been slainbefore by fewer hands and less deadly weapons. Is this reason, or isthis law? Passion rules the world, and rules alone. And passion isneither of the head, nor of the hand, but of the heart. Passion caresnothing for the mind. Love, hate, ambition, anger, avarice, eithermake a slave of intelligence to serve their impulses, or break down itsimpotent opposition with the unanswerable argument of brute force, andtear it to pieces with iron hands. 

Love is the first, the greatest, the gentlest, the most cruel, the mostirresistible of passions. In his least form he is mighty. A little lovehas destroyed many a great friendship. The merest outward semblance oflove has made such havoc as no intellect could repair. The reality hasmade heroes and martyrs, traitors and murderers, whose names will notbe forgotten, for glory or for shame. Helen is not the only woman whosesmile has kindled the beacon of a ten years' war, nor Antony the onlyman who has lost the world for a caress. It may be that the Helen whoshall work our destruction is even now twisting and braiding her goldenhair; it may be that the new Antony, who is to lose this same old worldagain, already stands upon the steps of Cleopatra's throne. Love's dayis not over yet, nor has man outgrown the love of woman. 

But the power to love greatly is a gift, differing much in kind, thoughlittle in degree, from the inspiration of the poet, the genius of theartist, or the unerring instinct and eagle's glance of the conqueror;for conqueror, artist and poet are moved by passion and not by reason, which is but their servant in so far as it can be commanded to moveothers, and their deadliest enemy when it would move themselves. Let thepassion and the instrument but meet, being suited to each other, and allelse must go down before them. Few, indeed, are they to whom is giventhat rich inheritance, and they themselves alone know all their wealth, and all their misery, all the boundless possibilities of happiness thatare theirs, and all the dangers and the terrors that beset their path. He who has won woman in the face of daring rivals, of enormous odds, ofgigantic obstacles, knows what love means; he who has lost her, havingloved her, alone has measured with his own soul the bitterness ofearthly sorrow, the depth of total loneliness, the breadth of thewilderness of despair. And he who has sorrowed long, who has long beenalone, but who has watched the small, twinkling ray still burning uponthe distant border of his desert--the faint glimmer of a single starthat was still above the horizon of despair--he only can tell what utterdarkness can be upon the face of the earth when that last star hasset for ever. With it are gone suddenly the very quarters and cardinalpoints of life's chart, there is no longer any right hand or any left, any north or south, any rising of the sun or any going down, any forwardor backward direction in his path, any heaven above, or any hell below. The world has stood still and there is no life in the thick, blackstillness. Death himself is dead, and one living man is forgottenbehind, to mourn him as a lost friend, to pray that some new destroyer, more sure of hand than death himself, may come striding through theawful silence to make an end at last of the tormented spirit, to bear itswiftly to the place where that last star ceased to shine, and to let itdown into the restful depths of an unremembering eternity. But intothat place, which is the soul of man, no destroyer can penetrate; thatsolitary life neither the sword, nor pestilence, nor age, nor eternitycan extinguish; that immortal memory no night can obscure. There was abeginning indeed, but end there can be none. 

Such a man was the Wanderer, as he paced the deserted street in thecruel, gloomy cold of the late day. Between his sight and the star ofhis own hope an impenetrable shadow had arisen, so that he saw it nomore. The memory of Beatrice was more than ever distinct to his innersense, but the sudden presentiment of her death, real in its working asany certainty, had taken the reality of her from the ground on which hestood. For that one link had still been between them. Somewhere, nearor far, during all these years, she, too, had trodden the earth withher light footsteps, the same universal mother earth on which they bothmoved and lived. The very world was hers, since she was touching it, and to touch it in his turn was to feel her presence. For who couldtell what hidden currents ran in the secret depths, or what mysteriousinterchange of sympathy might not be maintained through them? The airitself was hers, since she was somewhere breathing it; the stars, forshe looked on them; the sun, for it warmed her; the cold of winter, for it chilled her too; the breezes of spring, for they fanned her palecheek and cooled her dark brow. All had been hers, and at the thoughtthat she had passed away, a cry of universal mourning broke from theworld she had left behind, and darkness descended upon all things, as afuneral pall. 

Cold and dim and sad the ancient city had seemed before, but it was athousandfold more melancholy now, more black, more saturated with thegloom of ages. From time to time the Wanderer raised his heavy lids, scarcely seeing what was before him, conscious of nothing but the horrorwhich had so suddenly embraced his whole existence. Then, all at once, he was face to face with some one. A woman stood still in the way, awoman wrapped in rich furs, her features covered by a dark veil whichcould not hide the unequal fire of the unlike eyes so keenly fixed onhis. 

"Have you found her?" asked the soft voice. 

"She is dead, " answered the Wanderer, growing very white. 

CHAPTER VIII

During the short silence which followed, and while the two were stillstanding opposite to each other, the unhappy man's look did not change. Unorna saw that he was sure of what he said, and a thrill of triumph, asjubilant as his despair was profound ran through her. If she had caredto reason with herself and to examine into her own sincerity, she wouldhave seen that nothing but genuine passion, good or bad, could have lentthe assurance of her rival's death such power to flood the dark streetwith sunshine. But she was already long past doubt upon that question. The enchanter had bound her heart with his spells at the first glance, and the wild nature was already on fire. For one instant the light shotfrom her eyes, and then sank again as quickly as it had come. She hadother impulses than those of love, and subtle gifts of perceptionthat condemned her to know the truth, even when the delusion was mostglorious. He was himself deceived, and she knew it. Beatrice might, indeed, have died long ago. She could not tell. But as she sought in therecesses of his mind, she saw that he had no certainty of it, she sawthe black presentiment between him and the image, for she could see theimage too. She saw the rival she already hated, not receiving a visionof the reality, but perceiving it through his mind, as it had alwaysappeared to him. For one moment she hesitated still, and she knewthat her whole life was being weighed in the trembling balance of thathesitation. For one moment her face became an impenetrable mask, hereyes grew dull as uncut jewels, her breathing ceased, her lips were setlike cold marble. Then the stony mask took life again, the sight grewkeen, and a gentle sigh stirred the chilly air. 

"She is not dead. "

"Not dead!" The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she hadspoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness ofthe shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation. 

"She is not dead. You have dreamed it, " said Unorna, looking at himsteadily. 

He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as thoughbrushing away something that troubled him. 

"Not dead? Not dead!" he repeated, in changing tones. 

"Come with me. I will show her to you. "

He gazed at her and his senses reeled. Her words sounded like rarestmusic in his ear; in the darkness of his brain a soft light began todiffuse itself. 

"Is it possible? Have I been mistaken?" he asked in a low voice, asthough speaking to himself. 

"Come!" said Unorna again very gently. 

"Whither? With you? How can you bring me to her? What power have you tolead the living to the dead?"

"To the living. Come. "

"To the living--yes. I have dreamed an evil dream--a dream of death. Sheis not--no, I see it now. She is not dead. She is only very far fromme, very, very far. And yet it was this morning--but I was mistaken, deceived by some faint likeness. Ah, God! I thought I knew her face!What is it that you want with me?"

He asked the question as though again suddenly aware of Unorna'spresence. She had lifted her veil and her eyes drew his soul into theirmysterious depths. 

"She calls you. Come. "

"She? She is not here. What can you know of her? Why do you look at meso?"

He felt an unaccountable uneasiness under her gaze, like a warning ofdanger not far off. The memory of his meeting with her on that samemorning was not clear at that moment, but he had not forgotten the odddisturbance of his faculties which had distressed him at the time. Hewas inclined to resist any return of the doubtful state and to opposeUnorna's influence. He felt the fascination of her glance, and hestraightened himself rather proudly and coldly as though to withdrawhimself from it. It was certain that Unorna, at the surprise of meetingher, had momentarily dispelled the gloomy presentiment which hadgiven him such terrible pain. And yet, even his disturbed and anxiousconsciousness found it more than strange that she should thus press himto go with her, and so boldly promise to bring him to the object of hissearch. He resisted her, and found that resistance was not easy. 

"And yet, " said she, dropping her eyes and seeming to abandon theattempt, "you said that if you failed to-day you would come back to me. Have you succeeded, that you need no help?"

"I have not succeeded. "

"And if I had not come to you--if I had not met you here, you would havefailed for the last time. You would have carried with you the convictionof her death to the moment of your own. "

"It was a horrible delusion, but since it was a delusion it would havepassed away in time. "

"With your life, perhaps. Who would have waked you, if I had not?"

"I was not sleeping. Why do you reason? What would you prove?"

"Much, if I knew how. Will you walk with me? It is very cold. "

They had been standing where they had met. As she spoke, Unorna lookedup with an expression wholly unlike the one he had seen a few momentsearlier. Her strong will was suddenly veiled by the most gentle andwomanly manner, and a little shiver, real or feigned, passed over her asshe drew the folds of her fur more closely round her. The man before hercould resist the aggressive manifestation of her power, but he was fartoo courteous to refuse her request. 

"Which way?" he asked quietly. 

"To the river, " she answered. 

He turned and took his place by her side. For some moments they walkedon in silence. It was already almost twilight. 

"How short the days are!" exclaimed Unorna, rather suddenly. 

"How long, even at their shortest!" replied her companion. 

"They might be short--if you would. "

He did not answer her, though he glanced quickly at her face. She waslooking down at the pavement before her, as though picking her way, forthere were patches of ice upon the stones. She seemed very quiet. Hecould not guess that her heart was beating violently, and that she foundit hard to say six words in a natural tone. 

So far as he himself was concerned he was in no humour for talking. Hehad seen almost everything in the world, and had read or heard almosteverything that mankind had to say. The streets of Prague had nonovelty for him, and there was no charm in the chance acquaintance of abeautiful woman, to bring words to his lips. Words had long since grownuseless in the solitude of a life that was spent in searching for oneface among the millions that passed before his sight. Courtesy hadbidden him to walk with her, because she had asked it, but courtesy didnot oblige him to amuse her, he thought, and she had not the power thatKeyork Arabian had to force him into conversation, least of all intoconversing upon his own inner life. He regretted the few words he hadspoken, and would have taken them back, had it been possible. He felt noawkwardness in the long silence. 

Unorna for the first time in her life felt that she had not full controlof her faculties. She who was always so calm, so thoroughly mistress ofher own powers, whose judgment Keyork Arabian could deceive, but whoseself-possession he could not move, except to anger, was at the presentmoment both weak and unbalanced. Ten minutes earlier she had fanciedthat it would be an easy thing to fix her eyes on his and to cast theveil of a half-sleep over his already half-dreaming senses. She hadfancied that it would be enough to say "Come, " and that he would follow. She had formed the bold scheme of attaching him to herself, by visionsof the woman whom he loved as she wished to be loved by him. Shebelieved that if he were once in that state she could destroy the oldlove for ever, or even turn it to hate, at her will. And it had seemedeasy. That morning, when he had first come to her, she had fastened herglance upon him more than once, and she had seen him turn a shade paler, had noticed the drooping of his lids and the relaxation of his hands. She had sought him in the street, guided by something surer thaninstinct, she had found him, had read his thoughts, and had felt himyielding to her fixed determination. Then, suddenly, her power had lefther, and as she walked beside him, she knew that if she looked into hisface she would blush and be confused like a shy girl. She almost wishedthat he would leave her without a word and without an apology. 

It was not possible, however, to prolong the silence much longer. Avague fear seized her. Had she really lost all her dominating strengthin the first moments of the first sincere passion she had ever felt?Was she reduced to weakness by his presence, and unable so much as tosustain a fragmentary conversation, let alone suggesting to his mindthe turn it should take? She was ashamed of her poverty of spirit in theemergency. She felt herself tongue-tied, and the hot blood rose to herface. He was not looking at her, but she could not help fancying that heknew her secret embarrassment. She hung her head and drew her veil downso that it should hide even her mouth. 

But her trouble increased with every moment, for each second made itharder to break the silence. She sought madly for something to say, and she knew that her cheeks were on fire. Anything would do, nomatter what. The sound of her own voice, uttering the commonest ofcommonplaces, would restore her equanimity. But that simple, almostmeaningless phrase would not be found. She would stammer, if she triedto speak, like a child that has forgotten its lesson and fears theschoolmaster as well as the laughter of its schoolmates. It would be soeasy if he would say something instead of walking quietly by her side, suiting his pace to hers, shifting his position so that she might stepupon the smoothest parts of the ill-paved street, and shielding her, asit were, from the passers-by. There was a courteous forethought for herconvenience and safety in every movement of his, a something which awoman always feels when traversing a crowded thoroughfare by the side ofa man who is a true gentleman in every detail of life, whether husband, or friend, or chance acquaintance. For the spirit of the man whois really thoughtful for woman, as well as sincerely and genuinelyrespectful in his intercourse with them, is manifest in his smallestoutward action. 

While every step she took increased the violence of the passion whichhad suddenly swept away her strength, every instant added to herconfusion. She was taken out of the world in which she was accustomedto rule, and was suddenly placed in one where men are men, and women arewomen, and in which social conventionalities hold sway. She began tobe frightened. The walk must end, and at the end of it they must part. Since she had lost her power over him he might go away, for there wouldbe nothing to bring him to her. She wondered why he would not speak, andher terror increased. She dared not look up, lest she should find himlooking at her. 

Then they emerged from the street and stood by the river, in a lonelyplace. The heavy ice was gray with old snow in some places and black inothers, where the great blocks had been cut out in long strips. It waslighter here. A lingering ray of sunshine, forgotten by the departingday, gilded the vast walls and turrets of venerable Hradschin, farabove them on the opposite bank, and tinted the sharp dark spires ofthe half-built cathedral which crowns the fortress. The distant ring offast-moving skates broke the stillness. 

"Are you angry with me?" asked Unorna, almost humbly, and hardly knowingwhat she said. The question had risen to her lips without warning, andwas asked almost unconsciously. 

"I do not understand. Angry? At what? Why should you think I am angry?"

"You are so silent, " she answered, regaining courage from the mere soundof her own words. "We have been walking a long time, and you have saidnothing. I thought you were displeased. "

"You must forgive me. I am often silent. "

"I thought you were displeased, " she repeated. "I think that you were, though you hardly knew it. I should be very sorry if you were angry. "

"Why would you be sorry?" asked the Wanderer with a civil indifferencethat hurt Unorna more than any acknowledgment of his displeasure couldhave done. 

"Because I would help you, if you would let me. "

He looked at her with sudden keenness. In spite of herself she blushedand turned her head away. He hardly noticed the fact, and, if he had, would assuredly not have put upon it any interpretation approaching tothe truth. He supposed that she was flushed with walking. 

"No one has ever helped me, least of all in the way you mean, " he said. "The counsels of wise men--of the wisest--have been useless, as well asthe dreams of women who fancy they have the gift of mental sight beyondthe limit of bodily vision. "

"Who fancy they see!" exclaimed Unorna, almost glad to find that she wasstill strong enough to feel annoyance at the slight. 

"I beg your pardon. I do not mean to doubt your powers, of which I havehad no experience. "

"I did not offer to see for you. I did not offer you a dream. "

"Would you show me that which I already see, waking and sleeping? Wouldyou bring to my hearing the sound of a voice which I can hear even now?I need no help for that. "

"I can do more than that--for you. "

"And why for me?" he asked with some curiosity. 

"Because--because you are Keyork Arabian's friend. " She glanced at hisface, but he showed no surprise. 

"You have seen him this afternoon, of course, " he remarked. 

And odd smile passed over Unorna's face. 

"Yes. I have seen him this afternoon. He is a friend of mine, and ofyours--do you understand?"

"He is the wisest of men, " said the Wanderer. "And also the maddest, " headded thoughtfully. 

"And you think it was in his madness, rather than in his wisdom, that headvised you to come to me?"

"Possibly. In his belief in you, at least. "

"And that may be madness?" She was gaining courage. 

"Or wisdom--if I am mad. He believes in you. That is certain. "

"He has no beliefs. Have you known him long, and do not know that? Withhim there is nothing between knowledge and ignorance. "

"And he knows, of course, by experience what you can do and what youcannot do?"

"By very long experience, as I know him. "

"Neither your gifts nor his knowledge of them can change dreams tofacts. "

Unorna smiled again. 

"You can produce a dream--nothing more, " continued the Wanderer, drawnat last into argument. "I, too, know something of these things. Thewisdom of the Egyptians is not wholly lost yet. You may possess someof it, as well as the undeveloped power which could put all their magicwithin your reach if you knew how to use it. Yet a dream is a dream. "

"Philosophers have disputed that, " answered Unorna. "I am nophilosopher, but I can overthrow the results of all their disputations. "

"You can do this. If I resign my will into your keeping you can causeme to dream. You can call up vividly before me the remembered andunremembered sights of my life. You can make me see clearly the sightsimpressed upon your own memory. You might do that, and yet you couldbe showing me nothing which I do not see now before me--of those thingswhich I care to see. "

"But suppose that you were wrong, and that I had no dream to show you, but a reality?"

She spoke the words very earnestly, gazing into his eyes at last withoutfear. Something in her tone struck him and fixed his attention. 

"There is no sleep needed to see realities, " he said. 

"I did not say that there was. I only asked you to come with me to theplace where she is. "

The Wanderer started slightly and forgot all the instinct of oppositionto her which he had felt so strongly before. 

"Do you mean that you know--that you can take me to her----" he couldnot find words. A strange, overmastering astonishment took possessionof him, and with it came wild hope and the wilder longing to reach itsrealisation instantly. 

"What else could I have meant? What else did I say?" Her eyes werebeginning to glitter in the gathering dusk. 

The Wanderer no longer avoided their look, but he passed his hand overhis brow, as though dazed. 

"I only asked you to come with me, " she repeated softly. "There isnothing supernatural about that. When I saw that you did not believe meI did not try to lead you then, though she is waiting for you. She bademe bring you to her. "

"You have seen her? You have talked with her? She sent you? Oh, forGod's sake, come quickly!--come, come!"

He put out his hand as though to take hers and lead her away. Shegrasped it eagerly. He had not seen that she had drawn off her glove. Hewas lost. Her eyes held him and her fingers touched his bare wrist. Hislids drooped and his will was hers. In the intolerable anxiety of themoment he had forgotten to resist, he had not even thought of resisting. 

There were great blocks of stone in the desolate place, landed therebefore the river had frozen for a great building, whose gloomy, unfinished mass stood waiting for the warmth of spring to be completed. She led him by the hand, passive and obedient as a child, to a shelteredspot and made him sit down upon one of the stones. It was growing dark. 

"Look at me, " she said, standing before him, and touching his brow. Heobeyed. 

"You are the image in my eyes, " she said, after a moment's pause. 

"Yes. I am the image in your eyes, " he answered in a dull voice. 

"You will never resist me again, I command it. Hereafter it will beenough for me to touch your hand, or to look at you, and if I say, 'Sleep, ' you will instantly become the image again. Do you understandthat?"

"I understand it. "

"Promise!"

"I promise, " he replied, without perceptible effort. 

"You have been dreaming for years. From this moment you must forget allyour dreams. "

His face expressed no understanding of what she said. She hesitateda moment and then began to walk slowly up and down before him. Hishalf-glazed look followed her as she moved. She came back and laid herhand upon his head. 

"My will is yours. You have no will of your own. You cannot thinkwithout me, " She spoke in a tone of concentrated determination, and aslight shiver passed over him. 

"It is of no use to resist, for you have promised never to resist meagain, " she continued. "All that I command must take place in your mindinstantly, without opposition. Do you understand?"

"Yes, " he answered, moving uneasily. 

For some seconds she again held her open palm upon his head. She seemedto be evoking all her strength for a great effort. 

"Listen to me, and let everything I say take possession of your mind forever. My will is yours, you are the image in my eyes, my word is yourlaw. You know what I please that you should know. You forget what Icommand you to forget. You have been mad these many years, and I amcuring you. You must forget your madness. You have now forgotten it. Ihave erased the memory of it with my hand. There is nothing to rememberany more. "

The dull eyes, deep-set beneath the shadows of the overhanging brow, seemed to seek her face in the dark, and for the third time there wasa nervous twitching of the shoulders and limbs. Unorna knew the symptomwell, but had never seen it return so often, like a protest of the bodyagainst the enslaving of the intelligence. She was nervous in spiteof her success. The immediate results of hypnotic suggestion arenot exactly the same in all cases, even in the first moments; itsconsequences may be widely different with different individuals. Unorna, indeed, possessed an extraordinary power, but on the other hand she hadto deal with an extraordinary organisation. She knew this instinctively, and endeavoured to lead the sleeping mind by degrees to the condition inwhich she wished it to remain. 

The repeated tremor in the body was the outward sign of a mentalresistance which it would not be easy to overcome. The wisest course wasto go over the ground already gained. This she was determined to do bymeans of a sort of catechism. 

"Who am I?" she asked. 

"Unorna, " answered the powerless man promptly, but with a strange air ofrelief. 

"Are you asleep?"

"No. "

"Awake?"

"No. "

"In what state are you?"

"I am an image. "

"And where is your body?"

"Seated upon that stone. "

"Can you see your face?"

"I see it distinctly. The eyes in the body are glassy. "

"The body is gone now. You do not see it any more. Is that true?"

"It is true. I do not see it. I see the stone on which it was sitting. "

"You are still in my eyes. Now"--she touched his head again--"now, youare no longer an image. You are my mind. "

"Yes. I am your mind. "

"You, my Mind, know that I met to-day a man called the Wanderer, whosebody you saw when you were in my eyes. Do you know that or not?"

"I know it. I am your mind. "

"You know, Mind, that the man was mad. He had suffered for many yearsfrom a delusion. In pursuit of the fixed idea he had wandered farthrough the world. Do you know whither his travels had led him?"

"I do not know. That is not in your mind. You did not know it when Ibecame your mind. "

"Good. Tell me, Mind, what was this man's delusion?"

"He fancied that he loved a woman whom he could not find. "

"The man must be cured. You must know that he was mad and is now sane. You, my Mind, must see that it was really a delusion. You see it now. "

"Yes. I see it. "

Unorna watched the waking sleeper narrowly. It was now night, but thesky had cleared and the starlight falling upon the snow in the lonely, open place, made it possible to see very well. Unorna seemed asunconscious of the bitter cold as her subject, whose body was in astate past all outward impressions. So far she had gone through all thefamiliar process of question and answer with success, but this was notall. She knew that if, when he awoke, the name he loved still remainedin his memory, the result would not be accomplished. She mustproduce entire forgetfulness, and to do this, she must wipe out everyassociation, one by one. She gathered her strength during a short pause. She was greatly encouraged by the fact that the acknowledgment of thedelusion had been followed by no convulsive reaction in the body. Shewas on the very verge of a complete triumph, and the concentration ofher will during a few moments longer might win the battle. 

She could not have chosen a spot better suited for her purpose. Withinfive minutes' walk of streets in which throngs of people were movingabout, the scene which surrounded her was desolate and almost wild. Theunfinished building loomed like a ruin behind her; the rough hewn blockslay like boulders in a stony desert; the broad gray ice lay like a floorof lustreless iron before her under the uncertain starlight. Only afaroff, high up in the mighty Hradschin, lamps gleamed here and there fromthe windows, the distant evidences of human life. All was still. Eventhe steely ring of the skates had ceased. 

"And so, " she continued, presently, "this man's whole life has been adelusion, ever since he began to fancy in the fever of an illness thathe loved a certain woman. Is this clear to you, my Mind?"

"It is quite clear, " answered the muffled voice. 

"He was so utterly mad that he even gave that woman a name--a name, whenshe had never existed except in his imagination. "

"Except in his imagination, " repeated the sleeper, without resistance. 

"He called her Beatrice. The name was suggested to him because he hadfallen ill in a city of the South where a woman called Beatriceonce lived and was loved by a great poet. That was the train ofself-suggestion in his delirium. Mind, do you understand?"

"He suggested to himself the name in his illness. "

"In the same way that he suggested to himself the existence of the womanwhom he afterwards believed he loved?"

"In exactly the same way. "

"It was all a curious and very interesting case of auto-hypnoticsuggestion. It made him very mad. He is now cured of it. Do you see thathe is cured?"

The sleeper gave no answer. The stiffened limbs did not move, indeed, nor did the glazed eyes reflect the starlight. But he gave no answer. The lips did not even attempt to form words. Had Unorna been lesscarried away by the excitement in her own thoughts, or less absorbed inthe fierce concentration of her will upon its passive subject, she wouldhave noticed the silence and would have gone back again over the oldground. As it was, she did not pause. 

"You understand therefore, my Mind, that this Beatrice was entirely thecreature of the man's imagination. Beatrice does not exist, because shenever existed. Beatrice never had any real being. Do you understand?"

This time she waited for an answer, but none came. 

"There never was any Beatrice, " she repeated firmly, laying her handupon the unconscious head and bending down to gaze into the sightlesseyes. 

The answer did not come, but a shiver like that of an ague shook thelong, graceful limbs. 

"You are my Mind, " she said fiercely. "Obey me! There never was anyBeatrice, there is no Beatrice now, and there never can be. "

The noble brow contracted in a look of agonising pain, and thewhole frame shook like an aspen leaf in the wind. The mouth movedspasmodically. 

"Obey me! Say it!" cried Unorna with passionate energy. 

The lips twisted themselves, and the face was as gray as the gray snow. 

"There is--no--Beatrice. " The words came out slowly, and yet notdistinctly, as though wrung from the heart by torture. 

Unorna smiled at last, but the smile had not faded from her lips whenthe air was rent by a terrible cry. 

"By the Eternal God of Heaven!" cried the ringing voice. "It is alie!--a lie!--a lie!"

She who had never feared anything earthly or unearthly shrank back. Shefelt her heavy hair rising bodily upon her head. 

The Wanderer had sprung to his feet. The magnitude and horror of thefalsehood spoken had stabbed the slumbering soul to sudden and terriblewakefulness. The outline of his tall figure was distinct against thegray background of ice and snow. He was standing at his full height, hisarms stretched up to heaven, his face luminously pale, his deep eyeson fire and fixed upon her face, forcing back her dominating will uponitself. But he was not alone!

"Beatrice!" he cried in long-drawn agony. 

Between him and Unorna something passed by, something dark and soft andnoiseless, that took shape slowly--a woman in black, a veil thrown backfrom her forehead, her white face turned towards the Wanderer, her whitehands hanging by her side. She stood still, and the face turned, and theeyes met Unorna's, and Unorna knew that it was Beatrice. 

There she stood, between them, motionless as a statue, impalpable asair, but real as life itself. The vision, if it was a vision, lastedfully a minute. Never, to the day of her death, was Unorna to forgetthat face, with its deathlike purity of outline, with its unspeakablenobility of feature. 

It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. A low broken sound of painescaped from the Wanderer's lips, and with his arms extended he fellforwards. The strong woman caught him and he sank to the ground gently, in her arms, his head supported upon her shoulder, as she kneeled underthe heavy weight. 

There was a sound of quick footsteps on the frozen snow. A Bohemianwatchman, alarmed by the loud cry, was running to the spot. 

"What has happened?" he asked, bending down to examine the couple. 

"My friend has fainted, " said Unorna calmly. "He is subject to it. Youmust help me to get him home. "

"Is it far?" asked the man. 

"To the House of the Black Mother of God. "

CHAPTER IX

The principal room of Keyork Arabian's dwelling was in every waycharacteristic of the man. In the extraordinary confusion which at firstdisturbed a visitor's judgment, some time was needed to discover thearchitectural bounds of the place. The vaulted roof was indeed apparent, as well as small portions of the wooden flooring. Several windows, whichmight have been large had they filled the arched embrasures in whichthey were set, admitted the daylight when there was enough of it inPrague to serve the purpose of illumination. So far as could be seenfrom the street, they were commonplace windows without shutters and withdouble casements against the cold, but from within it was apparent thatthe tall arches in the thick walls had been filled in with a thinnermasonry in which the modern frames were set. So far as it was possibleto see, the room had but two doors; the one, masked by a heavy curtainmade of a Persian carpet, opened directly upon the staircase of thehouse; the other, exactly opposite, gave access to the inner apartments. On account of its convenient size, however, the sage had selected forhis principal abiding place this first chamber, which was almost largeenough to be called a hall, and here he had deposited the extraordinaryand heterogeneous collection of objects, or, more property speaking, ofremains, upon the study of which he spent a great part of his time. 

Two large tables, three chairs and a divan completed the list of allthat could be called furniture. The tables were massive, dark, andold-fashioned; the feet at each end consisted of thick flat boards sawninto a design of simple curves, and connected by strong crosspieceskeyed to them with large wooden bolts. The chairs were ancient foldingstools, with movable backs and well-worn cushions of faded velvet. The divan differed in no respect from ordinary oriental divans inappearance, and was covered with a stout dark Bokhara carpet of no greatvalue; but so far as its use was concerned, the disorderly heaps ofbooks and papers that lay upon it showed that Keyork was more inclinedto make a book-case of it than a couch. 

The room received its distinctive character however neither from itsvaulted roof, nor from the deep embrasures of its windows, nor fromits scanty furniture, but from the peculiar nature of the many curiousobjects, large and small, which hid the walls and filled almost allthe available space on the floor. It was clear that every one of thespecimens illustrated some point in the great question of life and deathwhich formed the chief study of Keyork Arabian's latter years; for byfar the greater number of the preparations were dead bodies, of men, of women, of children, of animals, to all of which the old man hadendeavoured to impart the appearance of life, and in treating some ofwhich he had attained results of a startling nature. The osteology ofman and beast was indeed represented, for a huge case, covering onewhole wall, was filled to the top with a collection of many hundredskulls of all races of mankind, and where real specimens were missing, their place was supplied by admirable casts of craniums; but thisreredos, so to call it, of bony heads, formed but a vast, grinningbackground for the bodies which stood and sat and lay in half-raisedcoffins and sarcophagi before them, in every condition produced byvarious known and lost methods of embalming. There were, it is true, a number of skeletons, disposed here and there in fantastic attitudes, gleaming white and ghostly in their mechanical nakedness, the bones ofhuman beings, the bones of giant orang-outangs, of creatures large andsmall down to the flimsy little framework of a common bull frog, strungon wires as fine as hairs, which squatted comfortably upon an old booknear the edge of a table, as though it had just skipped to that point inpursuit of a ghostly fly and was pausing to meditate a farther spring. But the eye did not discover these things at the first glance. Solemn, silent, strangely expressive, lay three slim Egyptians, raised at anangle as though to give them a chance of surveying their fellow-dead, the linen bandages unwrapped from their heads and arms and shoulders, their jet-black hair combed and arranged and dressed by Keyork's hand, their faces softened almost to the expression of life by one of hissecret processes, their stiffened joints so limbered by his art thattheir arms had taken natural positions again, lying over the edges ofthe sarcophagi in which they had rested motionless and immovable throughthirty centuries. For the man had pursued his idea in every shapeand with every experiment, testing, as it were, the potentialimperishability of the animal frame by the degree of life-like plumpnessand softness and flexibility which it could be made to take after amummification of three thousand years. And he had reached the conclusionthat, in the nature of things, the human body might vie, in resistingthe mere action of time, with the granite of the pyramids. Those hadbeen his earliest trials. The results of many others filled the room. Here a group of South Americans, found dried in the hollow of anancient tree, had been restored almost to the likeness of life, and wereapparently engaged in a lively dispute over the remains of a meal--ascold as themselves and as human. There, towered the standing body ofan African, leaning upon a knotted club, fierce, grinning, lacking onlysight in the sunken eyes to be terrible. There again, surmounting alay figure wrapped in rich stuffs, smiled the calm and gentle face of aMalayan lady--decapitated for her sins, so marvellously preservedthat the soft dark eyes still looked out from beneath the heavy, half-drooping lids, and the full lips, still richly coloured, parted alittle to show the ivory teeth. Other sights there were, more ghastlystill, triumphs of preservation, if not of semi-resuscitation, overdecay, won on its own most special ground. Triumphs all, yet almostfailures in the eyes of the old student, they represented the madefforts of an almost supernatural skill and superhuman science torevive, if but for one second, the very smallest function of the livingbody. Strange and wild were the trials he had made; many and greatthe sacrifices and blood offerings lavished on his dead in the hopeof seeing that one spasm which would show that death might yet beconquered; many the engines, the machines, the artificial hearts, theapplications of electricity that he had invented; many the powerfulreactives he had distilled wherewith to excite the long dead nerves, or those which but two days had ceased to feel. The hidden essencewas still undiscovered, the meaning of vitality eluded his profoundeststudy, his keenest pursuit. The body died, and yet the nerves couldstill be made to act as though alive for the space of a few hours--inrare cases for a day. With his eyes he had seen a dead man spring halfacross a room from the effects of a few drops of musk--on the first day;with his eyes he had seen the dead twist themselves, and move and grinunder the electric current--provided it had not been too late. But that"too late" had baffled him, and from his first belief that life mightbe restored when once gone, he had descended to what seemed the simplerproposition of the two, to the problem of maintaining life indefinitelyso long as its magic essence lingered in the flesh and blood. And now hebelieved that he was very near the truth; how terribly near he had yetto learn. 

On that evening when the Wanderer fell to the earth before the shadow ofBeatrice, Keyork Arabian sat alone in his charnel-house. The brilliantlight of two powerful lamps illuminated everything in the place, forKeyork loved light, like all those who are intensely attached to lifefor its own sake. The yellow rays flooded the life-like faces of hisdead companions, and streamed upwards to the heterogeneous objects thatfilled the shelves almost to the spring of the vault--objects which allreminded him of the conditions of lives long ago extinct, endless heapsof barbarous weapons, of garments of leather and of fish skin, Amurian, Siberian, Gothic, Mexican, and Peruvian; African and Red Indianmasks, models of boats and canoes, sacred drums, Liberian idols, Runiccalendars, fiddles made of human skulls, strange and barbaric ornaments, all producing together an amazing richness of colour--all things inwhich the man himself had taken but a passing interest, the result ofhis central study--life in all its shapes. 

He sat alone. The African giant looked down at his dwarf-like formas though in contempt of such half-grown humanity; the Malayan lady'sbodiless head turned its smiling face towards him; scores of deadbeings seemed to contemplate half in pity, half in scorn, their would-bereviver. Keyork Arabian was used to their company and to their silence. Far beyond the common human horror of dead humanity, if one of them hadall at once nodded to him and spoken to him he would have started withdelight and listened with rapture. But they were all still dead, andthey neither spoke or moved a finger. A thought that had more hope in itthan any which had passed through his brain for many years now occupiedand absorbed him. A heavy book lay open on the table by his side, andfrom time to time he glanced at a phrase which seemed to attract him. It was always the same phrase, and two words alone sufficed to bringhim back to contemplation of it. Those two words were "Immortality"and "Soul. " He began to speak aloud to himself, being by nature fond ofspeech. 

"Yes. The soul is immortal. I am quite willing to grant that. But itdoes not in any way follow that it is the source of life, or the seatof intelligence. The Buddhists distinguished it even from theindividuality. And yet life holds it, and when life ends it takes itsdeparture. How soon? I do not know. It is not a condition of life, but life is one of its conditions. Does it leave the body when life isartificially prolonged in a state of unconsciousness--by hypnotism, for instance? Is it more closely bound up with animal life, or withintelligence? If with either, has it a definite abiding place in theheart, or in the brain? Since its presence depends directly on life, sofar as I know, it belongs to the body rather than to the brain. I oncemade a rabbit live an hour without its head. With a man that experimentwould need careful manipulation--I would like to try it. Or is it alla question of that phantom, Vitality? Then the presence of the souldepends upon the potential excitability of the nerves, and, as far aswe know, it must leave the body not more than twenty-four hours afterdeath, and it certainly does not leave the body at the moment of dying. But if of the nerves, then what is the condition of the soul in thehypnotic state? Unorna hypnotises our old friend there--and our youngone, too. For her, they have nerves. At her touch they wake, they sleep, they move, they feel, they speak. But they have no nerves for me. I cancut them with knives, burn them, turn the life-blood of the one intothe arteries of the other--they feel nothing. If the soul is of thenerves--or of the vitality, then they have souls for Unorna, and nonefor me. That is absurd. Where is that old man's soul? He has slept foryears. Has not his soul been somewhere else in the meanwhile? If wecould keep him asleep for centuries, or for scores of centuries, likethat frog found alive in a rock, would his soul--able by the hypothesisto pass through rocks or universes--stay by him? Could an ingenioussinner escape damnation for a few thousand years by being hypnotised?Verily the soul is a very unaccountable thing, and what is still moreunaccountable is that I believe in it. Suppose the case of the ingenioussinner. Suppose that he could not escape by his clever trick. Thenhis soul must inevitably taste the condition of the damned while he isasleep. But when he is waked at last, and found to be alive, his soulmust come back to him, glowing from the eternal flames. Unpleasantthought! Keyork Arabian, you had far better not go to sleep at present. Since all that is fantastic nonsense, on the face of it, I am inclinedto believe that the presence of the soul is in some way a conditionrequisite for life, rather than depending upon it. I wish I could buy asoul. It is quite certain that life is not a mere mechanical or chemicalprocess. I have gone too far to believe that. Take man at the verymoment of death--have everything ready, do what you will--my artificialheart is a very perfect instrument, mechanically speaking--and how longdoes it take to start the artificial circulation through the carotidartery? Not a hundredth part so long a time as drowned people often liebefore being brought back, without a pulsation, without a breath. YetI never succeeded, though I have made the artificial heart work on anarcotised rabbit, and the rabbit died instantly when I stopped themachine, which proves that it was the machine that kept it alive. Perhaps if one applied it to a man just before death he might live onindefinitely, grow fat and flourish so long as the glass heart worked. Where would his soul be then? In the glass heart, which would havebecome the seat of life? Everything, sensible or absurd, which I canput into words makes the soul seem an impossibility--and yet there issomething which I cannot put into words, but which proves the soul'sexistence beyond all doubt. I wish I could buy somebody's soul andexperiment with it. "

He ceased and sat staring at his specimens, going over in his memory thefruitless experiments of a lifetime. A loud knocking roused him from hisreverie. He hastened to open the door and was confronted by Unorna. She was paler than usual, and he saw from her expression that there wassomething wrong. 

"What is the matter?" he asked, almost roughly. 

"He is in a carriage downstairs, " she answered quickly. "Something hashappened to him. I cannot wake him, you must take him in--"

"To die on my hands? Not I!" laughed Keyork in his deepest voice. "Mycollection is complete enough. "

She seized him suddenly by both arms, and brought her face near to his. 

"If you dare to speak of death----"

She grew intensely white, with a fear she had not before known in herlife. Keyork laughed again, and tried to shake himself free of her grip. 

"You seem a little nervous, " he observed calmly. "What do you want ofme?"

"Your help, man, and quickly! Call your people! Have him carriedupstairs! Revive him! do something to bring him back!"

Keyork's voice changed. 

"Is he in real danger?" he asked. "What have you done to him?"

"Oh, I do not know what I have done!" cried Unorna desperately. "I donot know what I fear----"

She let him go and leaned against the doorway, covering her face withher hands. Keyork stared at her. He had never seen her show so muchemotion before. Then he made up his mind. He drew her into his room andleft her standing and staring at him while he thrust a few objects intohis pockets and threw his fur coat over him. 

"Stay here till I come back, " he said, authoritatively, as he went out. 

"But you will bring him here?" she cried, suddenly conscious of hisgoing. 

The door had already closed. She tried to open it, in order to followhim, but she could not. The lock was of an unusual kind, and eitherintentionally or accidentally Keyork had shut her in. For a few momentsshe tried to force the springs, shaking the heavy wood work a verylittle in the great effort she made. Then, seeing that it was useless, she walked slowly to the table and sat down in Keyork's chair. 

She had been in the place before, and she was as free from anyunpleasant fear of the dead company as Keyork himself. To her, as tohim, they were but specimens, each having a peculiar interest, as athing, but all destitute of that individuality, of that grim, latentmalice, of that weird, soulless, physical power to harm, with whichtimid imaginations endow dead bodies. 

She scarcely gave them a glance, and she certainly gave them no thought. She sat before the table, supporting her head in her hands and tryingto think connectedly of what had just happened. She knew well enough howthe Wanderer had lain upon the frozen ground, his head supported on herknee, while the watchman had gone to call a carriage. She remembered howshe had summoned all her strength and had helped to lift him in, as fewwomen could have done. She remembered every detail of the place, andeverything she had done, even to the fact that she had picked up his hatand a stick he had carried and had taken them into the vehicle with her. The short drive through the ill-lighted streets was clear to her. Shecould still feel the pressure of his shoulder as he had leaned heavilyagainst her; she could see the pale face by the fitful light of thelanterns as they passed, and of the lamps that flashed in front of thecarriage with each jolting of the wheels over the rough paving-stones. She remembered exactly what she had done, her efforts to wake him, atfirst regular and made with the certainty of success, then more and moremad as she realised that something had put him beyond the sphere of herpowers for the moment, if not for ever; his deathly pallor, his chilledhands, his unnatural stillness--she remembered it all, as one rememberscircumstances in real life a moment after they have taken place. Butthere remained also the recollection of a single moment during whichher whole being had been at the mercy of an impression so vivid thatit seemed to stand alone divested of any outward sensations by whichto measure its duration. She, who could call up visions in the minds ofothers, who possessed the faculty of closing her bodily eyes in order tosee distant places and persons in the state of trance, she, who expectedno surprises in her own act, had seen something very vividly, whichshe could not believe had been a reality, and which she yet could notaccount for as a revelation of second sight. That dark, mysteriouspresence that had come bodily, yet without a body, between her and theman she loved was neither a real woman, nor the creation of her ownbrain, nor a dream seen in hypnotic state. She had not the least ideahow long it had stood there; it seemed an hour, and it seemed but asecond. But that incorporeal thing had a life and a power of its own. Never before had she felt that unearthly chill run through her, northat strange sensation in her hair. It was a thing of evil omen, and thepresage was already about to be fulfilled. The spirit of the dark womanhad arisen at the sound of the words in which he denied her; she hadrisen and had come to claim her own, to rob Unorna of what seemed mostworth coveting on earth--and she could take him, surely, to the placewhence she came. How could Unorna tell that he was not already gone, that his spirit had not passed already, even when she was lifting hisweight from the ground?

At the despairing thought she started and looked up. She had almostexpected to see that shadow beside her again. But there was nothing. The lifeless bodies stood motionless in their mimicry of life under thebright light. The swarthy negro frowned, the face of the Malayan womanwore still its calm and gentle expression. Far in the background therows of gleaming skulls grinned, as though at the memory of their fourhundred lives; the skeleton of the orang-outang stretched out its longbony arms before it; the dead savages still squatted round the remainsof their meal. The stillness was oppressive. 

Unorna rose to her feet in sudden anxiety. She did not know how longshe had been alone. She listened anxiously at the door for the soundof footsteps on the stairs, but all was silent. Surely, Keyork had nottaken him elsewhere, to his lodgings, where he would not be cared for. That was impossible. She must have heard the sound of the wheels asthe carriage drove away. She glanced at the windows and saw that thecasements were covered with small, thick curtains which would muzzlethe sound. She went to the nearest, thrust the curtain aside, opened theinner and the second glass and looked out. Though the street below wasdim, she could see well enough that the carriage was no longer there. It was the bitterest night of the year and the air cut her like a knife, but she would not draw back. She strained her sight in both directions, searching in the gloom for the moving lights of a carriage, but she sawnothing. At last she shut the window and went back to the door. Theymust be on the stairs, or still below, perhaps, waiting for help tocarry him up. The cold might kill him in his present state, a cold thatwould kill most things exposed to it. Furiously she shook the door. Itwas useless. She looked about for an instrument to help her strength. She could see nothing--no--yes--there was the iron-wood club of theblack giant. She went and took it from his hand. The dead thing trembledall over, and rocked as though it would fall, and wagged its great headat her, but she was not afraid. She raised the heavy club and struckupon the door, upon the lock, upon the panels with all her might. Theterrible blows sent echoes down the staircase, but the door did notyield, nor the lock either. Was the door of iron and the lock ofgranite? she asked herself. Then she heard a strange, sudden noisebehind her. She turned and looked. The dead negro had fallen bodily fromhis pedestal to the floor, with a dull, heavy thud. She did not desist, but struck the oaken planks again and again with all her strength. Thenher arms grew numb and she dropped the club. It was all in vain. Keyorkhad locked her in and had taken the Wanderer away. 

She went back to her seat and fell into an attitude of despair. Thereaction from the great physical efforts she had made overcame her. Itseemed to her that Keyork's only reason for taking him away must be thathe was dead. Her head throbbed and her eyes began to burn. The greatpassion had its will of her and stabbed her through and through withsuch pain as she had never dreamed of. The horror of it all was too deepfor tears, and tears were by nature very far from her eyes at all times. She pressed her hands to her breast and rocked herself gently backwardsand forwards. There was no reason left in her. To her there was noreason left in anything if he were gone. And if Keyork Arabian could notcure him, who could? She knew now what that old prophecy had meant, when they had told her that love would come but once, and that thechief danger of her life lay in a mistake on that decisive day. Love hadindeed come upon her like a whirlwind, he had flashed upon her likethe lightning, she had tried to grasp him and keep him, and he was goneagain--for ever. Gone through her own fault, through her senseless follyin trying to do by art what love would have done for himself. Blind, insensate, mad! She cursed herself with unholy curses, and her beautifulface was strained and distorted. With unconscious fingers she tore ather heavy hair until it fell about her like a curtain. In the ragingthirst of a great grief for tears that would not flow she beat herbosom, she beat her face, she struck with her white forehead the heavytable before her, she grasped her own throat, as though she would tearthe life out of herself. Then again her head fell forward and her bodyswayed regularly to and fro, and low words broke fiercely from hertrembling lips now and then, bitter words of a wild, strong language inwhich it is easier to curse than to bless. As the sudden love that hadin a few hours taken such complete possession of her was boundless, soits consequences were illimitable. In a nature strange to fear, the fearfor another wrought a fearful revolution. Her anger against herself wasas terrible as her fear for him she loved was paralysing. The instinctto act, the terror lest it should be too late, the impossibility ofacting at all so long as she was imprisoned in the room, all three cameover her at once. 

The mechanical effort of rocking her body from side to side brought norest; the blow she struck upon her breast in her frenzy she felt no morethan the oaken door had felt those she had dealt it with the club. Shecould not find even the soothing antidote of bodily pain for her intensemoral suffering. Again the time passed without her knowing or guessingof its passage. 

Driven to desperation she sprang at last from her seat and cried aloud. 

"I would give my soul to know that he is safe!"

The words had not died away when a low groan passed, as it were, roundthe room. The sound was distinctly that of a human voice, but it seemedto come from all sides at once. Unorna stood still and listened. 

"Who is in this room?" she asked in loud clear tones. 

Not a breath stirred. She glanced from one specimen to another, asthough suspecting that among the dead some living being had taken adisguise. But she knew them all. There was nothing new to her there. Shewas not afraid. Her passion returned. 

"My soul!--yes!" she cried again, leaning heavily on the table, "I wouldgive it if I could know, and it would be little enough!"

Again that awful sound filled the room, and rose now almost to a wailand died away. 

Unorna's brow flushed angrily. In the direct line of her vision stoodthe head of the Malayan woman, its soft, embalmed eyes fixed on hers. 

"If there are people hidden here, " cried Unorna fiercely, "let them showthemselves! let them face me! I say it again--I would give my immortalsoul!"

This time Unorna saw as well as heard. The groan came, and the wailfollowed it and rose to a shriek that deafened her. And she saw howthe face of the Malayan woman changed; she saw it move in the brightlamp-light, she saw the mouth open. Horrified, she looked away. Her eyesfell upon the squatting savages--their heads were all turned towardsher, she was sure that she could see their shrunken chests heave as theytook breath to utter that terrible cry again and again; even the fallenbody of the African stirred on the floor, not five paces from her. Wouldtheir shrieking never stop? All of them--every one--even to the whiteskulls high up in the case; not one skeleton, not one dead body that didnot mouth at her and scream and moan and scream again. 

Unorna covered her ears with her hands to shut out the hideous, unearthly noise. She closed her eyes lest she should see those deadthings move. Then came another noise. Were they descending from theirpedestals and cases and marching upon her, a heavy-footed company ofcorpses?

Fearless to the last, she dropped her hands and opened her eyes. 

"In spite of you all, " she cried defiantly, "I will give my soul to havehim safe!"

Something was close to her. She turned and saw Keyork Arabian at herelbow. There was an odd smile on his usually unexpressive face. 

"Then give me that soul of yours, if you please, " he said. "He is quitesafe and peacefully asleep. You must have grown a little nervous while Iwas away. "

CHAPTER X

Unorna let herself sink into a chair. She stared almost vacantly atKeyork, then glanced uneasily at the motionless specimens, then staredat him again. 

"Yes, " she said at last. "Perhaps I was a little nervous. Why did youlock me in? I would have gone with you. I would have helped you. "

"An accident--quite an accident, " answered Keyork, divesting himself ofhis fur coat. "The lock is a peculiar one, and in my hurry I forgot toshow you the trick of it. "

"I tried to get out, " said Unorna with a forced laugh. "I tried tobreak the door down with a club. I am afraid I have hurt one of yourspecimens. "

She looked about the room. Everything was in its usual position, exceptthe body of the African. She was quite sure that when she had head thatunearthly cry, the dead faces had all been turned towards her. 

"It is no matter, " replied Keyork in a tone of indifference which wasgenuine. "I wish somebody would take my collection off my hands. Ishould have room to walk about without elbowing a failure at everystep. "

"I wish you would bury them all, " suggested Unorna, with a slightshudder. 

Keyork looked at her keenly. 

"Do you mean to say that those dead things frightened you?" he askedincredulously. 

"No; I do not. I am not easily frightened. But something oddhappened--the second strange thing that has happened this evening. Isthere any one concealed in this room?"

"Not a rat--much less a human being. Rats dislike creosote and corrosivesublimate, and as for human beings----"

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

"Then I have been dreaming, " said Unorna, attempting to look relieved. "Tell me about him. Where is he?"

"In bed--at his hotel. He will be perfectly well to-morrow. "

"Did he wake?" she asked anxiously. 

"Yes. We talked together. "

"And he was in his right mind?"

"Apparently. But he seems to have forgotten something. "

"Forgotten? What? That I had made him sleep?"

"Yes. He had forgotten that too. "

"In Heaven's name, Keyork, tell me what you mean! Do not keep me--"

"How impatient women are!" exclaimed Keyork with exasperating calm. "What is it that you most want him to forget?"

"You cannot mean----"

"I can, and I do. He has forgotten Beatrice. For a witch--well, you area very remarkable one, Unorna. As a woman of business----" He shook hishead. 

"What do you mean, this time? What did you say?" Her questions came ina strained tone and she seemed to have difficulty in concentrating herattention, or in controlling her emotions, or both. 

"You paid a large price for the information, " observed Keyork. 

"What price? What are you speaking of? I do not understand. "

"Your soul, " he answered, with a laugh. "That was what you offered toany one who would tell you that the Wanderer was safe. I immediatelyclosed with your offer. It was an excellent one for me. "

Unorna tapped the table impatiently. 

"It is odd that a man of your learning should never be serious, " shesaid. 

"I supposed that you were serious, " he answered. "Besides, a bargainis a bargain, and there were numerous witnesses to the transaction, " headded, looking round the room at his dead specimens. 

Unorna tried to laugh with him. 

"Do you know, I was so nervous that I fancied all those creatures weregroaning and shrieking and gibbering at me, when you came in. "

"Very likely they were, " said Keyork Arabian, his small eyes twinkling. 

"And I imagined that the Malayan woman opened her mouth to scream, andthat the Peruvian savages turned their heads; it was very strange--atfirst they groaned, and then they wailed, and then they howled andshrieked at me. "

"Under the circumstances, that is not extraordinary. "

Unorna stared at him rather angrily. He was jesting, of course, and shehad been dreaming, or had been so overwrought by excitement as to havebeen made the victim of a vivid hallucination. Nevertheless there wassomething disagreeable in the matter-of-fact gravity of his jest. 

"I am tired of your kind of wit, " she said. 

"The kind of wit which is called wisdom is said to be fatiguing, " heretorted. 

"I wish you would give me an opportunity of being wearied in that way. "

"Begin by opening your eyes to facts, then. It is you who are tryingto jest. It is I who am in earnest. Did you, or did you not, offer yoursoul for a certain piece of information? Did you, or did you not, hearthose dead things moan and cry? Did you, or did you not, see them move?"

"How absurd!" cried Unorna. "You might as well ask whether, when oneis giddy, the room is really going round? Is there any practicaldifference, so far as sensation goes, between a mummy and a block ofwood?"

"That, my dear lady, is precisely what we do not know, and what we mostwish to know. Death is not the change which takes place at a momentwhich is generally clearly defined, when the heart stops beating, andthe eye turns white, and the face changes colour. Death comes some timeafter that, and we do not know exactly when. It varies very much indifferent individuals. You can only define it as the total and finalcessation of perception and apperception, both functions depending onthe nerves. In ordinary cases Nature begins of herself to destroy thenerves by a sure process. But how do you know what happens when decayis not only arrested but prevented before it has begun? How can youforetell what may happen when a skilful hand has restored the tissues ofthe body to their original flexibility, or preserved them in the statein which they were last sensitive?"

"Nothing can ever make me believe that a mummy can suddenly hear andunderstand, " said Unorna. "Much less that it can move and producea sound. I know that the idea has possessed you for many years, butnothing will make me believe it possible. "

"Nothing?"

"Nothing short of seeing and hearing. "

"But you have seen and heard. "

"I was dreaming. "

"When you offered your soul?"

"Not then, perhaps. I was only mad then. "

"And on the ground of temporary insanity you would repudiate thebargain?"

Unorna shrugged her shoulders impatiently and did not answer. Keyorkrelinquished the fencing. 

"It is of no importance, " he said, changing his tone. "Your dream--orwhatever it was--seems to have been the second of your two experiences. You said there were two, did you not? What was the first?"

Unorna sat silent for some minutes, as though collecting her thoughts. Keyork, who never could have enough light, busied himself with anotherlamp. The room was now brighter than it generally was in the daytime. 

Unorna watched him. She did not want to make confidences to him, and yetshe felt irresistibly impelled to do so. He was a strange compound ofwisdom and levity, in her opinion, and his light-hearted moods werethose which she most resented. She was never sure whether he was inreality tactless, or frankly brutal. She inclined to the latter view ofhis character, because he always showed such masterly skill in excusinghimself when he had gone too far. Neither his wisdom nor his love ofjesting explained to her the powerful attraction he exercised over herwhole nature, and of which she was, in a manner, ashamed. She couldquarrel with him as often as they met, and yet she could not help beingalways glad to meet him again. She could not admit that she liked himbecause she dominated him; on the contrary, he was the only person shehad ever met over whom she had no influence whatever, who did as hepleased without consulting her, and who laughed at her mysterious powerso far as he himself was concerned. Nor was her liking founded upon anyconsciousness of obligation. If he had helped her to the best of hisability in the great experiment, it was also clear enough that he hadthe strongest personal interest in doing so. He loved life with a madpassion for its own sake, and the only object of his study was to finda means of living longer than other men. All the aims and desires andcomplex reasonings of his being tended to this simple expression--thewish to live. To what idolatrous self-worship Keyork Arabian might becapable of descending, if he ever succeeded in eliminating death fromthe equation of his immediate future, it was impossible to say. Thewisdom of ages bids us beware of the man of one idea. He is to be fearedfor his ruthlessness, for his concentration, for the singular strengthhe has acquired in the centralization of his intellectual power, andbecause he has welded, as it were, the rough metal of many passions andof many talents into a single deadly weapon which he wields for a singlepurpose. Herein lay, perhaps, the secret of Unorna's undefined fear ofKeyork and of her still less definable liking for him. 

She leaned one elbow on the table and shaded her eyes from the brilliantlight. 

"I do not know why I should tell you, " she said at last. "You will onlylaugh at me, and then I shall be angry, and we shall quarrel as usual. "

"I may be of use, " suggested the little man gravely. "Besides, I havemade up my mind never to quarrel with you again, Unorna. "

"You are wise, my dear friend. It does no good. As for your being of usein this case, the most I can hope is that you may find me an explanationof something I cannot understand. "

"I am good at that. I am particularly good at explanations--and, generally, at all _post facto_ wisdom. "

"Keyork, do you believe that the souls of the dead can come back and bevisible to us?"

Keyork Arabian was silent for a few seconds. 

"I know nothing about it, " he answered. 

"But what do you think?"

"Nothing. Either it is possible, or it is not, and until the oneproposition or the other is proved I suspend my judgment. Have you seena ghost?"

"I do not know. I have seen something----" She stopped, as though therecollections were unpleasant. 

"Then" said Keyork, "the probability is that you saw a living person. Shall I sum up the question of ghosts for you?"

"I wish you would, in some way that I can understand. "

"We are, then, in precisely the same position with regard to the beliefin ghosts which we occupy towards such questions as the abolition ofdeath. The argument in both cases is inductive and all but conclusive. We do not know of any case, in the two hundred generations of men, moreor less, with whose history we are in some degree acquainted, of anyindividual who has escaped death. We conclude that all men must die. Similarly, we do not know certainly--not from real, irrefutable evidenceat least--that the soul of any man or woman dead has ever returnedvisibly to earth. We conclude, therefore, that none ever will. Thereis a difference in the two cases, which throws a slight balance ofprobability on the side of the ghost. Many persons have asserted thatthey have seen ghosts, though none have ever asserted that men do notdie. For my own part, I have had a very wide, practical, and intimateacquaintance with dead people--sometimes in very queer places--but Ihave never seen anything even faintly suggestive of a ghost. Therefore, my dear lady, I advise you to take it for granted that you have seen aliving person. "

"I never shivered with cold and felt my hair rise upon my head at thesight of any living thing, " said Unorna dreamily, and still shading hereyes with her hand. 

"But might you not feel that if you chanced to see some one whom youparticularly disliked?" asked Keyork, with a gentle laugh. 

"Disliked?" repeated Unorna in a harsh voice. She changed her positionand looked at him. "Yes, perhaps that is possible. I had not thought ofthat. And yet--I would rather it had been a ghost. "

"More interesting, certainly, and more novel, " observed Keyork, slowlypolishing his smooth cranium with the palm of his hand. His head, andthe perfect hemisphere of his nose, reflected the light like ivory ballsof different sizes. 

"I was standing before him, " said Unorna. "The place was lonely andit was already night. The stars shone on the snow, and I could seedistinctly. Then she--that woman--passed softly between us. He criedout, calling her by name, and then fell forward. After that, the womanwas gone. What was it that I saw?"

"You are quite sure that it was not really a woman?"

"Would a woman, and of all women that one, have come and gone without aword?"

"Not unless she is a very singularly reticent person, " answered Keyork, with a laugh. "But you need not go so far as the ghost theory for anexplanation. You were hypnotised, my dear friend, and he made you seeher. That is as simple as anything need be. "

"But that is impossible, because----" Unorna stopped and changed colour. 

"Because you had hypnotised him already, " suggested Keyork gravely. 

"The thing is not possible, " Unorna repeated, looking away from him. 

"I believe it to be the only natural explanation. You had made himsleep. You tried to force his mind to something contrary to its firmestbeliefs. I have seen you do it. He is a strong subject. His mindrebelled, yielded, then made a final and desperate effort, and thencollapsed. That effort was so terrible that it momentarily forced yourwill back upon itself, and impressed his vision on your sight. There areno ghosts, my dear colleague. There are only souls and bodies. If thesoul can be defined as anything it can be defined as Pure Being in theMode of Individuality but quite removed from the Mode of Matter. As forthe body--well, there it is before you, in a variety of shapes, and invarious states of preservation, as incapable of producing a ghost asa picture or a statue. You are altogether in a very nervous conditionto-day. It is really quite indifferent whether that good lady be aliveor dead. "

"Indifferent!" exclaimed Unorna fiercely. Then she was silent. 

"Indifferent to the validity of the theory. If she is dead, you did notsee her ghost, and if she is alive you did not see her body, because, if she had been there in the flesh, she would have entered into anexplanation--to say the least. Hypnosis will explain anything andeverything, without causing you a moment's anxiety for the future. "

"Then I did not hear shrieks and moans, nor see your specimens movingwhen I was here along just now?"

"Certainly not! Hypnosis again. Auto-hypnosis this time. You shouldreally be less nervous. You probably stared at the lamp withoutrealising the fact. You know that any shining object affects you inthat way, if you are not careful. It is a very bright lamp, too. Instantaneous effect--bodies appear to move and you hear unearthlyyells--you offer your soul for sale and I buy it, appearing in the nickof time? If your condition had lasted ten seconds longer you would havetaken me for his majesty and lived, in imagination, through a dozenyears or so of sulphurous purgatorial treatment under my personalsupervision, to wake up and find yourself unscorched--and unredeemed, asever. "

"You are a most comforting person, Keyork, " said Unorna, with a faintsmile. "I only wish I could believe everything you tell me. "

"You must either believe me or renounce all claim to intelligence, "answered the little man, climbing from his chair and sitting upon thetable at her elbow. His short, sturdy legs swung at a considerableheight above the floor, and he planted his hands firmly upon the boardon either side of him. The attitude was that of an idle boy, and wasso oddly out of keeping with his age and expression that Unorna almostlaughed as she looked at him. 

"At all events, " he continued, "you cannot doubt my absolute sincerity. You come to me for an explanation. I give you the only sensible one thatexists, and the only one which can have a really sedative effect uponyour excitement. Of course, if you have any especial object inbelieving in ghosts--if it affords you any great and lasting pleasure toassociate, in imagination, with spectres, wraiths, and airily-maliciousshadows, I will not cross your fancy. To a person of solid nervesa banshee may be an entertaining companion, and an apparition in awell-worn winding-sheet may be a pretty toy. For all I know, it may bea delight to you to find your hair standing on end at the unexpectedappearance of a dead woman in a black cloak between you and the personwith whom you are engaged in animated conversation. All very well, asa mere pastime, I say. But if you find that you are reaching a point onwhich your judgment is clouded, you had better shut up the magic lanternand take the rational view of the case. "

"Perhaps you are right. "

"Will you allow me to say something very frank, Unorna?" asked Keyorkwith unusual diffidence. 

"If you can manage to be frank without being brutal. "

"I will be short, at all events. It is this. I think you are becomingsuperstitious. " He watched her closely to see what effect the speechwould produce. She looked up quickly. 

"Am I? What is superstition?"

"Gratuitous belief in things not proved. "

"I expected a different definition from you. "

"What did you expect me to say?"

"That superstition is belief. "

"I am not a heathen, " observed Keyork sanctimoniously. 

"Far from it, " laughed Unorna. "I have heard that devils believe andtremble. "

"And you class me with those interesting things, my dear friend?"

"Sometimes: when I am angry with you. "

"Two or three times a day, then? Not more than that?" inquired the sage, swinging his heels, and staring at the rows of skulls in the background. 

"Whenever we quarrel. It is easy for you to count the occasions. "

"Easy, but endless. Seriously, Unorna, I am not the devil. I can proveit to you conclusively on theological grounds. "

"Can you? They say that his majesty is a lawyer, and a successful one, in good practice. "

"What caused Satan's fall? Pride. Then pride is his chiefcharacteristic. Am I proud, Unorna? The question is absurd, I havenothing to be proud of--a little old man with a gray beard, of whomnobody ever heard anything remarkable. No one ever accused me of pride. How could I be proud of anything? Except of your acquaintance, my dearlady, " he added gallantly, laying his hand on his heart, and leaningtowards her as he sat. 

Unorna laughed at the speech, and threw back her dishevelled hair with agraceful gesture. Keyork paused. 

"You are very beautiful, " he said thoughtfully, gazing at her face andat the red gold lights that played in the tangled tresses. 

"Worse and worse!" she exclaimed, still laughing. "Are you going torepeat the comedy you played so well this afternoon, and make love to meagain?"

"If you like. But I do not need to win your affections now. "

"Why not?"

"Have I not bought your soul, with everything in it, like a furnishedhouse?" he asked merrily. 

"Then you are the devil after all?"

"Or an angel. Why should the evil one have a monopoly in thesoul-market? But you remind me of my argument. You would have distractedDemosthenes in the heat of a peroration, or Socrates in the midst of hisdefence, if you had flashed that hair of yours before their old eyes. You have almost taken the life out of my argument. I was going to saythat my peculiarity is not less exclusive than Lucifer's, though ittakes a different turn. I was going to confess with the utmost franknessand the most sincere truth that my only crime against Heaven is a mostperfect, unswerving, devotional love for my own particular Self. In thatattachment I have never wavered yet--but I really cannot say what maybecome of Keyork Arabian if he looks at you much longer. "

"He might become a human being, " suggested Unorna. 

"How can you be so cruel as to suggest such a horrible possibility?"cried the gnome with a shudder, either real or extremely well feigned. 

"You are betraying yourself, Keyork. You must control your feelingsbetter, or I shall find out the truth about you. "

He glanced keenly at her, and was silent for a while. Unorna rose slowlyto her feet, and standing beside him, began to twist her hair into agreat coil upon her head. 

"What made you let it down?" asked Keyork with some curiosity, as hewatched her. 

"I hardly know, " she answered, still busy with the braids. "I wasnervous, I suppose, as you say, and so it got loose and came down. "

"Nervous about our friend?"

She did not reply, but turned from him with a shake of the head and tookup her fur mantle. 

"You are not going?" said Keyork quietly, in a tone of conviction. 

She started slightly, dropped the sable, and sat down again. 

"No, " she said, "I am not going yet. I do not know what made me take mycloak. "

"You have really no cause for nervousness now that it is all over, "remarked the sage, who had not descended from his perch on the table. "He is very well. It is one of those cases which are interesting asbeing new, or at least only partially investigated. We may as well speakin confidence, Unorna, for we really understand each other. Do you notthink so?"

"That depends on what you have to say. "

"Not much--nothing that ought to offend you. You must consider, mydear, " he said, assuming an admirably paternal tone, "that I might beyour father, and that I have your welfare very much at heart, as well asyour happiness. You love this man--no, do not be angry, do not interruptme. You could not do better for yourself, nor for him. I knew him yearsago. He is a grand man--the sort of man I would like to be. Good. Youfind him suffering from a delusion, or a memory, whichever it be. Notonly is this delusion--let us call it so--ruining his happiness andundermining his strength, but so long as it endures, it also completelyexcludes the possibility of his feeling for you what you feel for him. Your own interest coincides exactly with the promptings of real, humancharity. And yours is in reality a charitable nature, dear Unorna, though you are sometimes a little hasty with poor old Keyork. Goodagain. You, being moved by a desire for this man's welfare, most kindlyand wisely take steps to cure him of his madness. The delusion isstrong, but your will is stronger. The delusion yields after a violentstruggle during which it has even impressed itself upon your own senses. The patient is brought home, properly cared for, and disposed torest. Then he wakes, apparently of his own accord, and behold! he iscompletely cured. Everything has been successful, everything is perfect, everything has followed the usual course of such mental cures by meansof hypnosis. The only thing I do not understand is the waking. That isthe only thing which makes me uneasy for the future, until I can see itproperly explained. He had no right to wake without your suggestion, ifhe was still in the hypnotic state; and if he had already come out ofthe hypnotic state by a natural reaction, it is to be feared that thecure may not be permanent. "

Unorna had listened attentively, as she always did when Keyork deliveredhimself of a serious opinion upon a psychiatric case. Her eyes gleamedwith satisfaction as he finished. 

"If that is all that troubles you, " she said, "you may set your mindat rest. After he had fallen, and while the watchman was getting thecarriage, I repeated my suggestion and ordered him to wake without painin an hour. "

"Perfect! Splendid!" cried Keyork, clapping his hands loudly together. "I did you an injustice, my dear Unorna. You are not so nervous as Ithought, since you forgot nothing. What a woman! Ghost-proof, and ableto think connectedly even at such a moment! But tell me, did you nottake the opportunity of suggesting something else?" His eyes twinkledmerrily, as he asked the question. 

"What do you mean?" inquired Unorna, with sudden coldness. 

"Oh, nothing so serious as you seem to think. I was only wonderingwhether a suggestion of reciprocation might not have been wise. "

She faced him fiercely. 

"Hold your peace, Keyork Arabian!" she cried. 

"Why?" he asked with a bland smile, swinging his little legs andstroking his long beard. 

"There is a limit! Must you for ever be trying to suggest, and tryingto guide me in everything I do? It is intolerable! I can hardly call mysoul my own!"

"Hardly, considering my recent acquisition of it, " returned Keyorkcalmly. 

"That wretched jest is threadbare. "

"A jest! Wretched? And threadbare, too? Poor Keyork! His wit is failingat last. "

He shook his head in mock melancholy over his supposed intellectualdotage. Unorna turned away, this time with the determination to leavehim. 

"I am sorry if I have offended you, " he said, very meekly. "Was what Isaid so very unpardonable?"

"If ignorance is unpardonable, as you always say, then your speechis past forgiveness, " said Unorna, relenting by force of habit, butgathering her fur around her. "If you know anything of women--"

"Which I do not, " observed the gnome in a low-toned interruption. 

"Which you do not--you would know how much such love as you advise me tomanufacture by force of suggestion could be worth in a woman's eyes. Youwould know that a woman will be loved for herself, for her beauty, forher wit, for her virtues, for her faults, for her own love, if you will, and by a man conscious of all his actions and free of his heart; not bya mere patient reduced to the proper state of sentiment by a trick ofhypnotism, or psychiatry, or of whatever you choose to call the effectof this power of mine which neither you, nor I, nor any one can explain. I will be loved freely, for myself, or not at all. "

"I see, I see, " said Keyork thoughtfully, "something in the way IsraelKafka loves you. "

"Yes, as Israel Kafka loves me, I am not afraid to say it. As he lovesme, of his own free will, and to his own destruction--as I should haveloved him, had it been so fated. "

"So you are a fatalist, Unorna, " observed her companion, still strokingand twisting his beard. "It is strange that we should differ upon somany fundamental questions, you and I, and yet be such good friends. Isit not?"

"The strangest thing of all is that I should submit to your exasperatingways as I do. "

"It does not strike me that it is I who am quarrelling this time, " saidKeyork. 

"I confess, I would almost prefer that to your imperturbable coolness. What is this new phase? You used not to be like this. You are planningsome wickedness. I am sure of it. "

"And that is all the credit I get for keeping my temper! Did I not say awhile ago that I would never quarrel with you again?"

"You said so, but--"

"But you did not expect me to keep my word, " said Keyork, slipping fromhis seat on the table with considerable agility and suddenly standingclose before her. "And do you not yet know that when I say a thing I doit, and that when I have got a thing I keep it?"

"So far as the latter point is concerned, I have nothing to say. But youneed not be so terribly impressive; and unless you are going to breakyour word, by which you seem to set such store, and quarrel with me, youneed not look at me so fiercely. "

Keyork suddenly let his voice drop to its deepest and most vibratingkey. 

"I only want you to remember this, " he said. "You are not an ordinarywoman, as I am not an ordinary man, and the experiment we are makingtogether is an altogether extraordinary one. I have told you the truth. I care for nothing but my individual self, and I seek nothing but theprolongation of life. If you endanger the success of the great trialagain, as you did to-day, and if it fails, I will never forgive you. You will make an enemy of me, and you will regret it while you live, and longer than that, perhaps. So long as you keep the compact thereis nothing I will not do to help you--nothing within the bounds of yourimagination. And I can do much. Do you understand?"

"I understand that you are afraid of losing my help. "

"That is it--of losing your help. I am not afraid of losing you--in theend. "

Unorna smiled rather scornfully at first, as she looked down upon thelittle man's strange face and gazed fearlessly into his eyes. But as shelooked, the smile faded, and the colour slowly sank from her face, until she was very pale. And as she felt herself losing courage beforesomething which she could not understand, Keyork's eyes grew brighterand brighter till they glowed like drops of molten metal. A sound as ofmany voices wailing in agony rose and trembled and quavered in the air. With a wild cry, Unorna pressed her hands to her ears and fled towardsthe entrance. 

"You are very nervous to-night, " observed Keyork, as he opened the door. 

Then he went silently down the stairs by her side and helped her intothe carriage, which had been waiting since his return. 

CHAPTER XI

A month had passed since the day on which Unorna had first seen theWanderer, and since the evening when she had sat so long in conversationwith Keyork Arabian. The snow lay heavily on all the rolling moorlandabout Prague, covering everything up to the very gates of the blackcity; and within, all things were as hard and dark and frozen as ever. The sun was still the sun, no doubt, high above the mist and the gloomwhich he had no power to pierce, but no man could say that he had seenhim in that month. At long intervals indeed, a faint rose-coloured glowtouched the high walls of the Hradschin and transfigured for an instantthe short spires of the unfinished cathedral, hundreds of feet abovethe icebound river and the sepulchral capital; sometimes, in the dimafternoons, a little gold filtered through the heavy air and tinged thesnow-steeples of the Teyn Kirche, and yellowed the stately tower ofthe town hall; but that was all, so far as the moving throngs of silentbeings that filled the streets could see. The very air men breathedseemed to be stiffening with damp cold. For that is not the gloriouswinter of our own dear north, where the whole earth is a jewel ofgleaming crystals hung between two heavens, between the heaven of theday, and the heaven of the night, beautiful alike in sunshine and instarlight, under the rays of the moon, at evening and again at dawn;where the pines and hemlocks are as forests of plumes powdered thickwith dust of silver; where the black ice rings like a deep-toned bellbeneath the heel of the sweeping skate--the ice that you may follow ahundred miles if you have breath and strength; where the harshest voicerings musically among the icicles and the snow-laden boughs; where thequick jingle of sleigh bells far off on the smooth, deep track bringsto the listener the vision of our own merry Father Christmas, with snowybeard, and apple cheeks, and peaked fur cap, and mighty gauntlets, and hampers and sacks full of toys and good things and true northernjollity; where all is young and fresh and free; where eyes are brightand cheeks are red, and hands are strong and hearts are brave; wherechildren laugh and tumble in the diamond dust of the dry, driven snow;where men and women know what happiness can mean; where the old are asthe giant pines, green, silver-crowned landmarks in the human forest, rather than as dried, twisted, sapless trees fit only to be cut down andburned, in that dear north to which our hearts and memories still turnfor refreshment, under the Indian suns, and out of the hot splendour ofcalm southern seas. The winter of the black city that spans the frozenMoldau is the winter of the grave, dim as a perpetual afternoon in aland where no lotus ever grew, cold with the unspeakable frigidness of areeking air that thickens as oil but will not be frozen, melancholy as astony island of death in a lifeless sea. 

A month had gone by, and in that time the love that had so suddenlytaken root in Unorna's heart had grown to great proportions as love willwhen, being strong and real, it is thwarted and repulsed at every turn. For she was not loved. She had destroyed the idol and rooted out thememory of it, but she could not take its place. She had spoken the truthwhen she had told Keyork that she would be loved for herself, or not atall, and that she would use neither her secret arts nor her rare giftsto manufacture a semblance when she longed for a reality. 

Almost daily she saw him. As in a dream he came to her and sat by herside, hour after hour, talking of many things, calm, apparently, andsatisfied in her society, but strangely apathetic and indifferent. Never once in those many days had she seen his pale face light up withpleasure, nor his deep eyes show a gleam of interest; never had the toneof his voice been disturbed in its even monotony; never had the touch ofhis hand, when they met and parted, felt the communication of the thrillthat ran through hers. 

It was very bitter, for Unorna was proud with the scarcely reasoningpride of a lawless, highly gifted nature, accustomed to be obeyed andlittle used to bending under any influence. She brought all the skillshe could command to her assistance; she talked to him, she told him ofherself, she sought his confidence, she consulted him on every matter, she attempted to fascinate his imagination with tales of a life whicheven he could never have seen; she even sang to him old songs andsnatches of wonderful melodies which, in her childhood, had stillsurvived the advancing wave of silence that has overwhelmed the Bohemianpeople within the memory of living man, bringing a change into the dailylife and temperament of a whole nation which is perhaps unparalleled inany history. He listened, he smiled, he showed a faint pleasure and agreat understanding in all these things, and he came back day afterday to talk and listen again. But that was all. She felt that she couldamuse him without charming him. 

And Unorna suffered terribly. Her cheek grew thinner and her eyesgleamed with sudden fires. She was restless, and her beautiful hands, from seeming to be carved in white marble, began to look as though theywere chiselled out of delicate transparent alabaster. She slept littleand thought much, and if she did not shed tears, it was because shewas too strong to weep for pain and too proud to weep from anger anddisappointment. And yet her resolution remained firm, for it was partand parcel of her inmost self, and was guarded by pride on the one handand an unalterable belief in fate on the other. 

To-day they sat together, as they had so often sat, among the flowersand the trees in the vast conservatory, she in her tall, carved chairand he upon a lower seat before her. They had been silent for someminutes. It was not yet noon, but it might have been early morning in asouthern island, so soft was the light, so freshly scented the air, sopeaceful the tinkle of the tiny fountain. Unorna's expression was sad, as she gazed in silence at the man she loved. There was something gonefrom his face, she thought, since she had first seen him, and it was tobring that something back that she would give her life and her soul ifshe could. 

Suddenly her lips moved and a sad melody trembled in the air. Unornasang, almost as though singing to herself. The Wanderer's deep eyes methers and he listened. 

 "When in life's heaviest hour Grief crowds upon the heart One wondrous prayer My memory repeats. 

 "The harmony of the living words Is full of strength to heal, There breathes in them a holy charm Past understanding. 

 "Then, as a burden from my soul, Doubt rolls away, And I believe--believe in tears, And all is light--so light!"

She ceased, and his eyes were still upon her, calm, thoughtful, dispassionate. The colour began to rise in her cheek. She looked downand tapped upon the carved arm of the chair with an impatient gesturefamiliar to her. 

"And what is that one prayer?" asked the Wanderer. "I knew the song longago, but I have never guessed what that magic prayer can be like. "

"It must be a woman's prayer; I cannot tell you what it is. "

"And are you so sad to-day, Unorna? What makes you sing that song?"

"Sad? No, I am not sad, " she answered with an effort. "But the wordsrose to my lips and so I sang. "

"They are pretty words, " said her companion, almost indifferently. "Andyou have a very beautiful voice, " he added thoughtfully. 

"Have I? I have been told so, sometimes. "

"Yes. I like to hear you sing, and talk, too. My life is a blank. I donot know what it would be without you. "

"I am little enough to--those who know me, " said Unorna, growing pale, and drawing a quick breath. 

"You cannot say that. You are not little to me. "

There was a long silence. He gazed at the plants, and his glancewandered from one to the other, as though he did not see them, beinglost in meditation. The voice had been calm and clear as ever, but itwas the first time he had ever said so much, and Unorna's heart stoodstill, half fire and half ice. She could not speak. 

"You are very much to me, " he said again, at last. "Since I have beenin this place a change has come over me. I seem to myself to be a manwithout an object, without so much as a real thought. Keyork tells methat there is something wanting, that the something is woman, and thatI ought to love. I cannot tell. I do not know what love is, and I neverknew. Perhaps it is the absence of it that makes me what I am--a bodyand an intelligence without a soul. Even the intelligence I begin todoubt. What sense has there ever been in all my wanderings? Why have Ibeen in every place, in every city? What went I forth to see? Not even areed shaken by the wind! I have spoken all languages, read thousands ofbooks, known men in every land--and for what? It is as though I had oncehad an object in it all, though I know that there was none. But I haverealised the worthlessness of my life since I have been here. Perhapsyou have shown it to me, or helped me to see it. I cannot tell. I askmyself again and again what it was all for, and I ask in vain. I amlonely, indeed, in the world, but it has been my own choice. I rememberthat I had friends once, when I was younger, but I cannot tell what hasbecome of one of them. They wearied me, perhaps, in those days, and theweariness drove me from my own home. For I have a home, Unorna, and Ifancy that when old age gets me at last I shall go there to die, in oneof those old towers by the northern sea. I was born there, and theremy mother died and my father, before I knew them; it is a sad place!Meanwhile, I may have thirty years, or forty, or even more to live. Shall I go on living this wandering, aimless life? And if not what shallI do? Love, says Keyork Arabian--who never loved anything but himself, but to whom that suffices, for it passes the love of woman!"

"That is true, indeed, " said Unorna in a low voice. 

"And what he says might be true also, if I were capable of loving. ButI feel that I am not. I am as incapable of that as of anything else. Iought to despise myself, and yet I do not. I am perfectly contented, andif I am not happy I at least do not realise what unhappiness means. Am Inot always of the same even temper?"

"Indeed you are. " She tried not to speak bitterly, but something in hertone struck him. 

"Ah, I see! You despise me a little for my apathy. Yes, you arequite right. Man is not made to turn idleness into a fine art, nor tomanufacture contentment out of his own culpable indifference! It isdespicable--and yet, here I am. "

"I never meant that, " cried Unorna with sudden heat. "Even if I had, what right have I to make myself the judge of your life?"

"The right of friendship, " answered the Wanderer very quietly. "You aremy best friend, Unorna. "

Unorna's anger rose within her. She remembered how in that very place, and but a month earlier, she had offered Israel Kafka her friendship, and it was as though a heavy retribution were now meted out to her forher cruelty on that day. She remembered his wrath and his passionatedenunciations of friendship, his scornful refusal, his savage attempt toconquer her will, his failure and his defeat. She remembered how she hadtaken her revenge, delivering him over in his sleep to Keyork Arabian'swill. She wished that, like him, she could escape from the wound of theword in a senseless lethargy of body and mind. She knew now what he hadsuffered, for she suffered it all herself. He, at least, had been freeto speak his mind, to rage and storm and struggle. She must sit stilland hide her agony, at the risk of losing all. She bit her white lipsand turned her head away, and was silent. 

"You are my best friend, " the Wanderer repeated in his calm voice, and every syllable pierced her like a glowing needle. "And does notfriendship give rights which ought to be used? If, as I think, Unorna, you look upon me as an idler, as a worthless being, as a man without asmuch as the shadow of a purpose in the world, it is but natural that youshould despise me a little, even though you may be very fond of me. Doyou not see that?"

Unorna stared at him with an odd expression for a moment. 

"Yes--I am fond of you!" she exclaimed, almost harshly. Then shelaughed. He seemed not to notice her tone. 

"I never knew what friendship was before, " he went on. "Of course, asI said, I had friends when I was little more than a boy, boys and youngmen like myself, and our friendship came to this, that we laughed, andfeasted and hunted together, and sometimes even quarrelled, and caringlittle, thought even less. But in those days there seemed to be nothingbetween that and love, and love I never understood, that I can remember. But friendship like ours, Unorna, was never dreamed of among us. Suchfriendship as this, when I often think that I receive all and givenothing in return. "

Again Unorna laughed, so strangely that the sound of her own voicestartled her. 

"Why do you laugh like that?" he asked. 

"Because what you say is so unjust to yourself, " she answered, nervouslyand scarcely seeing him where he sat. "You seem to think it is all onyour side. And yet, I just told you that I was fond of you. "

"I think it is a fondness greater than friendship that we feel for eachother, " he said, presently, thrusting the probe of a new hope into thetortured wound. 

"Yes?" she spoke faintly, with averted face. 

"Something more--a stronger tie, a closer bond. Unorna, do you believein the migration of the soul throughout ages, from one body to another?"

"Sometimes, " she succeeded in saying. 

"I do not believe in it, " he continued. "But I see well enough how menmay, since I have known you. We have grown so intimate in these fewweeks, we seem to understand each other so wholly, with so littleeffort, we spend such happy, peaceful hours together every day, thatI can almost fancy our two selves having been together through a wholelifetime in some former state, living together, thinking together, inseparable from birth, and full of an instinctive, mutualunderstanding. I do not know whether that seems an exaggeration to youor not. Has the same idea ever crossed your mind?"

She said something, or tried to say something, but the words wereinaudible; he interpreted them as expressive of assent, and went on, ina musing tone, as though talking quite as much to himself as to her. 

"And that is the reason why it seems as though we must be more thanfriends, though we have known each other so short a time. Perhaps it istoo much to say. "

He hesitated, and paused. Unorna breathed hard, not daring to think ofwhat might be coming next. He talked so calmly, in such an easy tone, it was impossible that he could be making love. She remembered thevibrations in his voice when, a month ago, he had told her his story. She remembered the inflection of the passionate cry he had uttered whenhe had seen the shadow of Beatrice stealing between them, she knew thering of his speech when he loved, for she had heard it. It was not therenow. And yet, the effort not to believe would have been too great forher strength. 

"Nothing that you could say would be--" she stopped herself--"would painme, " she added, desperately, in the attempt to complete the sentence. 

He looked somewhat surprised, and then smiled. 

"No. I shall never say anything, nor do anything, which could give youpain. What I meant was this. I feel towards you, and with you, as I canfancy a man might feel to a dear sister. Can you understand that?"

In spite of herself she started. He had but just said that he wouldnever give her pain. He did not guess what cruel wounds he wasinflicting now. 

"You are surprised, " he said, with intolerable self-possession. "Icannot wonder. I remember to have very often thought that there are fewforms of sentimentality more absurd than that which deceives a man intothe idea that he can with impunity play at being a brother to a youngand beautiful woman. I have always thought so, and I suppose that inwhatever remains of my indolent intelligence I think so still. Butintelligence is not always so reliable as instinct. I am not youngenough nor foolish enough either, to propose that we should sweareternal brother-and-sisterhood--or perhaps I am not old enough, who cantell? Yet I feel how perfectly safe it would be for either of us. "

The steel had been thrust home, and could go no farther. Unorna'sunquiet temper rose at his quiet declaration of his absolute security. The colour came again to her cheek, a little hotly, and though therewas a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke, yet her eyes flashedbeneath the drooping lids. 

"Are you sure it would be safe?" she asked. 

"For you, of course there can be no danger possible, " he said, inperfect simplicity of good faith. "For me--well, I have said it. Icannot imagine love coming near me in any shape, by degrees or unawares. It is a strange defect in my nature, but I am glad of it since it makesthis pleasant life possible. "

"And why should you suppose that there is no danger for me?" askedUnorna, with a quick glance and a silvery laugh. She was recovering herself-possession. 

"For you? Why should there be? How could there be? No woman ever lovedme, then why should you? Besides--there are a thousand reasons, onebetter than the other. "

"I confess I would be glad to hear a few of them, my friend. You weregood enough just now to call me young and beautiful. You are young too, and certainly not repulsive in appearance. You are gifted, you have ledan interesting life--indeed, I cannot help laughing when I think howmany reasons there are for my falling in love with you. But you are veryreassuring, you tell me there is no danger. I am willing to believe. "

"It is safe to do that, " answered the Wanderer with a smile, "unless youcan find at least one reason far stronger than those you give. Youngand passably good-looking men are not rare, and as for men of genius whohave led interesting lives, many thousands have been pointed out to me. Then why, by any conceivable chance, should your choice fall on me?"

"Perhaps because I am so fond of you already, " said Unorna, looking awaylest her eyes should betray what was so far beyond fondness. "They saythat the most enduring passions are either born in a single instant, or are the result of a treacherously increasing liking. Take the lattercase. Why is it impossible, for you or for me? We are slipping from mereliking into friendship, and for all I know we may some day fall headlongfrom friendship into love. It would be very foolish no doubt, but itseems to me quite possible. Do you not see it?"

The Wanderer laughed lightly. It was years since he had laughed, untilthis friendship had begun. 

"What can I say?" he asked. "If you, the woman, acknowledge yourselfvulnerable, how can I, the man, be so discourteous as to assure you thatI am proof? And yet, I feel that there is no danger for either of us. "

"You are still sure?"

"And if there were, what harm would be done?" he laughed again. "We haveno plighted word to break, and I, at least, am singularly heart free. The world would not come to an untimely end if we loved each other. Indeed, the world would have nothing to say about it. "

"To me, it would not, " said Unorna, looking down at her clasped hands. "But to you--what would the world say, if it learned that you were inlove with Unorna, that you were married to the Witch?"

"The world? What is the world to me, or what am I to it? What is myworld? If it is anything, it consists of a score of men and women whochance to be spending their allotted time on earth in that corner ofthe globe in which I was born, who saw me grow to manhood, and who mostinconsequently arrogate to themselves the privilege of criticising myactions, as they criticise each other's; who say loudly that this isright and that is wrong, and who will be gathered in due time to theirinsignificant fathers with their own insignificance thick upon them, asis meet and just. If that is the world I am not afraid of its judgmentsin the very improbable case of my falling in love with you. "

Unorna shook her head. There was a momentary relief in discussing theconsequences of a love not yet born in him. 

"That would not be all, " she said. "You have a country, you have a home, you have obligations--you have all those things which I have not. "

"And not one of those which you have. "

She glanced at him again, for there was a truth in the words which hurther. Love, at least, was hers in abundance, and he had it not. 

"How foolish it is to talk like this!" she exclaimed. "After all, whenpeople love, they care very little what the world says. If I loved anyone"--she tried to laugh carelessly--"I am sure I should be indifferentto everything or every one else. "

"I am sure you would be, " assented the Wanderer. 

"Why?" She turned rather suddenly upon him. "Why are you sure?"

"In the first place because you say so, and secondly because you havethe kind of nature which is above common opinion. "

"And what kind of nature may that be?"

"Enthusiastic, passionate, brave. "

"Have I so many good qualities?"

"I am always telling you so. "

"Does it give you pleasure to tell me what you think of me?"

"Does it pain you to hear it?" asked the Wanderer, somewhat surprised atthe uncertainty of her temper, and involuntarily curious as to the causeof the disturbance. 

"Sometimes it does, " Unorna answered. 

"I suppose I have grown awkward and tactless in my lonely life. You mustforgive me if I do not understand my mistake. But since I have annoyedyou, I am sorry for it. Perhaps you do not like such speeches becauseyou think I am flattering you and turning compliments. You are wrong ifyou think that. I am sincerely attached to you, and I admire you verymuch. May I not say as much as that?"

"Does it do any good to say it?"

"If I may speak of you at all I may express myself with pleasanttruths. "

"Truths are not always pleasant. Better not to speak of me at any time. "

"As you will, " answered the Wanderer bending his head as though insubmission to her commands. But he did not continue the conversation, and a long silence ensued. 

He wandered what was passing in her mind, and his reflections led to novery definite result. Even if the idea of her loving him had presenteditself to his intelligence he would have scouted it, partly on theground of its apparent improbability, and partly, perhaps, becausehe had of late grown really indolent, and would have resented anyoccurrence which threatened to disturb the peaceful, objectless courseof his days. He put down her quick changes of mood to sudden caprice, which he excused readily enough. 

"Why are you so silent?" Unorna asked, after a time. 

"I was thinking of you, " he answered, with a smile. "And since youforbade me to speak of you, I said nothing. "

"How literal you are!" she exclaimed impatiently. 

"I could see no figurative application of your words, " he retorted, beginning to be annoyed at her prolonged ill humour. 

"Perhaps there was none. "

"In that case--"

"Oh, do not argue! I detest argument in all shapes, and most of all whenI am expected to answer it. You cannot understand me--you never will--"She broke off suddenly and looked at him. 

She was angry with him, with herself, with everything, and in her angershe loved him tenfold better than before. Had he not been blinded by hisown absolute coldness he must have read her heart in the look she gavehim, for his eyes met hers. But he saw nothing. The glance had beeninvoluntary, but Unorna was too thoroughly a woman not to know all thatit had expressed and would have conveyed to the mind of any one notutterly incapable of love, all that it might have betrayed even to thisman who was her friend and talked of being her brother. She realisedwith terrible vividness the extent of her own passion and the appallingindifference of its objet. A wave of despair rose and swept over herheart. Her sight grew dim and she was conscious of sharp physical pain. She did not even attempt to speak, for she had no thoughts which couldtake the shape of words. She leaned back in her chair, and tried to drawher breath, closing her eyes, and wishing she were alone. 

"What is the matter?" asked the Wanderer, watching her in surprise. 

She did not answer. He rose and stood beside her, and lightly touchedher hand. 

"Are you ill?" he asked again. 

She pushed him away, almost roughly. 

"No, " she answered shortly. 

Then, all at once, as though repenting of her gesture, her hand soughthis again, pressed it hard for a moment, and let it fall. 

"It is nothing, " she said. "It will pass. Forgive me. "

"Did anything I said----" he began. 

"No, no; how absurd!"

"Shall I go. Yes, you would rather be alone----" he hesitated. 

"No--yes--yes, go away and come back later. It is the heat perhaps; isit not hot here?"

"I daresay, " he answered absently. 

He took her hand and then left her, wondering exceedingly over a matterwhich was of the simplest. 

It was some time before Unorna realised that he was gone. She hadsuffered a severe shock, not to be explained by any word or wordswhich he had spoken, as much as by the revelation of her own utterpowerlessness, of her total failure to touch his heart, but mostdirectly of all the consequence of a sincere passion which was assumingdangerous proportions and which threatened to sweep away even her pridein its irresistible course. 

She grew calmer when she found herself alone, but in a manner she grewalso more desperate. A resolution began to form itself in her mindwhich she would have despised and driven out of her thoughts a few hoursearlier; a resolution destined to lead to strange results. She began tothink of resorting once more to a means other than natural in order toinfluence the man she loved. 

In the first moments she had felt sure of herself, and the certaintythat the Wanderer had forgotten Beatrice as completely as though she hadnever existed had seemed to Unorna a complete triumph. With little or nocommon vanity she had nevertheless felt sure that the man must loveher for her own sake. She knew, when she thought of it, that she wasbeautiful, unlike other women, and born to charm all living things. She compared in her mind the powers she controlled at will, and theinfluence she exercised without effort over every one who came nearher. It had always seemed to her enough to wish in order to see therealisation of her wishes. But she had herself never understood howclosely the wish was allied with the despotic power of suggestion whichshe possessed. But in her love she had put a watch over her mysteriousstrength and had controlled it, saying that she would be loved forherself or not at all. She had been jealous of every glance, lest itshould produce a result not natural. She had waited to be won, insteadof trying to win. She had failed, and passion could be restrained nolonger. 

"What does it matter how, if only he is mine!" she exclaimed fiercely, as she rose from her carved chair an hour after he had left her. 

CHAPTER XII

Israel Kafka found himself seated in the corner of a comfortablecarriage with Keyork Arabian at his side. He opened his eyes quitenaturally, and after looking out of the window stretched himself asfar as the limits of the space would allow. He felt very weak and verytired. The bright colour had left his olive cheeks, his lips were paleand his eyes heavy. 

"Travelling is very tiring, " he said, glancing at Keyork's face. 

The old man rubbed his hands briskly and laughed. 

"I am as fresh as ever, " he answered. "It is true that I have thehappy faculty of sleeping when I get a chance and that no preoccupationdisturbs my appetite. "

Keyork Arabian was in a very cheerful frame of mind. He was consciousof having made a great stride towards the successful realisation of hisdream. Israel Kafka's ignorance, too, amused him, and gave him a freshand encouraging proof of Unorna's amazing powers. 

By a mere exercise of superior will this man, in the very prime of youthand strength, had been deprived of a month of his life. Thirty days weregone, as in the flash of a second, and with them was gone also somethingless easily replaced, or at least more certainly missed. In Kafka's mindthe passage of time was accounted for in a way which would haveseemed supernatural twenty years ago, but which at the present day isunderstood in practice if not in theory. For thirty days he had beenstationary in one place, almost motionless, an instrument in Keyork'sskilful hands, a mere reservoir of vitality upon which the sage hadruthlessly drawn to the fullest extent of its capacities. He had beenfed and tended in his unconsciousness, he had, unknown to himself, opened his eyes at regular intervals, and had absorbed through his earsa series of vivid impressions destined to disarm his suspicions, whenhe was at last allowed to wake and move about the world again. Withunfailing forethought Keyork had planned the details of a whole seriesof artificial reminiscences, and at the moment when Kafka came tohimself in the carriage the machinery of memory began to work as Keyorkhad intended that it should. 

Israel Kafka leaned back against the cushions and reviewed his lifeduring the past month. He remembered very well the afternoon when, after a stormy interview with Unorna, he had been persuaded by Keyork toaccompany the latter upon a rapid southward journey. He remembered howhe had hastily packed together a few necessaries for the expedition, while Keyork stood at his elbow advising him what to take and what toleave, with the sound good sense of an experienced traveller, and hecould almost repeat the words of the message he had scrawled on a sheetof paper at the last minute to explain his sudden absence from hislodging--for the people of the house had all been away when he waspacking his belongings. Then the hurry of the departure recalled itselfto him, the crowds of people at the Franz Josef station, the senseof rest in finding himself alone with Keyork in a compartment of theexpress train; after that he had slept during most of the journey, waking to find himself in a city of the snow-driven Tyrol. Withtolerable distinctness he remembered the sights he had seen, andfragments of conversation--then another departure, still southward, the crossing of the Alps, Italy, Venice--a dream of water and sun andbeautiful buildings, in which the varied conversational powers of hiscompanion found constant material. As a matter of fact the conversationwas what was most clearly impressed upon Kafka's mind, as he recalledthe rapid passage from one city to another, and realised how manyplaces he had visited in one short month. From Venice southwards, again, Florence, Rome, Naples, Sicily, by sea to Athens and on toConstantinople, familiar to him already from former visits--up theBosphorus, by the Black Sea to Varna, and then, again, a long period ofrestful sleep during the endless railway journey--Pesth, Vienna, rapidlyrevisited and back at last to Prague, to the cold and the gray snow andthe black sky. It was not strange, he thought, that his recollectionsof so many cities should be a little confused. A man would need a finememory to catalogue the myriad sights which such a trip offers to theeye, the innumerable sounds, familiar and unfamiliar, which strikethe ear, the countless sensations of comfort, discomfort, pleasure, annoyance and admiration, which occupy the nerves without intermission. There was something not wholly disagreeable in the hazy character of theretrospect, especially to a nature such as Kafka's, full of undevelopedartistic instincts and of a passionate love of all sensuous beauty, animate and inanimate. The gorgeous pictures rose one after the otherin his imagination, and satisfied a longing of which he felt that he hadbeen vaguely aware before beginning the journey. None of these lackedreality, any more than Keyork himself, thought it seemed strange to theyoung man that he should actually have seen so much in so short a time. 

But Keyork and Unorna understood their art and knew how much more easyit is to produce a fiction of continuity where an element of confusionis introduced by the multitude and variety of the quickly succeedingimpressions and almost destitute of incident. One occurrence, indeed, he remembered with extraordinary distinctness, and could have affirmedunder oath in all its details. It had taken place in Palermo. The heathad seemed intense by contrast with the bitter north he had left behind. Keyork had gone out and he had been alone in a strange hotel. His headswam in the stifling scirocco. He had sent for a local physician, andthe old-fashioned doctor had then and there taken blood from his arm. He had lost so much that he had fainted. The doctor had been gone whenKeyork returned, and the sage had been very angry, abusing in mostviolent terms the ignorance which could still apply such methods. IsraelKafka knew that the lancet had left a wound on his arm and that thescar was still visible. He remembered, too, that he had often felt tiredsince, and that Keyork had invariably reminded him of the circumstances, attributing to it the weariness from which he suffered, and indulgingeach time in fresh abuse of the benighted doctor. 

Very skilfully had the whole story been put together in all its minutestdetails, carefully thought out and written down in the form of ajournal before it had been impressed upon his sleeping mind with allthe tyrannic force of Unorna's strong will. And there was but littleprobability that Israel Kafka would ever learn what had actually beenhappening to him while he fancied that he had been travelling swiftlyfrom place to place. He could still wonder, indeed, that he shouldhave yielded so easily to Keyork's pressing invitation to accompany thelatter upon such an extraordinary flight, but he remembered then hislast interview with Unorna and it seemed almost natural that in hisdespair he should have chosen to go away. Not that his passion forthe woman was dead. Intentionally, or by an oversight, Unorna had nottouched upon the question of his love for her, in the course of herotherwise well-considered suggestions. Possibly she had believed thatthe statement she had forced from his lips was enough and that he wouldforget her without any further action on her part. Possibly, too, Unornawas indifferent and was content to let him suffer, believing that hisdevotion might still be turned to some practical use. However that maybe, when Israel Kafka opened his eyes in the carriage he still lovedher, though he was conscious that in his manner of loving a change hadtaken place, of which he was destined to realise the consequences beforeanother day had passed. 

When Keyork answered his first remark, he turned and looked at the oldman. 

"I suppose you are tougher than I, " he said, languidly. "You will hardlybelieve it, but I have been dozing already, here, in the carriage, sincewe left the station. "

"No harm in that. Sleep is a great restorative, " laughed Keyork. 

"Are you so glad to be in Prague again?" asked Kafka. "It is amelancholy place. But you laugh as though you actually liked the sightof the black houses and the gray snow and the silent people. "

"How can a place be melancholy? The seat of melancholy is the liver. Imagine a city with a liver--of brick and mortar, or stone and cement, a huge mass of masonry buried in its centre, like an enormous fetish, exercising a mysterious influence over the city's health--then you mayimagine a city as suffering from melancholy. "

"How absurd!"

"My dear boy, I rarely say absurd things, " answered Keyorkimperturbably. "Besides, as a matter of fact, there is nothing absurd. But you suggested rather a fantastic idea to my imagination. The brickliver is not a bad conception. Far down in the bowels of the earth, ina black cavern hollowed beneath the lowest foundations of the oldestchurch, the brick liver was built by the cunning magicians of old, tolast for ever, to purify the city's blood, to regulate the city's life, and in a measure to control its destinies by means of its passions. Afew wise men have handed down the knowledge of the brick liver to eachother from generation to generation, but the rest of the inhabitants areignorant of its existence. They alone know that every vicissitude ofthe city's condition is traceable to that source--its sadness, itsmerriment, its carnivals and its lents, its health and its disease, itsprosperity and the hideous plagues which at distant intervals kill onein ten of the population. Is it not a pretty thought?"

"I do not understand you, " said Kafka, wearily. 

"It is a very practical idea, " continued Keyork, amused with his ownfancies, "and it will yet be carried out. The great cities of thenext century will each have a liver of brick and mortar and iron andmachinery, a huge mechanical purifier. You smile! Ah, my dear boy, truthand phantasm are very much the same to you! You are too young. Howcan you be expected to care for the great problem of problems, for themighty question of prolonging life?"

Keyork laughed again, with a meaning in his laughter which escaped hiscompanion altogether. 

"How can you be expected to care?" he repeated. "And yet men used to saythat it was the duty of strong youth to support the trembling weaknessof feeble old age. "

His eyes twinkled with a diabolical mirth. 

"No, " said Kafka. "I do not care. Life is meant to be short. Life ismeant to be storm, broken with gleams of love's sunshine. Why prolongit? If it is unhappy you would only draw out the unhappiness to greaterlengths, and such joy as it has is joy only because it is quick, sudden, violent. I would concentrate a lifetime into an instant, if I could, and then die content in having suffered everything, enjoyed everything, dared everything in the flash of a great lightning between two totaldarknesses. But to drag on through slow sorrows, or to crawl through acentury of contentment--never! Better be mad, or asleep, and unconsciousof the time. "

"You are a very desperate person!" exclaimed Keyork. "If you had themanagement of this unstable world you would make it a very convulsiveand nervous place. We should all turn into flaming ephemerides, fluttering about the crater of a perpetually active volcano. I preferthe system of the brick liver. There is more durability in it. "

The carriage stopped before the door of Kafka's dwelling. Keyork got outwith him and stood upon the pavement while the porter took the slenderluggage into the house. He smiled as he glanced at the leathernportmanteau which was supposed to have made such a long journey whileit had in reality lain a whole month in a corner of Keyork's great roombehind a group of specimens. He had opened it once or twice in thattime, had disturbed the contents and had thrown in a few objects fromhis heterogeneous collection, as reminiscences of the places visitedin imagination by Kafka, and of the acquisition of which the latter wasonly assured in his sleeping state. They would constitute a tangibleproof of the journey's reality in case the suggestion proved lessthoroughly successful than was hoped, and Keyork prided himself uponthis supreme touch. 

"And now, " he said, taking Kafka's hand, "I would advise you to rest aslong as you can. I suppose that it must have been a fatiguing trip foryou, though I myself am as fresh as a May morning. There is nothingwrong with you, but you are tired. Repose, my dear boy, repose, andplenty of it. That infernal Sicilian doctor! I shall never forgive himfor bleeding you as he did. There is nothing so weakening. Good-bye--Ishall hardly see you again to-day, I fancy. "

"I cannot tell, " answered the young man absently. "But let me thankyou, " he added, with a sudden consciousness of obligation, "for yourpleasant company, and for making me go with you. I daresay it has doneme good, though I feel unaccountably tired--I feel almost old. "

His tired eyes and haggard face showed that this at least was noillusion. The fancied journey had added ten years to his age in thirtydays, and those who knew him best would have found it hard to recognisethe brilliantly vital personality of Israel Kafka in the pale andexhausted youth who painfully climbed the stairs with unsteady steps, panting for breath and clutching at the hand-rail for support. 

"He will not die this time, " remarked Keyork Arabian to himself, as hesent the carriage away and began to walk towards his own home. "Notthis time. But it was a sharp strain, and it would not be safe to try itagain. "

He thrust his gloved hands into the pockets of his fur coat, so that thestick he held stood upright against his shoulder in a rather militaryfashion. The fur cap sat a little to one side on his strange head, hiseyes twinkled, his long white beard waved in the cold wind, and hiswhole appearance was that of a jaunty gnome-king, well satisfied withthe inspection of his treasure chamber. 

And he had cause for satisfaction, as he knew well enough when hethought of the decided progress made in the great experiment. The costat which that progress had been obtained was nothing. Had Israel Kafkaperished altogether under the treatment he had received, Keyork Arabianwould have bestowed no more attention upon the catastrophe than wouldhave been barely necessary in order to conceal it and to protect himselfand Unorna from the consequences of the crime. In the duel with death, the life of one man was of small consequence, and Keyork would havesacrificed thousands to his purposes with equal indifference to theirintrinsic value and with a proportionately greater interest in theresult to be attained. There was a terrible logic in his mental process. Life was a treasure literally inestimable in value. Death was thedestroyer of this treasure, devised by the Supreme Power as a sure meansof limiting man's activity and intelligence. To conquer Death on his ownground was to win the great victory over that Power, and to drive backto an indefinite distance the boundaries of human supremacy. 

It was assuredly not for the sake of benefiting mankind at large thathe pursued his researches at all sacrifices and at all costs. Theprime object of all his consideration was himself, as he unhesitatinglyadmitted on all occasions, conceiving perhaps that it was easier todefend such a position than to disclaim it. There could be no doubtthat in the man's enormous self-estimation, the Supreme Power occupied aplace secondary to Keyork Arabian's personality, and hostile to it. Andhe had taken up arms, as Lucifer, assuming his individual right to livein spite of God, Man and Nature, convinced that the secret could bediscovered and determined to find it and to use it, no matter at whatprice. In him there was neither ambition, nor pride, nor vanity in theordinary meaning of these words. For passion ceases with the cessationof comparison between man and his fellows, and Keyork Arabianacknowledged no ground for such a comparison in his own case. He hadmatched himself in a struggle with the Supreme Power, and, directly, with that Power's only active representative on earth, with death. It was well said of him that he had no beliefs, for he knew of nointermediate position between total suspension of judgment, and thecertainty of direct knowledge. And it was equally true that he was noatheist, as he had sanctimoniously declared of himself. He admittedthe existence of the Power; he claimed the right to assail it, and hegrappled with the greatest, the most terrible, the most universal andthe most stupendous of Facts, which is the Fact that all men die. Unlesshe conquered, he must die also. He was past theories, as he was beyondmost other human weaknesses, and facts had for him the enormous valuethey acquire in the minds of men cut off from all that is ideal. 

In Unorna he had found the instrument he had sought throughout half alifetime. With her he had tried the great experiment and pushed it tothe very end; and when he conducted Israel Kafka to his home, he alreadyknew that the experiment had succeeded. His plan was a simple one. Hewould wait a few months longer for the final result, he would select hisvictim, and with Unorna's help he would himself grow young again. 

"And who can tell, " he asked himself, "whether the life restored by suchmeans may not be more resisting and stronger against deathly influencesthan before? Is it not true that the older we grow the more slowlywe grow old? Is not the gulf which divides the infant from the man oftwenty years far wider than that which lies between the twentieth andthe fortieth years, and that again more full of rapid change than thethird score? Take, too, the wisdom of my old age as against the follyof a scarce grown boy, shall not my knowledge and care and forethoughtavail to make the same material last longer on the second trial than onthe first?"

No doubt of that, he thought, as he walked briskly along the pavementand entered his own house. In his great room he sat down by the tableand fell into a long meditation upon the most immediate consequences ofhis success in the difficult undertaking he had so skilfully broughtto a conclusion. His eyes wandered about the room from one specimen toanother, and from time to time a short, scornful laugh made his whitebeard quiver. As he had said once to Unorna, the dead things remindedhim of many failures; but he had never before been able to laugh atthem and at the unsuccessful efforts they represented. It was differentto-day. Without lifting his head he turned up his bright eyes, under thethick, finely-wrinkled lids, as though looking upward toward that Poweragainst which he strove. The glance was malignant and defiant, human andyet half-devilish. Then he looked down again, and again fell into deepthought. 

"And if it is to be so, " he said at last, rising suddenly and lettinghis open hand fall upon the table, "even then, I am provided. She cannotfree herself from that bargain, at all events. "

Then he wrapped his furs around him and went out again. Scarce a hundredpaces from Unorna's door he met the Wanderer. He looked up into thecold, calm face, and put out his hand, with a greeting. 

"You look as though you were in a very peaceful frame of mind, " observedKeyork. 

"Why should I be anything but peaceful?" asked the other, "I havenothing to disturb me. "

"True, true. You possess a very fine organisation. I envy you yourmagnificent constitution, my dear friend. I would like to have some ofit, and grow young again. "

"On your principle of embalming the living, I suppose. "

"Exactly, " answered the sage with a deep, rolling laugh. "By the bye, have you been with our friend Unorna? I suppose that is a legitimatequestion, though you always tell me I am tactless. "

"Perfectly legitimate, my dear Keyork. Yes, I have just left her. It islike a breath of spring morning to go there in these days. "

"You find it refreshing?"

"Yes. There is something about her that I could describe as soothing, ifI were aware of ever being irritable, which I am not. "

Keyork smiled and looked down, trying to dislodge a bit of ice from thepavement with the point of his stick. 

"Soothing--yes. That is just the expression. Not exactly the qualitymost young and beautiful women covet, eh? But a good quality in its way, and at the right time. How is she to-day?"

"She seemed to have a headache--or she was oppressed by the heat. Nothing serious, I fancy, but I came away, as I fancied I was tiringher. "

"Not likely, " observed Keyork. "Do you know Israel Kafka?" he askedsuddenly. 

"Israel Kafka, " repeated the Wanderer thoughtfully, as though searchingin his memory. 

"Then you do not, " said Keyork. "You could only have seen him since youhave been here. He is one of Unorna's most interesting patients, andmine as well. He is a little odd. "

Keyork tapped his ivory forehead significantly with one finger. 

"Mad, " suggested the Wanderer. 

"Mad, if you prefer the term. He has fixed ideas. In the first place, he imagines that he has just been travelling with me in Italy, and isalways talking of our experiences. Humour him, if you meet him. He is indanger of being worse if contradicted. "

"Am I likely to meet him?"

"Yes. He is often here. His other fixed idea is that he loves Unorna todistraction. He has been dangerously ill during the last few weeks butis better now, and he may appear at any moment. Humour him a little ifhe wearies you with his stories. That is all I ask. Both Unorna and Iare interested in the case. "

"And does not Unorna care for him at all?" inquired the otherindifferently. 

"No, indeed. On the contrary, she is annoyed at his insistance, but seesthat it is a phase of insanity and hopes to cure it before long. "

"I see. What is he like? I suppose he is an Israelite. "

"From Moravia--yes. The wreck of a handsome boy, " said Keyorkcarelessly. "This insanity is an enemy of good looks. The nerves giveway--then the vitality--the complexion goes--men of five and twentyyears look old under it. But you will see for yourself before long. Good-bye. I will go in and see what is the matter with Unorna. "

They parted, the Wanderer continuing on his way along the street withthe same calm, cold, peaceful expression which had elicited Keyork'sadmiration, and Keyork himself going forward to Unorna's door. His facewas very grave. He entered the house by a small side door and ascendedby a winding staircase directly to the room from which, an hour or twoearlier, he had carried the still unconscious Israel Kafka. Everythingwas as he had left it, and he was glad to be certified that Unorna hadnot disturbed the aged sleeper in his absence. Instead of going to herat once he busied himself in making a few observations and in puttingin order certain of his instruments and appliances. Then at last he wentand found Unorna. She was walking up and down among the plants and hesaw at a glance that something had happened. Indeed the few words spokenby the Wanderer had suggested to him the possibility of a crisis, and hehad purposely lingered in the inner apartment, in order to give her timeto recover her self-possession. She started slightly when he entered, and her brows contracted, but she immediately guessed from hisexpression that he was not in one of his aggressive moods. 

"I have just rectified a mistake which might have had rather seriousconsequences, " he said, stopping before her and speaking earnestly andquietly. 

"A mistake?"

"We remembered everything, except that our wandering friend and Kafkawere very likely to meet, and that Kafka would in all probability referto his delightful journey to the south in my company. "

"That is true!" exclaimed Unorna with an anxious glance. "Well? Whathave you done?"

"I met the Wanderer in the street. What could I do? I told him thatIsrael Kafka was a little mad, and that his harmless delusions referredto a journey he was supposed to have made with me, and to an equallyimaginary passion which he fancies he feels for you. "

"That was wise, " said Unorna, still pale. "How came we to be soimprudent! One word, and he might have suspected--"

"He could not have suspected all, " answered Keyork. "No man couldsuspect that. "

"Nevertheless, I suppose what we have done is not exactly--justifiable. "

"Hardly. It is true that criminal law has not yet adjusted itself tomeet questions of suggestion and psychic influence, but it drawsthe line, most certainly, somewhere between these questions and theextremity to which we have gone. Happily the law is at an immeasurabledistance from science, and here, as usual in such experiments, no onecould prove anything, owing to the complete unconsciousness of theprincipal witnesses. "

"I do not like to think that we have been near to such trouble, " saidUnorna. 

"Nor I. It was fortunate that I met the Wanderer when I did. "

"And the other? Did he wake as I ordered him to do? Is all right? Isthere no danger of his suspecting anything?"

It seemed as though Unorna had momentarily forgotten that such acontingency might be possible, and her anxiety returned with therecollection. Keyork's rolling laughter reverberated among the plantsand filled the whole wide hall with echoes. 

"No danger there, " he answered. "Your witchcraft is above criticism. Nothing of that kind that you have ever undertaken has failed. "

"Except against you, " said Unorna, thoughtfully. 

"Except against me, of course. How could you ever expect anything of thekind to succeed against me, my dear lady?"

"And why not? After all, in spite of our jesting, you are not asupernatural being. "

"That depends entirely on the interpretation you give to the wordsupernatural. But, my dear friend and colleague, let us not deceiveeach other, though we are able between us to deceive other people intobelieving almost anything. There is nothing in all this witchcraft ofyours but a very powerful moral influence at work--I mean apart from themere faculty of clairvoyance which is possessed by hundreds of commonsomnambulists, and which, in you, is a mere accident. The rest, thishypnotism, this suggestion, this direction of others' wills, is amoral affair, a matter of direct impression produced by words. Mentalsuggestion may in rare cases succeed, when the person to be influencedis himself a natural clairvoyant. But these cases are not worth takinginto consideration. Your influence is a direct one, chiefly exercised bymeans of your words and through the impression of power which youknow how to convey in them. It is marvellous, I admit. But the verydefinition puts me beyond your power. "

"Why?"

"Because there is not a human being alive, and I do not believe that ahuman being ever lived, who had the sense of independent individualitywhich I have. Let a man have the very smallest doubt concerning his ownindependence--let that doubt be ever so transitory and produced by anyaccident whatsoever--and he is at your mercy. "

"And you are sure that no accident could shake your faith in yourself?"

"My consciousness of myself, you mean. No. I am not sure. But, my dearUnorna, I am very careful in guarding against accidents of all sorts, for I have attempted to resuscitate a great many dead people and I havenever succeeded, and I know that a false step on a slippery staircasemay be quite as fatal as a teaspoonful of prussic acid--or an unrequitedpassion. I avoid all these things and many others. If I did not, and ifyou had any object in getting me under your influence, you wouldsucceed sooner or later. Perhaps the day is not far distant when I willvoluntarily sleep under your hand. "

Unorna glanced quickly at him. 

"And in that case, " he added, "I am sure you could make me believeanything you pleased. "

"What are you trying to make me understand?" she asked, suspiciously, for he had never before spoken of such a possibility. 

"You look anxious and weary, " he said in a tone of sympathy in whichUnorna could not detect the least false modulation, though she fanciedfrom his fixed gaze that he meant her to understand something which hecould not say. "You look tired, " he continued, "though it is becomingto your beauty to be pale--I always said so. I will not weary you. I wasonly going to say that if I were under your influence--you might easilymake me believe that you were not yourself, but another woman--for therest of my life. "

They stood looking at each other in silence during several seconds. ThenUnorna seemed to understand what he meant. 

"Do you really believe that is possible?" she asked earnestly. 

"I know it. I know of a case in which it succeeded very well. "

"Perhaps, " she said, thoughtfully. "Let us go and look at him. "

She moved in the direction of the aged sleeper's room and they both leftthe hall together. 

CHAPTER XIII

Unorna was superstitious, as Keyork Arabian had once told her. Shedid not thoroughly understand herself and she had very little realcomprehension of the method by which she produced such remarkableresults. She was gifted with a sensitive and active imagination, whichsupplied her with semi-mystic formulae of thought and speech in placeof reasoned explanations, and she undoubtedly attributed much of her ownpower to supernatural influences. In this respect, at least, she wasno farther advanced than the witches of older days, and if her inmostconvictions took a shape which would have seemed incomprehensible tothose predecessors of hers, this was to be attributed in part to theinnate superiority of her nature, and partly, also, to the high degreeof cultivation in which her mental faculties had reached development. 

Keyork Arabian might spend hours in giving her learned explanations ofwhat she did, but he never convinced her. Possibly he was not convincedhimself, and he still hesitated, perhaps, between the two great theoriesadvanced to explain the phenomena of hypnotism. He had told her that heconsidered her influence to be purely a moral one, exerted by means oflanguage and supported by her extraordinary concentrated will. Butit did not follow that he believed what he told her, and it was notimprobable that he might have his own doubts on the subject--doubtswhich Unorna was not slow to suspect, and which destroyed for her thewhole force of his reasoning. She fell back upon a sort of grosslyunreasonable mysticism, combined with a blind belief in those hiddennatural forces and secret virtues of privileged objects, which formedthe nucleus of mediaeval scientific research. The field is a fertileone for the imagination and possesses a strange attraction for certainminds. There are men alive in our own time to whom the transmutation ofmetals does not seem an impossibility, nor the brewing of the elixir oflife a matter to be scoffed at as a matter of course. The world is fullof people who, in their inmost selves, put faith in the latent qualitiesof precious stones and amulets, who believe their fortunes, theirhappiness, and their lives to be directly influenced by some triflingobject which they have always upon them. We do not know enough to statewith assurance that the constant handling of any particular metal, orgem, may not produce a real and invariable corresponding effect uponthe nerves. But we do know most positively that, when the belief in suchtalismans is once firmly established, the moral influence they exertupon men through the imagination is enormous. From this condition ofmind to that in which auguries are drawn from outward and apparentlyaccidental circumstances, is but a step. If Keyork Arabian inclined tothe psychic rather than to the physical school in his view of Unorna'switchcraft and in his study of hypnotism in general, his opinionresulted naturally from his great knowledge of mankind, and of theunacknowledged, often unsuspected, convictions which in reality directmankind's activity. It was this experience, too, and the certainty towhich it had led him, that put him beyond the reach of Unorna's power solong as he chose not to yield himself to her will. Her position wasin reality diametrically opposed to his, and although he repeated hisreasonings to her from time to time, he was quite indifferent to thenature of her views, and never gave himself any real trouble to make herchange them. The important point was that she should not lose anythingof the gifts she possessed, and Keyork was wise enough to see that theexercise of them depended in a great measure upon her own convictionregarding their exceptional nature. 

Unorna herself believed in everything which strengthened and developedthat conviction, and especially in the influences of time and place. Itappeared to her a fortunate circumstance, when she at last determinedto overcome her pride, that the resolution should have formed itselfexactly a month after she had so successfully banished the memory ofBeatrice from the mind of the man she loved. She felt sure of producinga result as effectual if, this time, she could work the second changein the same place and under the same circumstances as the first. And tothis end everything was in her favour. She needed not to close her eyesto fancy that thirty days had not really passed between then and now, asshe left her house in the afternoon with the Wanderer by her side. 

He had come back and had found her once more herself, calm, collected, conscious of her own powers. No suspicion of the real cause of thedisturbance he had witnessed crossed his mind, still less could he guesswhat thing she meditated as she directed their walk towards that lonelyplace by the river which had been the scene of her first great effort. She talked lightly as they went, and he, in that strange humour ofpeaceful, well-satisfied indifference which possessed him, answered herin the same strain. It was yet barely afternoon, but there was already aforetaste of coming evening in the chilly air. 

"I have been thinking of what you said this morning, " she said, suddenlychanging the current of the conversation. "Did I thank you for yourkindness?" She smiled as she laid her hand gently upon his arm, to crossa crowded street, and she looked up into his quiet face. 

"Thank me? For what? On the contrary--I fancied that I had annoyed you. "

"Perhaps I did not quite understand it all at first, " she answeredthoughtfully. "It is hard for a woman like me to realise what it wouldbe to have a brother--or a sister, or any one belonging to me. I neededto think of the idea. Do you know that I am quite alone in the world?"

The Wanderer had accepted her as he found her, strangely alone, indeed, and strangely independent of the world, a beautiful, singularlyinteresting woman, doing good, so far as he knew, in her own way, separated from ordinary existence by some unusual circumstances, andelevated above ordinary dangers by the strength and the pride of her owncharacter. And yet, indolent and indifferent as he had grown of late, hewas conscious of a vague curiosity in regard to her story. Keyork eitherreally knew nothing, or pretended to know nothing of her origin. 

"I see that you are alone, " said the Wanderer. "Have you always beenso?"

"Always. I have had an odd life. You could not understand it, if I toldyou of it. "

"And yet I have been lonely too--and I believe I was once unhappy, though I cannot think of any reason for it. "

"You have been lonely--yes. But yours was another loneliness morelimited, less fatal, more voluntary. It must seem strange to you--I donot even positively know of what nation I was born. "

Her companion looked at her in surprise, and his curiosity increased. 

"I know nothing of myself, " she continued. "I remember neither fathernor mother. I grew up in the forest, among people who did not love me, but who taught me, and respected me as though I were their superior, andwho sometimes feared me. When I look back, I am amazed at their learningand their wisdom--and ashamed of having learned so little. "

"You are unjust to yourself. "

Unorna laughed. 

"No one ever accused me of that, " she said. "Will you believe it? I donot even know where that place was. I cannot tell you even the name ofthe kingdom in which it lay. I learned a name for it and for the forest, but those names are in no map that has ever fallen into my hands. Isometimes feel that I would go to the place if I could find it. "

"It is very strange. And how came you here?"

"I was told the time had come. We started at night. It was a longjourney, and I remember feeling tired as I was never tired before orsince. They brought me here, they left me in a religious house amongnuns. Then I was told that I was rich and free. My fortune was broughtwith me. That, at least, I know. But those who received it and who takecare of it for me, know no more of its origin than I myself. Gold tellsno tales, and the secret has been well kept. I would give much to knowthe truth--when I am in the humour. "

She sighed, and then laughed again. 

"You see why it is that I find the idea of a brother so hard tounderstand, " she added, and then was silent. 

"You have all the more need of understanding it, my dear friend, " theWanderer answered, looking at her thoughtfully. 

"Yes--perhaps so. I can see what friendship is. I can almost guess whatit would be to have a brother. "

"And have you never thought of more than that?" He asked the questionin his calmest and most friendly tone, somewhat deferentially as thoughfearing lest it should seem tactless and be unwelcome. 

"Yes, I have thought of love also, " she answered, in a low voice. Butshe said nothing more, and they walked on for some time in silence. 

They came out upon the open place by the river which she rememberedso well. Unorna glanced about her and her face fell. The place was thesame, but the solitude was disturbed. It was not Sunday as it had beenon that day a month ago. All about the huge blocks of stone, groupsof workmen were busy with great chisels and heavy hammers, hewing andchipping and fashioning the material that it might be ready for use inthe early spring. Even the river was changed. Men were standing upon theice, cutting it into long symmetrical strips, to be hauled ashore. Someof the great pieces were already separated from the main ice, and sturdyfellows, clad in dark woollen, were poling them over the dark water tothe foot of the gently sloping road where heavy carts stood ready toreceive the load when cut up into blocks. The dark city was taking in agreat provision of its own coldness against the summer months. 

Unorna looked about her. Everywhere there were people at work, and shewas more disappointed than she would own to herself at the invasion ofthe solitude. The Wanderer looked from the stone-cutters to the ice-menwith a show of curiosity. 

"I have not seen so much life in Prague for many a day, " he observed. 

"Let us go, " answered Unorna, nervously. "I do not like it. I cannotbear the sight of people to-day. "

They turned in a new direction, Unorna guiding her companion by agesture. They were near to the Jewish quarter, and presently werethreading their way through narrow and filthy streets thronged witheager Hebrew faces, and filled with the hum of low-pitched voiceschattering together, not in the language of the country, but in a basedialect of German. They were in the heart of Prague, in that dim quarterwhich is one of the strongholds of the Israelite, whence he directsgreat enterprises and sets in motion huge financial schemes, in whichIsrael sits, as a great spider in the midst of a dark web, dominatingthe whole capital with his eagle's glance and weaving the destiny of theBohemian people to suit his intricate speculations. For throughout thelength and breadth of Slavonic and German Austria the Jew rules, andrules alone. 

Unorna gathered her furs more closely about her, in evident disgust ather surroundings, but still she kept on her way. Her companion, scarcelyless familiar with the sights of Prague than she herself, walked by herside, glancing carelessly at the passing people, at the Hebrew signs, atthe dark entrances that lead to courts within courts and into labyrinthsof dismal lanes and passages, looking at everything with the same sereneindifference, and idly wondering what made Unorna choose to walk thatway. Then he saw that she was going towards the cemetery. Theyreached the door, were admitted and found themselves alone in the vastwilderness. 

In the midst of the city lies the ancient burial ground, now longdisused but still undisturbed, many acres of uneven land, covered sothickly with graves, and planted so closely with granite and sandstoneslabs, that the paths will scarce allow two persons to walk side byside. The stones stand and lie in all conceivable positions, erect, slanting at every angle, prostrate upon the earth or upon others alreadyfallen before them--two, three, and even four upon a grave, wheregenerations of men have been buried one upon the other--stones largeand small, covered with deep-cut inscriptions in the Hebrew character, bearing the sculpture of two uplifted hands, wherever the Kohns, thechildren of the tribe of Aaron, are laid to rest, or the gracefullychiselled ewer of the Levites. Here they lie, thousands upon thousandsof dead Jews, great and small, rich and poor, wise and ignorant, neglected individually, but guarded as a whole with all the tenaciousdetermination of the race to hold its own, and to preserve thesacredness of its dead. In the dim light of the winter's afternoon itis as though a great army of men had fallen fighting there, and hadbeen turned to stone as they fell. Rank upon rank they lie, with thatirregularity which comes of symmetry destroyed, like columns and filesof soldiers shot down in the act of advancing. And in winter, the graylight falling upon the untrodden snow throws a pale reflection upwardsagainst each stone, as though from the myriad sepulchres a faintlyluminous vapour were rising to the outer air. Over all, the ruggedbrushwood and the stunted trees intertwine their leafless branches andtwigs in a thin, ghostly network of gray, that clouds the view of thefarther distance without interrupting it, a forest of shadowy skeletonsclasping fleshless, bony hands one with another, from grave to grave, asfar as the eye can see. 

The stillness in the place is intense. Not a murmur of distant life fromthe surrounding city disturbs the silence. At rare intervals a strongbreath of icy wind stirs the dead branches and makes them crack andrattle against the gravestones and against each other as in a dance ofdeath. It is a wild and dreary place. In the summer, indeed, the thickleafage lends it a transitory colour and softness, but in the depth ofwinter, when there is nothing to hide the nakedness of truth, when thesnow lies thick upon the ground and the twined twigs and twistedtrunks scarce cast a tracery of shadow under the sunless sky, the utterdesolation and loneliness of the spot have a horror of their own, not tobe described, but never to be forgotten. 

Unorna walked forward in silence, choosing a path so narrow thather companion found himself obliged to drop behind and follow in herfootsteps. In the wildest part of this wilderness of death there is alittle rising of the ground. Here both the gravestones and the stuntedtrees are thickest, and the solitude is, if possible, even more completethan elsewhere. As she reached the highest point Unorna stood still, turned quickly towards the Wanderer and held out both her hands towardshim. 

"I have chosen this place, because it is quiet, " she said, with a softsmile. 

Hardly knowing why he did so, he laid his hands in hers and lookedkindly down to her upturned face. 

"What is it?" he asked, meeting her eyes. 

She was silent, and her fingers did not unclasp themselves. He looked ather, and saw for the hundredth time that she was very beautiful. Therewas a faint colour in her cheeks, and her full lips were just partedas though a loving word had escaped them which she would not willinglyrecall. Against the background of broken neutral tints, her figure stoodout, an incarnation of youth and vitality. If she had often looked wearyand pale of late, her strength and freshness had returned to her nowin all their abundance. The Wanderer knew that he was watching her, andknew that he was thinking of her beauty and realising the whole extentof it more fully than ever before, but beyond this point his thoughtscould not go. He was aware that he was becoming fascinated by her eyes, and he felt that with every moment it was growing harder for him toclose his own, or to look away from her, and then, an instant later, heknew that it would be impossible. Yet he made no effort. He was passive, indifferent, will-less, and her gaze charmed him more and more. He wasalready in a dream, and he fancied that the beautiful figure shone witha soft, rosy light of its own in the midst of the gloomy waste. Lookinginto her sunlike eyes, he saw there twin images of himself, that drewhim softly and surely into themselves until he was absorbed by themand felt that he was no longer a reality but a reflection. Then a deepunconsciousness stole over all his senses and he slept, or passed intothat state which seems to lie between sleep and trance. 

Unorna needed not to question him this time, for she saw that he wascompletely under her influence. Yet she hesitated at the supreme moment, and then, though to all real intents she was quite alone, a burningflush of shame rose to her face, and her heart sank within her. She feltthat she could not do it. 

She dropped his hands. They fell to his sides as though they had been oflead. Then she turned from him and pressed her aching forehead againsta tall weather-worn stone that rose higher than her own height from themidst of the hillock. 

Her woman's nature rebelled against the trick. It was the truest thingin her and perhaps the best, which protested so violently against thething she meant to do; it was the simple longing to be loved for her ownsake, and of the man's own free will, to be loved by him with the loveshe had despised in Israel Kafka. But would this be love at all, thisartificial creation of her suggestion reacting upon his mind? Would itlast? Would it be true, faithful, tender? Above all, would it be real, even for a moment? She asked herself a thousand questions in a second oftime. 

Then the ready excuse flashed upon her--the pretext which the heart willalways find when it must have its way. Was it not possible, after all, that he was beginning to love her even now? Might not that outburst offriendship which had surprised her and wounded her so deeply, be theherald of a stronger passion? She looked up quickly and met his vacantstare. 

"Do you love me?" she asked, almost before she knew what she was goingto say. 

"No. " The answer came in the far-off voice that told of hisunconsciousness, a mere toneless monosyllable breathed upon the murkyair. But it stabbed her like the thrust of a jagged knife. A longsilence followed, and Unorna leaned against the great slab of carvedsandstone. 

Even to her there was something awful in his powerless, motionlesspresence. The noble face, pale and set as under a mask, the thoughtfulbrow, the dominating features, were not those of a man born to be aplaything to the will of a woman. The commanding figure towered in thegrim surroundings like a dark statue, erect, unmoving, and in no wayweak. And yet she knew that she had but to speak and the figure wouldmove, the lips would form words, the voice would reach her ear. He wouldraise this hand or that, step forwards or backwards, at her command, affirm what she bid him affirm, and deny whatever she chose to heardenied. For a moment she wished that he had been as Keyork Arabian, stronger than she; then, with the half-conscious comparison the passionfor the man himself surged up and drowned every other thought. Shealmost forgot that for the time he was not to be counted among theliving. She went to him, and clasped her hands upon his shoulder, andlooked up into his scarce-seeing eyes. 

"You must love me, " she said, "you must love me because I love you so. Will you not love me, dear? I have waited so long for you!"

The soft words vibrated in his sleeping ear but drew forth neitheracknowledgment nor response. Like a marble statue he stood still, andshe leaned upon his shoulder. 

"Do you not hear me?" she cried in a more passionate tone. "Do you notunderstand me? Why is it that your love is so hard to win? Look at me!Might not any man be proud to love me? Am I not beautiful enough foryou? And yet I know that I am fair. Or are you ashamed because peoplecall me a witch? Why then I will never be one again, for your sake! Whatdo I care for it all? Can it be anything to me--can anything have worththat stands between me and you? Ah, love--be not so very hard!"

The Wanderer did not move. His face was as calm as a sculptured stone. 

"Do you despise me for loving you?" she asked again, with a suddenflush. 

"No. I do not despise you. " Something in her tone had pierced throughhis stupor and had found an answer. She started at the sound of hisvoice. It was as though he had been awake and had known the weight ofwhat she had been saying, and her anger rose at the cold reply. 

"No--you do not despise me, and you never shall!" she exclaimedpassionately. "You shall love me, as I love you--I will it, with allmy will! We are created to be all, one to the other, and you shall notbreak through the destiny of love. Love me, as I love you--love me withall your heart, love me with all your mind, love me with all your soul, love me as man never loved woman since the world began! I will it, Icommand it--it shall be as I say--you dare not disobey me--you cannot ifyou would. "

She paused, but this time no answer came. There was not even acontraction of the stony features. 

"Do you hear all I say?" she asked. 

"I hear. "

"Then understand and answer me, " she said. 

"I do not understand. I cannot answer. "

"You must. You shall. I will have it so. You cannot resist my will, andI will it with all my might. You have no will--you are mine, your body, your soul, and your thoughts, and you must love me with them all fromnow until you die--until you die, " she repeated fiercely. 

Again he was silent. She felt that she had no hold upon his heart ormind, seeing that he was not even disturbed by her repeated efforts. 

"Are you a stone, that you do not know what love is?" she cried, grasping his hand in hers and looking with desperate eyes into his face. 

"I do not know what love is, " he answered, slowly. 

"Then I will tell you what love is, " she said, and she took his hand andpressed it upon her own brow. 

The Wanderer started at the touch, as though he would have drawn back. But she held him fast, and so far, at least, he was utterly subject toher. His brow contracted darkly, and his face grew paler. 

"Read it there, " she cried. "Enter into my soul and read what love is, in his own great writing. Read how he steals suddenly into the sacredplace, and makes it his, and tears down the old gods and sets up hisdear image in their stead--read how he sighs, and speaks, and weeps, and loves--and forgives not, but will be revenged at the last. Are youindeed of stone, and have you a stone for a heart? Love can melt evenstones, being set in man as the great central fire in the earth to burnthe hardest things to streams of liquid flame! And see, again, how verysoft and gentle he can be! See how I love you--see how sweet it is--howvery lovely a thing it is to love as woman can. There--have you felt itnow? Have you seen into the depths of my soul and into the hiding-placesof my heart? Let it be so in your own, then, and let it be so for ever. You understand now. You know what it all is--how wild, how passionate, how gentle and how great! Take to yourself this love of mine--is it notall yours? Take it, and plant it with strong roots and seeds of undyinglife in your own sleeping breast, and let it grow, and grow, till itis even greater than it was in me, till it takes us both into itself, together, fast bound in its immortal bonds, to be two in one, in lifeand beyond life, for ever and ever and ever to the end of ends!"

She ceased and she saw that his face was no longer expressionless andcold. A strange light was upon his features, the passing radiance ofa supreme happiness seen in the vision of a dream. Again she laid herhands upon his shoulder clasped together, as she had done at first. Sheknew that her words had touched him and she was confident of the result, confident as one who loves beyond reason. Already in imagination shefancied him returning to consciousness, not knowing that he had slept, but waking with a gentle word just trembling upon his lips, the wordsshe longed to hear. 

One moment more, she thought. It was good to see that light uponhis face, to fancy how that first word would sound, to feel that thestruggle was past and that there was nothing but happiness in thefuture, full, overflowing, overwhelming, reaching from earth to heavenand through time to eternity. One moment, only, before she let himwake--it was such glory to be loved at last! Still the light was there, still that exquisite smile was on his lips. And they would be alwaysthere now, she thought. 

At last she spoke. 

"Then love, since you are mine, and I am yours, wake from the dream tolife itself--wake, not knowing that you have slept, knowing only thatyou love me now and always--wake, love wake!"

She waved her delicate hand before his eyes and still resting the otherupon his shoulder, watched the returning brightness in the dark pupilsthat had been glazed and fixed a moment before. And as she looked, herown beauty grew radiant in the splendour of a joy even greater than shehad dreamed of. As it had seemed to him when he had lost himself in hergaze, so now she also fancied that the grim, gray wilderness was full ofa soft rosy light. The place of the dead was become the place of life;the great solitude was peopled as the whole world could never be forher; the crumbling gravestones were turned to polished pillars in thetemple of an immortal love, and the ghostly, leafless trees blossomedwith the undying flowers of the earthly paradise. 

One moment only, and then all was gone. The change came, sure, swift andcruel. As she looked, it came, gradual, in that it passed through everydegree, but sudden also, as the fall of a fair and mighty building, which being undermined in its foundations passes in one short minutethrough the change from perfect completeness to hopeless and utter ruin. 

All the radiance, all the light, all the glory were gone in an instant. Her own supremely loving look had not vanished, her lips still partedsweetly, as forming the word that was to answer his, and the calmindifferent face of the waking man was already before her. 

"What is it?" he asked, in his kind and passionless voice. "What wereyou going to ask me, Unorna?"

It was gone. The terribly earnest appeal had been in vain. Not a traceof that short vision of love remained impressed upon his brain. 

With a smothered cry of agony Unorna leaned against the great slab ofstone behind her and covered her eyes. The darkness of night descendedupon her, and with it the fire of a burning shame. 

Then a loud and cruel laugh rang through the chilly air, such a laugh asthe devils in hell bestow upon the shame of a proud soul that knowsits own infinite bitterness. Unorna started and uncovered her eyes, hersuffering changed in a single instant to ungovernable and destroyinganger. She made a step forwards and then stopped short, breathing hard. The Wanderer, too, had turned, more quickly than she. Between two tallgravestones, not a dozen paces away, stood a man with haggard face andeyes on fire, his keen, worn features contorted by a smile in whichunspeakable satisfaction struggled for expression with a profounddespair. 

The man was Israel Kafka. 

CHAPTER XIV

The Wanderer looked from Unorna to Kafka with profound surprise. He hadnever seen the man and had no means of knowing who he was, still less ofguessing what had brought him to the lonely place, or why he had brokeninto a laugh, of which the harsh, wild tones still echoed through thewide cemetery. Totally unconscious of all that had happened to himselfduring the preceding quarter of an hour, the Wanderer was deprived ofthe key to the situation. He only understood that the stranger was forsome reason or other deeply incensed against Unorna, and he realisedthat the intruder had, on the moment of appearance, no control overhimself. 

Israel Kafka remained where he stood, between the two tall stones, onehand resting on each, his body inclined a little forward, his dark, sunken eyes, bloodshot and full of a turbid, angry brightness, bentintently upon Unorna's face. He looked as though he were about to movesuddenly forwards, but it was impossible to foresee that he might notas suddenly retreat, as a lean and hungry tiger crouches for a moment inuncertainty whether to fight or fly, when after tracking down his manhe finds him not alone and defenceless as he had anticipated, butwell-armed and in company. 

The Wanderer's indolence was only mental, and was moreover transitoryand artificial. When he saw Unorna advance, he quickly placed himselfbetween her and Israel Kafka, and looked from one to the other. 

"Who is this man?" he asked. "And what does he want of you?"

Unorna made as though she would pass him. But he laid his hand uponher arm with a gesture that betrayed his anxiety for her safety. At histouch, her face changed for a moment and a faint blush dyed her cheek. 

"You may well ask who I am, " said the Moravian, speaking in a voicehalf-choked with passion and anger. "She will tell you she does not knowme--she will deny my existence to my face. But she knows me very well. Iam Israel Kafka. "

The Wanderer looked at him more curiously. He remembered what he hadheard but a few hours earlier from Keyork concerning the young fellow'smadness. The situation now partially explained itself. 

"I understand, " he said, looking at Unorna. "He seems to be dangerous. What shall I do with him?"

He asked the question as calmly as though it had referred to thedisposal of an inanimate object, instead of to the taking into custodyof a madman. 

"Do with me?" cried Kafka, advancing suddenly a step forwards frombetween the slabs. "Do with me? Do you speak of me as though I were adog--a dumb animal--but I will----"

He choked and coughed, and could not finish the sentence. There was ahectic flush in his cheek and his thin, graceful frame shook violentlyfrom head to foot. Unable to speak for the moment, he waved his hand ina menacing gesture. The Wanderer shook his head rather sadly. 

"He seems very ill, " he said, in a tone of compassion. 

But Unorna was pitiless. She knew what her companion could not know, namely, that Kafka must have followed them through the streets to thecemetery and must have overheard Unorna's passionate appeal and musthave seen and understood the means she was using to win the Wanderer'slove. Her anger was terrible. She had suffered enough secret shamealready in stooping to the use of her arts in such a course. It had costher one of the greatest struggles of her life, and her disappointmentat the result had been proportionately bitter. In that alone she hadendured almost as much pain as she could bear. But to find suddenly thather humiliation, her hot speech, her failure, the look which she knewhad been on her face until the moment when the Wanderer awoke, thatall this had been seen and heard by Israel Kafka was intolerable. EvenKeyork's unexpected appearance could not have so fired her wrath. Keyorkmight have laughed at her afterwards, but her failure would have been notriumph to him. Was not Keyork enlisted on her side, ready to help herat all times, by word or deed, in accordance with the terms of theiragreement? But of all men Kafka, whom she had so wronged, was the oneman who should have been ignorant of her defeat and miserable shame. 

"Go!" she cried, with a gesture of command. Her eyes flashed and herextended hand trembled. 

There was such concentrated fury in a single word that the Wandererstarted in surprise, ignorant as he was of the true state of things. 

"You are uselessly unkind, " he said gravely. "The poor man is mad. Letme take him away. "

"Leave him to me, " she answered imperiously. "He will obey me. "

But Israel Kafka did not turn. He rested one hand upon the slab andfaced her. As when many different forces act together at one point, producing after the first shock a resultant little expected, so the manypassions that were at work in his face finally twisted his lips into asmile. 

"Yes, " he said, in a low tone, which did not express submission. "Leaveme to her! Leave me to the Witch and to her mercy. It will be the endthis time. She is drunk with her love of you and mad with her hatred ofme. "

Unorna grew suddenly pale, and would have again sprung forward. But theWanderer stopped her and held her arm. At the same time he looked intoKafka's eyes and raised one hand as though in warning. 

"Be silent!" he exclaimed. 

"And if I speak, what then?" asked the Moravian with his evil smile. 

"I will silence you, " answered the Wanderer coldly. "Your madnessexcuses you, perhaps, but it does not justify me in allowing you toinsult a woman. "

Kafka's anger took a new direction. Even madmen are often calmed by thequiet opposition of a strong and self-possessed man. And Kafka was notmad. He was no coward either, but the subtlety of his race was in him. As oil dropped by the board in a wild tempest does not calm the waves, but momentarily prevents their angry crests from breaking, so theIsraelite's quick tact veiled the rough face of his dangerous humour. 

"I insult no one, " he said, almost deferentially. "Least of all her whomI have worshipped long and lost at last. You accuse me unjustly of that, and though my speech may have been somewhat rude, yet may I be forgivenfor the sake of what I have suffered. For I have suffered much. "

Seeing that he was taking a more courteous tone, the Wanderer folded hisarms and left Unorna free to move, awaiting her commands, or thefurther development of events. He saw in her face that her anger was notsubsiding, and he wondered less at it after hearing Kafka's insultingspeech. It was a pity, he thought, that any one should take so seriouslya maniac's words, but he was nevertheless resolved that they should notbe repeated. After all, it would be an easy matter, if the man againoverstepped the bounds of gentle speech, to take him bodily away fromUnorna's presence. 

"And are you going to charm our ears with a story of your sufferings?"Unorna asked, in a tone so cruel, that the Wanderer expected a quickoutburst of anger from Kafka, in reply. But he was disappointed in this. The smile still lingered on the Moravian's face, when he answered, andhis expressive voice, no longer choking with passion, grew very soft andmusical. 

"It is not mine to charm, " he said. "It is not given to me to makeslaves of all living things with hand and eye and word. Such powerNature does not give to all, she has given none to me. I have no spellto win Unorna's love--and if I had, I cannot say that I would take alove thus earned. "

He paused a moment and Unorna grew paler. She started, but then did notmove again. His words had power to wound her, but she trembled lest theWanderer should understand their hidden meaning, and she was silent, biding her time and curbing her passion. 

"No, " continued Kafka, "I was not thus favoured in my nativity. Thestar of love was not in the ascendant, the lord of magic charms wasnot trembling upon my horizon, the sun of earthly happiness was notenthroned in my mid-heaven. How could it be? She had it all, this Unornahere, and Nature, generous in one mad moment, lavished upon her allthere was to give. For she has all, and we have nothing, as I havelearned and you will learn before you die. "

He looked at the Wanderer as he spoke. His hollow eyes seemed calmenough, and in his dejected attitude and subdued tone there wasnothing that gave warning of a coming storm. The Wanderer listened, half-interested and yet half-annoyed by his persistence. Unorna herselfwas silent still. 

"The nightingale was singing on that night, " continued Kafka. "It was adewy night in early spring, and the air was very soft, when Unorna firstbreathed it. The world was not asleep but dreaming, when her eyes firstopened to look upon it. Heaven had put on all its glories--across itssilent breast was bound the milk-white ribband, its crest was crownedwith God's crown-jewels, the great northern stars, its mighty form wasrobed in the mantle of majesty set with the diamonds of suns and worlds, great and small, far and near--not one tiny spark of all the myriadmillion gems was darkened by a breath of wind-blown mist. The earth wasvery still, all wrapped in peace and lulled in love. The great treespointed their dark spires upwards from the temple of the forest to thefirmament of the greater temple on high. In the starlight the year'sfirst roses breathed out the perfume gathered from the departed sun, andevery dewdrop in the short, sweet grass caught in its little self thereflection of heaven's vast glory. Only, in the universal stillness, thenightingale sang the song of songs, and bound the angel of love with thechains of her linked melody and made him captive in bonds stronger thanhis own. "

Israel Kafka spoke dreamily, resting against the stone beside him, seemingly little conscious of the words that fell in oriental imageryfrom his lips. In other days Unorna had heard him speak like this toher, and she had loved the speech, though not the man, and sometimes forits sake she had wished her heart could find its fellow in his. And evennow, the tone and the words had a momentary effect upon her. What wouldhave sounded as folly, overwrought, sentimental, almost laughable, perhaps, to other women, found an echo in her own childish memories anda sympathy in her belief in her own mysterious nature. The Wanderer hadheard men talk as Israel Kafka talked, in other lands, where speech isprized by men and women not for its tough strength but for its wealth offlowers. 

"And love was her first captive, " said the Moravian, "and her firstslave. Yes, I will tell you the story of Unorna's life. She is angrywith me now. Well, let it be. It is my fault--or hers. What matter? Shecannot quite forget me out of mind--and I? Has Lucifer forgotten God?"

He sighed, and a momentary light flashed in his eyes. Something in theblasphemous strength of the words attracted the Wanderer's attention. Utterly indifferent himself, he saw that there was something morethan madness in the man before him. He found himself wondering whatencouragement Unorna had given the seed of passion that it should havegrown to such strength, and he traced the madness back to the love, instead of referring the love to the madness. But he said nothing. 

"So she was born, " continued Kafka, dreaming on. "She was born amidthe perfume of the roses, under the starlight, when the nightingalewas singing. And all things that lived, loved her, and submitted to hervoice and hand, and to her eyes and to her unspoken will, as runningwater follows the course men give it, winding and gliding, fallingand rushing, full often of a roar of resistance that covers the deep, quick-moving stream, flowing in spite of itself through the channel thatis dug for it to the determined end. And nothing resisted her. Neitherman nor woman nor child had any strength to oppose against her magic. The wolf hounds licked her feet, the wolves themselves crouched fawningin her path. For she is without fear--as she is without mercy. Is thatstrange? What fear can there be for her who has the magic charm, whoholds sleep in the one hand and death in the other, and between whosebrows is set the knowledge of what shall be hereafter? Can any one harmher? Has any one the strength to harm her? Is there anything on earthwhich she covets and which shall not be hers?"

Though his voice was almost as soft as before, the evil smile flickeredagain about his drawn lips as he looked into Unorna's face. He wonderedwhy she did not face him and crush him and force him to sleep withher eyes as he knew she could do. But he himself was past fear. He hadsuffered too much and cared not what chanced to him now. But she shouldknow that he knew all, if he told her so with his latest breath. Despairhad given him a strange control of his anger and of his words, andjealousy had taught him the art of wounding swiftly, surely and with alight touch. Sooner or later she would turn upon him and annihilate himin a dream of unconsciousness; he knew that, and he knew that such faintpower of resisting her as he had ever possessed was gone. But so long asshe was willing to listen to him, so long would he torture her withthe sting of her own shame, and when her patience ended, or her capricechanged, he would find some bitter word to cast at her in the momentbefore losing his consciousness of thought and his power to speak. This one chance of wounding was given to him and he would use it to theutmost, with all subtlety, with all cruelty, with all determination totorture. 

"Whatsoever she covets is hers to take. No one escapes the spell in theend, no one resists the charm. And yet it is written in the book of herfate that she shall one day taste the fruit of ashes, and drink of thebitter water. It is written that whosoever slays with the sword shalldie by the sword also. She has killed with love, and by love she shallperish. I loved her once. I know what I am saying. "

Again he paused, lingering thoughtfully upon the words. The Wandererglanced at Unorna as though asking her whether he should not put asudden end to the strange monologue. She was pale and her eyes werebright; but she shook her head. 

"Let him say what he will say, " she answered, taking the question asthough it had been spoken. "Let him say all he will. Perhaps it is thelast time. "

"And so you give me your gracious leave to speak, " said Israel Kafka. "And you will let me say all that is in my heart to say to you--beforethis other man. And then you will make an end of me. I see. I accept theoffer. I can even thank you for your patience. You are kind to-day--Ihave known you harder. Well, then, I will speak out. I will tell mystory, not that any one may judge between you and me. There is neitherjudge nor justice for those who love in vain. So I loved you. That isthe whole story. Do you understand me, sir? I loved this woman, but shewould not love me. That is all. And what of it, and what then? Look ather, and look at me--the beginning and the end. "

In a manner familiar to Orientals the unhappy man laid one finger uponhis own breast, and with the other hand pointed at Unorna's fair youngface. The Wanderer's eyes obeyed the guiding gesture, and he looked fromone to the other, and again the belief crossed his thoughts that therewas less of madness about Israel Kafka than Keyork would have had himthink. Trying to read the truth from Unorna's eyes, he saw that theyavoided his, and he fancied he detected symptoms of distress in herpallor and contracted lips. And yet he argued that if it were all trueshe would silence the speaker, and that the only reason for her patiencemust be sought in her willingness to humour the diseased brain in itswanderings. In either case he pitied Israel Kafka profoundly, and hiscompassion increased from one moment to another. 

"I loved her. There is a history in those three words which neither theeloquent tongue nor the skilled pen can tell. See how coldly I speak. I command my speech, I may pick and choose among ten thousand words andphrases, and describe love at my leisure. She grants me time; she isvery merciful to-day. What would you have me say? You know what loveis. Think of such love as yours can have been, and take twice that, andthree times over, and a hundred thousand times, and cram it, burning, flaming, melting into your bursting heart--then you would know a tenthof what I have known. Love, indeed! Who can have known love but me? Istand alone. Since the dull, unlovely world first jarred and trembledand began to move, there has not been another of my kind, nor has mansuffered as I have suffered, and been crushed and torn and thrown asideto die, without even the mercy of a death-wound. Describe it? Tellit? Look at me! I am both love's description and the epitaph on hisgravestone. In me he lived, me he tortured, with me he dies never tolive again as he has lived this once. There is no justice and no mercy!Think not that it is enough to love and that you will be loved inreturn. Do not think that--do not dream that. Do you not know that thefiercest drought is as a spring rain to the rocks, which thirst not andneed no refreshment?"

Again he fixed his eyes on Unorna's face and faintly smiled. Apparentlyshe was displeased. 

"What is it that you would say?" she asked coldly. "What is this thatyou tell us of rocks and rain, and death-wounds, and the rest? Yousay you loved me once--that was a madness. You say that I never lovedyou--that, at least, is truth. Is that your story? It is indeed shortenough, and I marvel at the many words in which you have put so little!"

She laughed in a hard tone. But Israel Kafka's eyes grew dark and thesombre fire beamed in them as he spoke again. The weary, tortured smileleft his wan lips, and his pale face grew stern. 

"Laugh, laugh, Unorna!" he cried. "You do not laugh alone. And yet--Ilove you still, I love you so well in spite of all that I cannot laughat you as I would, even though I were to see you again clinging to therock and imploring it to take pity on your thirst. And he who dies foryou, Unorna--of him you ask nothing, save that he will crawl away anddie alone, and not disturb your delicate life with such an unseemlysight. "

"You talk of death!" exclaimed Unorna scornfully. "You talk of dying forme because you are ill to-day. To-morrow, Keyork Arabian will have curedyou, and then, for aught I know, you will talk of killing me instead. This is child's talk, boy's talk. If we are to listen to you, you mustbe more eloquent. You must give us such a tale of woe as shall drawtears from our eyes and sobs from our breasts--then we will applaud youand let you go. That shall be your reward. "

The Wanderer glanced at her in surprise. There was a bitterness in hertone of which he had not believed her soft voice capable. 

"Why do you hate him so if he is mad?" he asked. 

"The reason is not far to seek, " said Kafka. "This woman here--God madeher crooked-hearted! Love her, and she will hate you as only she haslearned how to hate. Show her that cold face of yours, and she will loveyou so that she will make a carpet of her pride for you to walk on--ay, or spit on either, if you deign to be so kind. She has a wonderful kindof heart, for it freezes when you burn it, and melts when you freezeit. "

"Are you mad, indeed?" asked the Wanderer, suddenly planting himself infront of Kafka. "They told me so--I can almost believe it. "

"No--I am not mad yet, " answered the younger man, facing him fearlessly. "You need not come between me and her. She can protect herself. Youwould know that if you knew what I saw her do with you, first when Icame here. "

"What did she do?" The Wanderer turned quickly as he stood, and lookedat Unorna. 

"Do not listen to his ravings, " she said. The words seemed weak andpoorly chosen, and there was a strange look in her face as though shewere either afraid or desperate, or both. 

"She loves you, " said Israel Kafka calmly. "And you do not know it. Shehas power over you, as she has over me, but the power to make you loveher she has not. She will destroy you, and your state will be no betterthan mine to-day. We shall have moved on a step, for I shall be dead andyou will be the madman, and she will have found another to love andto torture. The world is full of them. Her altar will never lacksacrifices. "

The Wanderer's face was grave. 

"You may be mad or not, " he said. "I cannot tell. But you say monstrousthings, and you shall not repeat them. "

"Did she not say that I might speak?" asked Kafka with a bitter laugh. 

"I will keep my word, " said Unorna. "You seek your own destruction. Findit in your own way. It will not be the less sure. Speak--say what youwill. You shall not be interrupted. "

The Wanderer drew back, not understanding what was passing, nor whyUnorna was so long-suffering. 

"Say all you have to say, " she repeated, coming forward so that shestood directly in front of Israel Kafka. "And you, " she added, speakingto the Wanderer, "leave him to me. He is quite right--I can protectmyself if I need any protection. "

"You remember how we parted, Unorna?" said Kafka. "It is a month to-day. I did not expect a greeting of you when I came back, or, if I did expectit, I was foolish and unthinking. I should have known you better. Ishould have known that there is one half of your word which you neverbreak--the cruel half, and one thing which you cannot forgive, andwhich is my love for you. And yet that is the very thing which I cannotforget. I have come back to tell you so. You may as well know it. "

Unorna's expression grew cold, as she saw that he abandoned the strainof reproach and spoke once more of his love for her. 

"Yes, I see what you mean, " he said, very quietly. "You mean to show meby your face that you give me no hope. I should have known that by otherthings I have seen here. God knows, I have seen enough! But I meant tofind you alone. I went to your home, I saw you go out, I followed you, I entered here--I heard all--and I understood, for I know your power, as this man cannot know it. Do you wonder that I followed you? Do youdespise me? Do you think I still care, because you do? Love is strongerthan the woman loved and for her we do deeds of baseness, unblushingly, which she would forbid our doing, and for which she despises us whenshe hates us, and loves us the more dearly when she loves us at all. Youhate me--then despise me, too, if you will. It is too late to care. Ifollowed you like a spy, I saw what I expected to see, I have sufferedwhat I knew I should suffer. You know that I have been away during thiswhole month, and that I have travelled thousands of leagues in the hopeof forgetting you. "

"And yet I fancied I had seen you within the month, " Unorna said, with acruel smile. 

"They say that ghosts haunt the places they have loved, " answered Kafkaunmoved. "If that be true I may have troubled your dreams and you mayhave seen me. I have come back broken in body and in heart. I think Ihave come back to die here. The life is going out of me, but before itis quite gone I can say two things. I can tell you that I know you atlast, and that, in spite of the horror of knowing what you are, I loveyou still. "

"Am I so very horrible?" she asked scornfully. 

"You know what you are, better than I can tell you, but not better thanI know. I know even the secret meaning of your moods and caprices. Iknow why you are willing to listen to me, this last time, so patiently, with only now and then a sneer and a cutting laugh. "

"Why?"

"In order to make me suffer the more. You will never forgive me now, foryou know that I know, and that alone is a sin past all forgiveness, andover and above that I am guilty of the crime of loving when you have nolove for me. "

"And as a last resource you come to me and recapitulate your misdeeds. The plan is certainly original, though it lacks wit. "

"There is least wit where there is most love, Unorna. I take no accountof the height of my folly when I see the depth of my love, which hasswallowed up myself and all my life. In the last hour I have known itsdepth and breadth and strength, for I have seen what it can bear. Andwhy should I complain of it? Have I not many times said that I would diefor you willingly--and is it not dying for you to die of love for you?To prove my faith it were too easy a death. When I look into your face Iknow that there is in me the heart that made true Christian martyrs----"

Unorna laughed. 

"Would you be a martyr?" she asked. 

"Nor for your Faith--but for the faith I once had in you, and for thelove that no martyrdom could kill. Ay--to prove that love I would die ahundred deaths--and to gain yours I would die the death eternal. "

"And you would have deserved it. Have you not deserved enough already, enough of martyrdom, for tracking me to-day, following me stealthily, like a thief and a spy, to find out my ends and my doings?"

"I love you, Unorna. "

"And therefore you suspect me of unimaginable evil--and therefore youcome out of your hiding-place and accuse me of things I have neitherdone nor thought of doing, building up falsehood upon lie, and lieupon falsehood in the attempt to ruin me in the eyes of one who has myfriendship and who is my friend. You are foolish to throw yourself uponmy mercy, Israel Kafka. "

"Foolish? Yes, and mad, too! And my madness is all you have leftme--take it--it is yours! You cannot kill my love. Deny my words, denyyour deeds! Let all be false in you--it is but one pain more, and myheart is not broken yet. It will bear another. Tell me that what I sawhad no reality--that you did not make him sleep--here, on this spot, before my eyes--that you did not pour your love into his sleeping ears, that you did not command, implore, entreat--and fail! What is it all tome, whether you speak truth or not? Tell me it is not true that I woulddie a thousand martyrdoms for your sake, as you are, and if you were athousand times worse than you are! Your wrong, your right, your truth, your falsehood, you yourself are swallowed up in the love I bear you! Ilove you always, and I will say it, and say it again--ah, your eyes! Ilove them, too! Take me into them, Unorna--whether in hate or love--butin love--yes--love--Unorna--golden Unorna!"

With the cry on his lips--the name he had given her in other days--hemade one mad step forwards, throwing out his arms as though to claspher to him. But it was too late. Even while he had been speaking hermysterious influence had overpowered him, as he had known that it would, when she so pleased. 

She caught his two hands in the air, and pressed him back and held himagainst the tall slab. The whole pitilessness of her nature gleamed likea cold light in her white face. 

"There was a martyr of your race once, " she said in cruel tones. "Hisname was Simon Abeles. You talk of martyrdom! You shall know what itmeans--though it be too good for you, who spy upon the woman whom yousay you love. "

The hectic flush of passion sank from Israel Kafka's cheek. Rigid, with outstretched arms and bent head, he stood against the ancientgravestone. Above him, as though raised to heaven in silentsupplication, were the sculptured hands that marked the lastresting-place of a Kohn. 

"You shall know now, " said Unorna. "You shall suffer indeed. "

CHAPTER XV[*]

 [*] The deeds here described were done in Prague on the twenty-first day of February in the year 1694. Lazarus and his accomplice Levi Kurtzhandel, or Brevimanus, or "the short-handed, " were betrayed by their own people. Lazarus hanged himself in prison, and Levi suffered death by the wheel--repentant, it is said, and himself baptized. A full account of the trial, written in Latin, was printed, and a copy of it may be seen in the State Museum in Prague. The body of Simon Abeles was exhumed and rests in the Teyn Kirche, in the chapel on the left of the high altar. The slight extension of certain scenes not fully described in the Latin volume will be pardoned in a work of fiction. 

Unorna's voice sank from the tone of anger to a lower pitch. She spokequietly and very distinctly as though to impress every word upon the earof the man who was in her power. The Wanderer listened, too, scarcelycomprehending at first, but slowly yielding to the influence she exerteduntil the vision rose before him also with all its moving scenes, in allits truth and in all its horror. As in a dream the deeds that had beenpassed before him, the desolate burial-ground was peopled with formsand faces of other days, the gravestones rose from the earth and piledthemselves into gloomy houses and remote courts and dim streets andvenerable churches, the dry and twisted trees shrank down, and broadenedand swung their branches as arms, and drew up their roots out of theground as feet under them and moved hither and thither. And the knotsand bosses and gnarls upon them became faces, dark, eagle-like andkeen, and the creaking and crackling of the boughs and twigs under thepiercing blast that swept by, became articulate and like the voices ofold men talking angrily together. There were sudden changes from day tonight and from night to day. In dark chambers crouching men took counselof blood together under the feeble rays of a flickering lamp. In theuncertain twilight of winter, muffled figures lurked at the corner ofstreets, waiting for some one to pass, who must not escape them. As theWanderer gazed and listened, Israel Kafka was transformed. He no longerstood with outstretched arms, his back against a crumbling slab, hisfilmy eyes fixed on Unorna's face. He grew younger; his features werethose of a boy of scarcely thirteen years, pale, earnest and brightenedby a soft light which followed him hither and thither, and he was notalone. He moved with others through the old familiar streets ofthe city, clothed in a fashion of other times, speaking in accentscomprehensible but unlike the speech of to-day, acting in a dim andfar-off life that had once been. 

The Wanderer looked, and, as in dreams, he knew that what he saw wasunreal, he knew that the changing walls and streets and houses andpublic places were built up of gravestones which in truth were deeplyplanted in the ground, immovable and incapable of spontaneous motion; heknew that the crowds of men and women were not human beings but gnarledand twisted trees rooted in the earth, and that the hum of voices whichreached his ears was but the sound of dried branches bending in thewind; he knew that Israel Kafka was not the pale-faced boy who glidedfrom place to place followed everywhere by a soft radiance; he knew thatUnorna was the source and origin of the vision, and that the minglingspeeches of the actors, now shrill in angry altercation, now hissingin low, fierce whisper, were really formed upon Unorna's lips and madeaudible through her tones, as the chorus of indistinct speech proceededfrom the swaying trees. It was to him an illusion of which he understoodthe key and penetrated the secret, but it was marvellous in its way, and he was held enthralled from the first moment when it began to unfolditself. He understood further that Israel Kafka was in a state differentfrom this, that he was suffering all the reality of another life, whichto the Wanderer was but a dream. For the moment all his faculties had adouble perception of things and sounds, distinguishing clearly betweenthe fact and the mirage that distorted and obscured it. For the momenthe was aware that his reason was awake though his eyes and his earsmight be sleeping. Then the unequal contest between the senses and theintellect ceased, and while still retaining the dim consciousness thatthe source of all he saw and heard lay in Unorna's brain, he allowedhimself to be led quickly from one scene to another, absorbed and takenout of himself by the horror of the deeds done before him. 

At first, indeed, the vision, though vivid, seemed objectless and ofuncertain meaning. The dark depths of the Jews' quarter of the citywere opened, and it was towards evening. Throngs of gowned men, crooked, bearded, filthy, vulture-eyed, crowded upon each other in a narrowpublic place, talking in quick, shrill accents, gesticulating, withhands and arms and heads and bodies, laughing, chuckling, chattering, hook-nosed and loose-lipped, grasping fat purses in lean fingers, shaking greasy curls that straggled out under caps of greasy fur, glancing to right and left with quick, gleaming looks that pierced thegloom like fitful flashes of lightning, plucking at each other by thesleeve and pointing long fingers and crooked nails, two, three and fourat a time, as markers, in their ready reckoning, a writhing mass ofhumanity, intoxicated by the smell of gold, mad for its possession, halfhysteric with the fear of losing it, timid, yet dangerous, poisoned tothe core by the sweet sting of money, terrible in intelligence, vilein heart, contemptible in body, irresistible in the unity of theirgreed--the Jews of Prague, two hundred years ago. 

In one corner of the dusky place there was a little light. A boy stoodthere, beside a veiled woman, and the light that seemed to cling abouthim was not the reflection of gold. He was very young. His pale face hadin it all the lost beauty of the Jewish race, the lips were clearly cut, even, pure in outline and firm, the forehead broad with thought, thefeatures noble, aquiline--not vulture-like. Such a face might holyStephen, Deacon and Protomartyr, have turned upon the young men who laidtheir garments at the fee of the unconverted Saul. 

He stood there, looking on at the scene in the market-place, notwondering, for nothing of it was new to him, not scorning, for he feltno hate, not wrathful, for he dreamed of peace. He would have had itotherwise--that was all. He would have had the stream flow back uponits source and take a new channel for itself, he would have seen thestrength of his people wielded in cleaner deeds for nobler aims. Thegold he hated, the race for it he despised, the poison of it heloathed, but he had neither loathing nor contempt nor hatred for the menthemselves. He looked upon them and he loved to think that the carrionvulture might once again be purified and lifted on strong wings andbecome, as in old days, the eagle of the mountains. 

For many minutes he gazed in silence. Then he sighed and turned away. Heheld certain books in his hand, for he had come from the school of thesynagogue where, throughout the short winter days, the rabbis taught himand his companions the mysteries of the sacred tongue. The woman by hisside was a servant in his father's house, and it was her duty to attendhim through the streets, until the day when, being judged a man, heshould be suddenly freed from the bondage of childish things. 

"Let us go, " he said in a low voice. "The air is full of gold and heavy. I cannot breathe it. "

"Whither?" asked the woman. 

"Thou knowest, " he answered. And suddenly the faint radiance that wasalways about him grew brighter, and spread out arms behind him, to theright and left, in the figure of a cross. 

They walked together, side by side, quickly and often glancing behindthem as though to see whether they were followed. And yet it seemed asthough it was not they who moved, but the city about them which changed. The throng of busy Jews grew shadowy and disappeared, their shrillvoices were lost in the distance. There were other people in the street, of other features and in different garbs, of prouder bearing and hot, restless manner, broad-shouldered, erect, manly, with spur on heel andsword at side. The outline of the old synagogue melted into themurky air and changed its shape, and stood out again in other andever-changing forms. Now they were passing before the walls of a noblepalace, now beneath long, low galleries of arches, now again across theopen space of the Great Ring in the midst of the city--then all at oncethey were standing before the richly carved doorway of the Teyn Kirche, the very doorway out of which the Wanderer had followed the fleetingshadow of Beatrice's figure but a month ago. And then they paused, andlooked again to the right and left, and searched the dark corners withpiercing glances. 

"Thy life is in thine hand, " said the woman, speaking close to the boy'sear. "It is yet time. Turn with me and let us go back. "

The mysterious radiance lit up the youth's beautiful face in the darkstreet and showed the fearless yet gentle smile that was on his lips. 

"What is there to fear?" he asked. 

"Death, " answered the woman in a trembling tone. "They will kill thee, and it shall be upon my head. "

"And what is Death?" he asked again, and the smile was still upon hisface as he led the way up the steps. 

The woman bowed her head and drew her veil more closely about her andfollowed him. Then they were within the church, darker, more ghostly, less rich in those days than now. The boy stood beside the hewn stonebasin wherein was the blessed water, and he touched the frozen surfacewith his fingers, and held them out to his companion. 

"Is it thus?" he asked. And the heavenly smile grew more radiant as hemade the sign of the Cross. 

Again the woman inclined her head. 

"Be it not upon me!" she exclaimed earnestly. "Though I would it mightbe for ever so with thee. "

"It is for ever, " the boy answered. 

He went forward and prostrated himself before the high altar, and thesoft light hovered above him. The woman knelt at a little distance fromhim, with clasped hands and upturned eyes. The church was very dark andsilent. 

An old man in a monk's robe came forward out of the shadow of the choirand stood behind the marble rails and looked down at the boy's prostratefigure, wonderingly. Then the low gateway was opened and he descendedthe three steps and bent down to the young head. 

"What wouldest thou?" he asked. 

Simon Abeles rose until he knelt, and looked up into the old man's face. 

"I am a Jew. I would be a Christian. I would be baptized. "

"Fearest thou not thy people?" the monk asked. 

"I fear not death, " answered the boy simply. 

"Come with me. "

Trembling, the woman followed them both, and all were lost in the gloomof the church. They were not to be seen, and all was still for a space. Suddenly a clear voice broke the silence. 

"_Ego baptizo te in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. _"

Then the woman and the boy were standing again without the entrance inthe chilly air, and the ancient monk was upon the threshold under thecarved arch; his thin hands, white in the darkness, were lifted high, and he blessed them, and they went their way. 

In the moving vision the radiance was brighter still and illuminated thestreets as they moved on. Then a cloud descended over all, and certaindays and weeks passed, and again the boy was walking swiftly towardthe church. But the woman was not with him, and he believed that he wasalone, though the messengers of evil were upon him. Two dark figuresmoved in the shadow, silent, noiseless in their walk, muffled in longgarments. He went on, no longer deigning to look back, beyond fear as hehad ever been, and beyond even the expectation of a danger. He went intothe church, and the two men made gestures, and spoke in low tones, andhid themselves in the shade of the buttresses outside. 

The vision grew darker and a terrible stillness was over everything, forthe church was not opened to the sight this time. There was a horror oflong waiting with the certainty of what was to come. The narrow streetwas empty to the eye, and yet there was the knowledge of evil presence, of two strong men waiting in the dark to take their victim to the placeof expiation. And the horror grew in the silence and the emptiness, until it was unbearable. 

The door opened and the boy was with the monk under the black arch. The old man embraced him and blessed him and stood still for a momentwatching him as he went down. Then he, also, turned and went back, andthe door was closed. 

Swiftly the two men glided from their hiding-place and sped along theuneven pavement. The boy paused and faced them, for he felt that he wastaken. They grasped him by the arms on each side, Lazarus his father, and Levi, surnamed the Short-handed, the strongest and the cruellest andthe most relentless of the younger rabbis. Their grip was rough, and theolder man held a coarse woollen cloth in his hand with which to smotherthe boy's cries if he should call out for help. But he was very calm anddid not resist them. 

"What would you?" he asked. 

"And what doest thou in a Christian church?" asked Lazarus in low fiercetones. 

"What Christians do, since I am one of them, " answered the youth, unmoved. 

Lazarus said nothing, but he struck the boy on the mouth with his hardhand so that the blood ran down. 

"Not here!" exclaimed Levi, anxiously looking about. 

And they hurried him away through dark and narrow lanes. He opposed noresistance to Levi's rough strength, not only suffering himself tobe dragged along but doing his best to keep pace with the man's longstrides, nor did he murmur at the blows and thrusts dealt him from timeto time by his father from the other side. During some minutes they werestill traversing the Christian part of the city. A single loud cry forhelp would have brought a rescue, a few words to the rescuers would haveroused a mob of fierce men and the two Jews would have paid with theirlives for the deeds they had not yet committed. But Simon Abeles utteredno cry and offered no resistance. He had said that he feared not death, and he had spoken the truth, not knowing what manner of death was to behis. Onward they sped, and in the vision the way they traversed seemedto sweep past them, so that they remained always in sight though alwayshurrying on. The Christian quarter was passed; before them hung thechain of one of those gates which gave access to the city of the Jews. With a jeer and an oath the bearded sentry watched them pass--the martyrand his torturers. One word to him, even then, and the butt of his heavyhalberd would have broken Levi's arm and laid the boy's father in thedust. The word was not spoken. On through the filthy ways, on and on, through narrow courts and tortuous passages to a dark low doorway. Then, again, the vision showed but an empty street and there was silence for aspace, and a horror of long waiting in the falling night. 

Lights moved within the house, and then one window after another wasbolted and barred from within. Still the silence endured until the earwas grown used to it and could hear sounds very far off, from deep downbelow the house itself, but the walls did not open and the scene did notchange. A dull noise, bad to hear, resounded as from beneath a vault, and then another and another--the sound of cruel blows upon a humanbody. Then a pause. 

"Wilt thou renounce it?" asked the voice of Lazarus. 

"_Kyrie eleison, Christie eleison!_" came the answer, brave and clear. 

"Lay on, Levi, and let thy arm be strong!"

And again the sound of blows, regular, merciless, came up from thebowels of the earth. 

"Dost thou repent? Dost thou renounce? Dost thou deny?"

"I repent of my sins--I renounce your ways--I believe in the Lord--"

The sacred name was not heard. A smothered groan as of one losingconsciousness in extreme torture was all that came up from below. 

"Lay on, Levi, lay on!"

"Nay, " answered the strong rabbi, "the boy will die. Let us leave himhere for this night. Perchance cold and hunger will be more potent thanstripes, when he shall come to himself. "

"As though sayest, " answered the father in angry reluctance. 

Again all was silent. Soon the rays of light ceased to shine through thecrevices of the outer shutters, and sleep descended upon the quarterof the Jews. Still the scene in the vision changed not. After a longstillness a clear young voice was heard speaking. 

"Lord, if it be Thy will that I die, grant that I may bear all in Thyname, grant that I, unworthy, may endure in this body the punishmentsdue to me in spirit for my sins. And if it be Thy will that I live, letmy life be used also for Thy glory. "

The voice ceased and the cloud of passing time descended upon the visionand was lifted again and again. And each time the same voice was heardand the sound of torturing blows, but the voice of the boy was weakerevery night, though it was not less brave. 

"I believe, " it said, always. "Do what you will, you have power over thebody, but I have the Faith over which you have no power. "

So the days and the nights passed, and though the prayer came up infeeble tones, it was born of a mighty spirit and it rang in the earsof the tormentors as the voice of an angel which they had no power tosilence, appealing from them to the tribunal of the Throne of God MostHigh. 

Day by day, also, the rabbis and the elders began to congregate togetherat evening before the house of Lazarus and to talk with him and witheach other, debating how they might break the endurance of his son andbring him again into the synagogue as one of themselves. Chief amongthem in their councils was Levi, the Short-handed, devising new torturesfor the frail body to bear and boasting how he would conquer thestubborn boy by the might of his hands to hurt. Some of the rabbis shooktheir heads. 

"He is possessed of a devil, " they said. "He will die and repent not. "

But others nodded approvingly and wagged their filthy heads and saidthat when the fool had been chastised the evil spirit would depart fromhim. 

Once more the cloud of passing time descended and was lifted. Then thewalls of the house were opened and in a low arched chamber the rabbissat about a black table. It was night and a single smoking lamp waslighted, a mere wick projecting out of a three-cornered vessel of copperwhich was full of oil and was hung from the vault with blackened wires. Seven rabbis sat at the board, and at the head sat Lazarus. Theircrooked hands and claw-like nails moved uneasily and there was a luridfire in their vulture's eyes. They bent forward, speaking to each otherin low tones, and from beneath their greasy caps their anointedside curls dangled and swung as they moved their heads. But Levi theShort-handed was not among them. Their muffled talk was interrupted fromtime to time by the sound of sharp, loud blows, as of a hammer strikingupon nails, and as though a carpenter were at work not far from the roomin which they sat. 

"He has not repented, " said Lazarus, from his place. "Neithermany stripes, nor cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, have moved him torighteousness. It is written that he shall be cut off from his people. "

"He shall be cut off, " answered the rabbis with one voice. 

"It is right and just that he should die, " continued the father. "Shallwe give him over to the Christians that he may dwell among them andbecome one of them, and be shown before the world to our shame?"

"We will not let him go, " said the dark man, and an evil smile flickeredfrom one face to another as a firefly flutters from tree to tree in thenight--as though the spirit of evil had touched each one in turn. 

"We will not let him go, " said each again. 

Lazarus also smiled as though in assent, and bowed his head a littlebefore he spoke. 

"I am obedient to your judgment. It is yours to command and mine toobey. If you say that he must die, let him die. He is my son. Take him. Did not our father Abraham lay Isaac upon the altar and offer him as aburnt sacrifice before the Lord?"

"Let him die, " said the rabbis. 

"Then let him die, " answered Lazarus. "I am your servant. It is mine toobey. "

"His blood be on our heads, " they said. And again, the evil smile wentround. 

"It is then expedient that we determine of what manner his death shallbe, " continued the father, inclining his body to signify his submission. 

"It is not lawful to shed his blood, " said the rabbis. "And we cannotstone him, lest we be brought to judgment of the Christians. Determinethou the manner of his death. "

"My masters, if you will it, let him be brought once more before us. Letus all hear with our ears his denial, and if he repent at the last, it is well, let him live. But if he harden his heart against ourentreaties, let him die. Levi hath brought certain pieces of wood hitherto my house, and is even now at work. If the youth is still stubborn inhis unbelief, let him die even as the Unbeliever died--by the righteousjudgment of the Romans. "

"Let it be so. Let him be crucified!" said the rabbis with one voice. 

Then Lazarus rose and went out, and, in the vision, the rabbis remainedseated, motionless in their places awaiting his return. The noise ofLevi's hammer echoed through the low vaulted chamber, and at each blowthe smoking lamp quivered a little, casting strange shadows upon theevil faces beneath its light. At last footsteps, slow and uncertain, were heard without, the low door opened, and Lazarus entered, holding upthe body of his son before him. 

"I have brought him before you for the last time, " he said. "Questionhim and hear his condemnation out of his own mouth. He repentsnot, though I have done my utmost to bring him back to the paths ofrighteousness. Question him, my masters, and let us see what he willsay. "

White and exhausted with long hunger and thirst, his body broken bytorture, scarcely any longer sensible to bodily pain, Simon Abeles wouldhave fallen to the ground had his father not held him under the arms. His head hung forward and the pale and noble face was inclined towardsthe breast, but the deep, dark eyes were open and gazed calmly uponthose who sat in judgment at the table. A rough piece of linen cloth waswrapped about the boy's shoulders and body, but his thin arms were bare. 

"Hearest thou, Simon, son of Lazarus?" asked the rabbis. "Knowest thouin whose presence thou standest?"

"I hear you and I know you all. " There was no fear in the voice thoughit trembled from weakness. 

"Renounce then thy errors, and having suffered the chastisement of thyfolly, return to the ways of thy father and of thy father's house and ofall thy people. "

"I renounce my sins, and whatsoever is yet left for me to suffer, I will, by God's help, so bear it as to be not unworthy of Christ'smercy. "

The rabbis gazed at the brave young face, and smiled and wagged theirbeards, talking one with another in low tones. 

"It is as we feared, " they said. "He is unrepentant and he is worthy ofdeath. It is not expedient that the young adder should live. Thereis poison under his tongue, and he speaks things not lawful for anIsraelite to hear. Let him die, that we may see him no more, and thatour children be not corrupted by his false teachings. "

"Hearest thou? Thou shalt die. " It was Lazarus who spoke, while holdingup the boy before the table and hissing the words into his ear. 

"I hear. I am ready. Lead me forth. "

"There is yet time to repent. If thou wilt but deny what thou hast saidthese many days, and return to us, thou shalt be forgiven and thy daysshall be long among us, and thy children's days after thee, and the Lordshall perchance have mercy and increase thy goods among thy fellows. "

"Let him alone, " said the rabbis. "He is unrepentant. "

"Lead me forth, " said Simon Abeles. 

"Lead him forth, " repeated the rabbis. "Perchance, when he sees themanner of his death before his eyes, he will repent at the last. "

The boy's fearless eyes looked from one to the other. 

"Whatsoever it be, " he said, "I have but one life. Take it as youwill. I die in the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ, and into His hands Icommend my spirit--which you cannot take. "

"Lead him forth! Let him be crucified!" cried the rabbis together. "Wewill hear him no longer. "

Then Lazarus led his son away from them, and left them talking togetherand shaking their heads and wagging their filthy beards. And in thevision the scene changed. The chamber with its flickering lamp and itsblack table and all the men who were in it grew dim and faded away, andin its place there was a dim inner court between high houses, upon whichonly the windows of the house of Lazarus opened. There, upon the ground, stood a lantern of horn, and the soft yellow light of it fell upon twopieces of wood, nailed one upon the other to form a small cross--small, indeed, but yet tall enough and broad enough and strong enough to bearthe slight burden of the boy's frail body. And beside it stood Lazarusand Levi, the Short-handed, the strong rabbi, holding Simon Abelesbetween them. On the ground lay pieces of cord, ready, wherewith to bindhim to the cross, for they held it unlawful to shed his blood. 

It was soon done. The two men took up the cross and set it, with thebody hanging thereon, against the wall of the narrow court, over againstthe house of Lazarus. 

"Thou mayest still repent--during this night, " said the father, holdingup the horn lantern and looking into his son's tortured face. 

"Ay--there is yet time, " said Levi, brutally. "He will not die so soon. "

"Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit, " said the weak voice oncemore. 

Then Lazarus raised his hand and struck him once more on the mouth, ashe had done on that first night when he had seized him near the church. But Levi, the Short-handed, as though in wrath at seeing all historments fail, dealt him one heavy blow just where the ear joins theneck, and it was over at last. A radiant smile of peace flickered overthe pale face, the eyelids quivered and closed, the head fell forwardupon the breast and the martyrdom of Simon Abeles was consummated. 

Into the dark court came the rabbis one by one from the inner chamber, and each as he came took up the horn lantern and held it to the deadface and smiled and spoke a few low words in the Hebrew tongue and thenwent out into the street, until only Lazarus and Levi were left alonewith the dead body. Then they debated what they should do, and for atime they went into the house and refreshed themselves with food andwine, and comforted each other, well knowing that they had done an evildeed. And they came back when it was late and wrapped the body in thecoarse cloth and carried it out stealthily and buried it in the Jewishcemetery, and departed again to their own houses. 

"And there he lay, " said Unorna, "the boy of your race who was faithfulto death. Have you suffered? Have you for one short hour known themeaning of such great words as you dared to speak to me? Do you know nowwhat it means to be a martyr, to suffer for standing on the very spotwhere he lay, you have felt in some small degree a part of what he musthave felt. You live. Be warned. If again you anger me, your life shallnot be spared you. "

The visions had all vanished. Again the wilderness of gravestones andlean, crooked trees appeared, wild and desolate as before. The Wandererroused himself and saw Unorna standing before Israel Kafka's prostratebody. As though suddenly released from a spell he sprang forward andknelt down, trying to revive the unconscious man by rubbing his handsand chafing his temples. 

CHAPTER XVI

The Wanderer glanced at Unorna's face and saw the expression ofrelentless hatred which had settled upon her features. He neitherunderstood it nor attempted to account for it. So far as he knew, IsraelKafka was mad, a man to be pitied, to be cared for, to be controlledperhaps, but assuredly not to be maltreated. Though the memories of thelast half hour were confused and distorted, the Wanderer began to beaware that the young Hebrew had been made to suffer almost beyond thebounds of human endurance. So far as it was possible to judge, IsraelKafka's fault consisted in loving a woman who did not return his love, and his worst misdeed had been his sudden intrusion upon an interviewin which the Wanderer could recall nothing which might not have beenrepeated to the whole world with impunity. 

During the last month he had lived a life of bodily and mentalindolence, in which all his keenest perceptions and strongest instinctshad been lulled into a semi-dormant state. Unknown to himself, themainspring of all thought and action had been taken out of his existencetogether with the very memory of it. For years he had lived and movedand wandered over the earth in obedience to one dominant idea. Bya magic of which he knew nothing that idea had been annihilated, temporarily, if not for ever, and the immediate consequence had been thecessation of all interest and of all desire for individual action. The suspension of all anxiety, restlessness and mental suffering hadbenefited the physical man though it had reduced the intelligence to astate bordering upon total apathy. 

But organisations, mental or physical, of great natural strength, arenever reduced to weakness by a period of inactivity. It is those mindsand bodies which have been artificially developed by a long course oftraining to a degree of power they were never intended to possess, whichlose that force almost immediately in idleness. The really very strongman has no need of constant gymnastic exercise; he will be stronger thanother men whatever he does. The strong character needs not be constantlystruggling against terrible odds in the most difficult situations inorder to be sure of its own solidity, nor must the deep intellect beever plodding through the mazes of intricate theories and problems thatit may feel itself superior to minds of less compass. There is muchnatural inborn strength of body and mind in the world, and on the wholethose who possess either accomplish more than those in whom either isthe result of long and well-regulated training. 

The belief in a great cruelty and a greater injustice roused the man whothroughout so many days had lived in calm indifference to every aspectof the humanity around him. Seeing that Israel Kafka could not beimmediately restored to consciousness, he rose to his feet again andstood between the prostrate victim and Unorna. 

"You are killing this man instead of saving him, " he said. "His crime, you say, is that he loves you. Is that a reason for using all yourpowers to destroy him in body and mind?"

"Perhaps, " answered Unorna calmly, though there was still a dangerouslight in her eyes. 

"No. It is no reason, " answered the Wanderer with a decision to whichUnorna was not accustomed. "Keyork tells me that the man is mad. He maybe. But he loves you and deserves mercy of you. "

"Mercy!" exclaimed Unorna with a cruel laugh. "You heard what hesaid--you were for silencing him yourself. You could not have done it. Ihave--and most effectually. "

"Whatever your art really may be, you use it badly and cruelly. A momentago I was blinded myself. If I had understood clearly while you werespeaking that you were making this poor fellow suffer in himself thehideous agony you described I would have stopped you. You blinded me, asyou dominated him. But I am not blind now. You shall not torment him anylonger. 

"And how would you have stopped me? How can you hinder me now?" askedUnorna. 

The Wanderer gazed at her in silence for some moments. There was anexpression in his face which she had never seen there. Towering aboveher he looked down. The massive brows were drawn together, the eyes werecold and impenetrable, every feature expressed strength. 

"By force, if need be, " he answered very quietly. 

The woman before him was not of those who fear or yield. She met hisglance boldly. Scarcely half an hour earlier she had been able to stealaway his senses and make him subject to her. She was ready to renew thecontest, though she realised that a change had taken place in him. 

"You talk of force to a woman!" she exclaimed, contemptuously. "You areindeed brave!"

"You are not a woman. You are the incarnation of cruelty. I have seenit. "

His eyes were cold and his voice was stern. Unorna felt a very sharppain and shivered as though she were cold. Whatever else was bad andcruel and untrue in her wild nature, her love for him was true andpassionate and enduring. And she loved him the more for the strength hewas beginning to show, and for his determined opposition. The words hehad spoken had hurt her as he little guessed they could, not knowingthat he alone of men had power to wound her. 

"You do not know, " she answered. "How should you?" Her glance fell andher voice trembled. 

"I know enough, " he said. He turned coldly from her and knelt againbeside Israel Kafka. 

He raised the pale head and supported it upon his knee, and gazedanxiously into the face, raising the lids with his finger as though toconvince himself that the man was not dead. Indeed there seemed to bebut little life left in him as he lay there with outstretched arms andtwisted fingers, scarcely breathing. In such a place, without so much asthe commonest restorative to aid him, the Wanderer saw that he had butlittle chance of success. 

Unorna stood aside, not looking at the two men. It was nothing to herwhether Kafka lived or died. She was suffering herself, more than shehad ever suffered in her life. He had said that she was not a woman--shewhose whole woman's nature worshiped him. He had said that she was theincarnation of cruelty--and it was true, though it was her love for himthat made her cruel to the other. Could he know what she had felt, whenshe had understood that Israel Kafka had heard her passionate words andseen her eager face, and had laughed her to scorn? Could any woman atsuch a time be less than cruel? Was not her hate for the man who lovedher as great as her love for the man who loved her not? Even if shepossessed instruments of torture for the soul more terrible than thoseinvented in darker ages to rack the human body, was she not justifiedin using them all? Was not Israel Kafka guilty of the greatest of allcrimes, of loving when he was not loved, and of witnessing her shame anddiscomfiture? She could not bear to look at him, lest she should loseherself and try to thrust the Wanderer aside and kill the man with herhands. 

Then she heard footsteps on the frozen path, and turning quickly she sawthat the Wanderer had lifted Kafka's body from the ground and was movingrapidly away, towards the entrance of the cemetery. He was leaving herin anger, without a word. She turned very pale and hesitated. Then sheran forward to overtake him, but he, hearing her approach, quickened hisstride, seeming but little hampered in his pace by the burden he bore. But Unorna, too, was fleet of foot and strong. 

"Stop!" she cried, laying her hand upon his arm. "Stop! Hear me! Do notleave me so!"

But he would not pause, and hurried onward towards the gate, whileshe hung upon his arm, trying to hinder him and speaking in desperateagitation. She felt that if she let him go now, he would leave her forever. In that moment even her hatred of Kafka sank into insignificance. She would do anything, bear anything, promise anything rather than losewhat she loved so wildly. 

"Stop!" she cried again. "I will save him--I will obey you--I will bekind to him--he will die in your arms if you do not let me help you--oh!for the love of Heaven, wait one moment! Only one moment!"

She so thrust herself in the Wanderer's path, hanging upon him andtrying to tear Kafka from his arms, that he was forced to stand stilland face her. 

"Let me pass!" he exclaimed, making another effort to advance. But sheclung to him and he could not move. 

"No, --I will not let you go, " she murmured. "You can do nothing withoutme, you will only kill him, as I would have done a moment ago--"

"And as you will do now, " he said sternly, "if I let you have your way. "

"By all that is Holy in Heaven, I will save him--he shall not evenremember--"

"Do not swear. I shall not believe you. "

"You will believe when you see--you will forgive me--you willunderstand. "

Without answering he exerted his strength and clasping the insensibleman more firmly in his arms he made one or two steps forward. Unorna'sfoot slipped on the frozen ground and she would have fallen to theearth, but she clung to him with desperate energy. Seeing that she wasin danger of some bodily hurt if he used greater force, the Wandererstopped again, uncertain how to act; Unorna stood before him, panting alittle from the struggle, her face as white as death. 

"Unless you kill me, " she said, "you shall not take him away so. Holdhim in your arms, if you will, but let me speak to him. "

"And how shall I know that you will not hurt him, you who hate him asyou do?"

"Am I not at your mercy?" asked Unorna. "If I deceive you, can you notdo what you will with me, even if I try to resist you, which I will not?Hold me, if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if Israel Kafkadoes not recover his strength and his consciousness, then take me withyou and deliver me up to justice as a witch--as a murderess, if youwill. "

The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what shesaid was true. She was in his power. 

"Restore him if you can, " he said. 

Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka's forehead and bending down whisperedinto his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who heldhim. The mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was almostinstantaneous. He opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna and then atthe Wanderer. There was neither pain nor passion in his face, but onlywonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their strength, he stoodupright and passed his hand over his eyes as though trying to rememberwhat had happened. 

"How came I here?" he asked in surprise. "What has happened to me?"

"You fainted, " said Unorna quietly. "You remember that you were verytired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will takeyou home. "

"Yes--yes--I must have fainted. Forgive me--it comes over me sometimes. "

He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the presentmoment, when he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his twocompanions, as they all three began to walk towards the gate. Unornaavoided his eyes, and seemed to be looking at the irregular slabs theypassed on their way. 

The Wanderer had intended to free himself from her as soon as Kafkaregained his senses, but he had not been prepared for such a suddenchange. He saw, now, that he could not exchange a word with her withoutexciting the man's suspicion, and he was by no means sure that the firstemotion might not produce a sudden and dangerous effect. He did not evenknow how great the change might be, which Unorna's words had broughtabout. That Kafka had forgotten at once his own conduct and the fearfulvision which Unorna had imposed upon him was clear, but it did notfollow that he had ceased to love her. Indeed, to one only partiallyacquainted with the laws which govern hypnotics, such a transitionseemed very far removed from possibility. He who in one moment hadhimself been made to forget utterly the dominant passion and love of hislife, was so completely ignorant of the fact that he could not believesuch a thing possible in any case whatsoever. 

In the dilemma in which he found himself there was nothing to be donebut to be guided by circumstances. He was not willing to leave Kafkaalone with the woman who hated him, and he saw no means of escaping hersociety so long as she chose to impose it upon them both. He supposed, too, that Unorna realized this as well as he did, and he tried to beprepared for all events by revolving all the possibilities in his mind. 

But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to timeshe stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern andcold as ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A terribleanxiety overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable, that he wouldhenceforth avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not reckoned uponsuch a nature as his, capable of being roused to implacable anger bymere sympathy for the suffering of another. Then, understanding it atlast, she had thought it would be enough that those sufferings shouldbe forgotten by him upon whom they had been inflicted. She could notcomprehend the horror he felt for herself and for her hideous cruelty. She had entered the cemetery in the consciousness of her strong willand of her mysterious powers certain of victory, sure that having oncesacrificed her pride and stooped so low as to command what should havecome of itself, she should see his face change and hear the ring ofpassion in that passionless voice. She had failed in that, and utterly. She had been surprised by her worst enemy. She had been laughed toscorn in the moment of her deepest humiliation, and she had lost thefoundations of friendship in the attempt to build upon them the hanginggardens of an artificial love. In that moment, as they reached the gate, Unorna was not far from despair. 

A Jewish boy, with puffed red lips and curving nostrils, was loiteringat the entrance. The Wanderer told him to find a carriage. 

"Two carriages, " said Unorna, quickly. The boy ran out. "I will go homealone, " she added. "You two can drive together. "

The Wanderer inclined his head in assent, but said nothing. IsraelKafka's dark eyes rested upon hers for a moment. 

"Why not go together?" he asked. 

Unorna started slightly and turned as though about to make a sharpanswer. But she checked herself, for the Wanderer was looking at her. She spoke to him instead of answering Kafka. 

"It is the best arrangement--do you not think so?" she asked. 

"Quite the best. "

"I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him, " she said, glancing at Kafka. 

The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard. 

"Have you been in pain? Do you feel as though you had been suffering?"she asked of the younger man, in a tone of sympathy and solicitude. 

"No. Why do you ask?"

Unorna smiled and looked at the Wanderer, with intention. He did notheed her. At that moment two carriages appeared and drew up at the endof the narrow alley which leads from the street to the entrance of thecemetery. All three walked forward together. Kafka went forward andopened the door of one of the conveyances for Unorna to get in. TheWanderer, still anxious for the man's safety, would have taken hisplace, but Kafka turned upon him almost defiantly. 

"Permit me, " he said. "I was before you here. "

The Wanderer stood civilly aside and lifted his hat. Unorna held out herhand, and he took it coldly, not being able to do otherwise. 

"You will let me know, will you not?" she said. "I am anxious abouthim. "

He raised his eyebrows a little and dropped her hand. 

"You shall be informed, " he said. 

Kafka helped her to get into the carriage. She drew him by the hand sothat his head was inside the door and the other man could not hear herwords. 

"I am anxious about you, " she said very kindly. "Make him come himselfto me and tell me how you are. "

"Surely--if you have asked him--"

"He hates me, " whispered Unorna quickly. "Unless you make him come hewill send no message. "

"Then let me come myself--I am perfectly well--"

"Hush--no!" she answered hurriedly. "Do as I say--it will be best foryou--and for me. Good-bye. "

"Your word is my law, " said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were brightand his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had spoken sokindly to him. A ray of hope entered his life. 

The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He understoodthat in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some mischief. Hercarriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter the one intendedfor them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his lodgings. Thenhe sank back into the corner, exhausted and conscious of his extremeweakness. A short silence followed. 

"You are in need of rest, " said the Wanderer, watching him curiously. 

"Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill. "

"You have suffered enough to tire the strongest. "

"In what way?" asked Kafka. "I have forgotten what happened. I know thatI followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I sawyou afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I came back frommy long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred. Did she make mesleep? I feel as I have felt before when I have fancied that she hashypnotised me. "

The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked asnaturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of little orno weight. 

"Yes, " he answered. "She made you sleep. "

"Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have forgottenit. "

The Wanderer hesitated a moment. 

"I cannot answer your question, " he said, at length. 

"Ah--she told me that you hated her, " said Kafka, turning his dark eyesto his companion. "But, yet, " he added, "that is hardly a reason why youshould not tell me what happened. "

"I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have noright to say to a stranger--which I could not easily say to a friend. "

"You need not spare me--"

"It might save you. "

"Then say it--though I do not know from what danger I am to be saved. But I can guess, perhaps. You would advise me to give up the attempt towin her. "

"Precisely. I need say no more. "

"On the contrary, " said Kafka with sudden energy, "when a man gives suchadvice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his reasons. "

The Wanderer looked at him calmly as he answered. 

"One man need hardly give a reason for saving another man's life. Yoursis in danger. "

"I see that you hate her, as she said you did. "

"You and she are both mistaken in that. I am not in love with her andI have ceased to be her friend. As for my interest in you, it does noteven pretend to be friendly--it is that which any man may feel for afellow-being, and what any man would feel who had seen what I have seenthis afternoon. "

The calm bearing and speech of the experienced man of the world carriedweight with it in the eyes of the young Moravian, whose hot blood knewlittle of restraint and less of caution; with the keen instinct ofhis race in the reading of character he suddenly understood that hiscompanion was at once generous and disinterested. A burst of confidencefollowed close upon the conviction. 

"If I am to lose her love, I would rather lose my life also, and by herhand, " he said hotly. "You are warning me against her. I feel that youare honest and I see that you are in earnest. I thank you. If I am indanger, do not try to save me. I saw her face a few moments ago, and shespoke to me. I cannot believe that she is plotting my destruction. "

The Wanderer was silent. He wondered whether it was his duty to door say more. Unorna was a changeable woman. She might love the manto-morrow. But Israel Kafka was too young to let the conversation drop. Boy-like he expected confidence for confidence, and was surprised at hiscompanion's taciturnity. 

"What did she say to me when I was asleep?" he asked, after a shortpause. 

"Did you ever hear the story of Simon Abeles?" the Wanderer inquired byway of answer. 

Kafka frowned and looked round sharply. 

"Simon Abeles? He was a renegade Hebrew boy. His father killed him. He is buried in the Teyn Kirche. What of him? What has he to do withUnorna, or with me? I am myself a Jew. The time has gone by when we Jewshid our heads. I am proud of what I am, and I will never be a Christian. What can Simon Abeles have to do with me?"

"Little enough, now that you are awake. "

"And when I was asleep, what then? She made me see him, perhaps?"

"She made you live his life. She made you suffer all that he suffered--"

"What?" cried Israel Kafka in a loud and angry tone. 

"What I say, " returned the other quietly. 

"And you did not interfere? You did not stop her? No, of course, Iforgot that you are a Christian. "

The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. It had not struck him thatIsrael Kafka might be a man of the deepest religious convictions, aHebrew of the Hebrews, and that what he would resent most would be thefact that in his sleep Unorna had made him play the part and sufferthe martyrdom of a convert to Christianity. This was exactly what tookplace. He would have suffered anything at Unorna's hands, and withoutcomplaint, even to bodily death, but his wrath rose furiously at thethought that she had been playing with what he held most sacred, thatshe had forced from his lips the denial of the faith of his people andthe confession of the Christian belief, perhaps the very words of thehated Creed. The modern Hebrew of Western Europe might be indifferent insuch a case, as though he had spoken in the delirium of a fever, but theJew of the less civilised East is a different being, and in some waysa stronger. Israel Kafka represented the best type of his race, and hisblood boiled at the insult that had been put upon him. The Wanderer saw, and understood, and at once began to respect him, as men who believefirmly in opposite creeds have been known to respect each other even ina life and death struggle. 

"I would have stopped her if I could, " he said. 

"Were you sleeping, too?" asked Kafka hotly. 

"I cannot tell. I was powerless though I was conscious. I saw only SimonAbeles in it all, though I seemed to be aware that you and he were oneperson. I did interfere--so soon as I was free to move. I think I savedyour life. I was carrying you away in my arms when she waked you. "

"I thank you--I suppose it is as you tell me. You could not move--butyou saw it all, you say. You saw me play the part of the apostate, youheard me confess the Christian's faith?"

"Yes--I saw you die in agony, confessing it still. "

Israel Kafka ground his teeth and turned his face away. The Wanderer wassilent. A few moments later the carriage stopped at the door of Kafka'slodging. The latter turned to his companion, who was startled by thechange in the young face. The mouth was now closely set, the featuresseemed bolder, the eyes harder and more manly, a look of greater dignityand strength was in the whole. 

"You do not love her?" he asked. "Do you give me your word that you donot love her?"

"If you need so much to assure you of it, I give you my word. I do notlove her. "

"Will you come with me for a few moments? I live here. "

The Wanderer made a gesture of assent. In a few moments they foundthemselves in a large room furnished almost in Eastern fashion, with fewobjects, but those of great value. Israel Kafka was alone in the worldand was rich. There were two or three divans, a few low, octagonal, inlaid tables, a dozen or more splendid weapons hung upon the wall, and the polished wooden floor was partly covered with extremely richcarpets. 

"Do you know what she said to me, when I helped her into the carriage?"asked Kafka. 

"No, I did not attempt to hear. "

"She did not mean that you should hear her. She made me promise to sendyou to her with news of myself. She said that you hated her and wouldnot go to her unless I begged you to do so. Is that true?"

"I have told you that I do not hate her. I hate her cruelty. I willcertainly not go to her of my own choice. "

"She said that I had fainted. That was a lie. She invented it as anexcuse to attract you, on the ground of her interest in my condition. "

"Evidently. "

"She hates me with an extreme hatred. Her real interest lay in showingyou how terrible that hatred could be. It is not possible to conceive ofanything more diabolically bad than what she did to me. She made me hersport--yours, too, perhaps, or she would at least have wished it. Onthat holy ground where my people lie in peace she made me deny my faith, she made me, in your eyes and her own, personate a renegade of my race, she made me confess in the Christian creed, she made me seem to die fora belief I abhor. Can you conceive of anything more devilish? A momentlater she smiles upon me and presses my hand, and is anxious to know ofmy good health. And but for you, I should never have known what she haddone to me. I owe you gratitude, though it be for the worst pain I haveever suffered. But do you think I will forgive her?"

"You would be very forgiving if you could, " said the Wanderer, his ownanger rising again at the remembrance of what he had seen. 

"And do you think that I can love still?"

"No. "

Israel Kafka walked the length of the room and then came back and stoodbefore the Wanderer and looked into his eyes. His face was very calm andresolute, the flush had vanished from his thin cheeks, and the featureswere set in an expression of irrevocable determination. Then he spoke, slowly and distinctly. 

"You are mistaken. I love her with all my heart. I will therefore killher. "

The Wanderer had seen many men in many lands and had witnessed theeffects of many passions. He gazed earnestly into Israel Kafka'sface, searching in vain for some manifestation of madness. But he wasdisappointed. The Moravian had formed his resolution in cold bloodand intended to carry it out. His only folly appeared to lie in theannouncement of his intention. But his next words explained even that. 

"She made me promise to send you to her if you would go, " he said. "Willyou go to her now?"

"What shall I tell her? I warn you that since--"

"You need not warn me. I know what you would say. But I will be nocommon murderer. I will not kill her as she would have killed me. Warnher, not me. Go to her and say, 'Israel Kafka has promised before Godthat he will take your blood in expiation, and there is no escape fromthe man who is himself ready to die. ' Tell her to fly for her life, andthat quickly. "

"And what will you gain by doing this murder?" asked the Wanderer, calmly. He was revolving schemes for Unorna's safety, and half amazed tofind himself forced in common humanity to take her part. 

"I shall free myself of my shame in loving her, at the price of herblood and mine. Will you go?"

"And what is to prevent me from delivering you over to safe keepingbefore you do this deed?"

"You have no witness, " answered Kafka with a smile. "You are a strangerin the city and in this country, and I am rich. I shall easily provethat you love Unorna, and that you wish to get rid of me out ofjealousy. "

"That is true, " said the Wanderer, thoughtfully. "I will go. "

"Go quickly, then, " said Israel Kafka, "for I shall follow soon. "

As the Wanderer left the room he saw the Moravian turn toward the placewhere the keen, splendid Eastern weapons hung upon the wall. 

CHAPTER XVII

The Wanderer knew that the case was urgent and the danger great. Therewas no mistaking the tone of Israel Kafka's voice nor the look in hisface. Nor did the savage resolution seem altogether unnatural in a manof the Moravian's breeding. The Wanderer had no time and but littleinclination to blame himself for the part he had played in disclosing tothe principal actor the nature of the scene which had taken place inthe cemetery, and the immediate consequences of that disclosure, thoughwholly unexpected, did not seem utterly illogical. Israel Kafka's naturewas eastern, violently passionate and, at the same time, long-sufferingin certain directions as only the fatalist can be. He could have lovedfor a lifetime faithfully, without requital; he would have suffered inpatience Unorna's anger, scorn, pity or caprice; he had long before nowresigned his free will into the keeping of a passion which was degradingas it enslaved all his thoughts and actions, but which hadsomething noble in it, inasmuch as it fitted him for the most heroicself-sacrifice. 

Unorna's act had brought the several seemingly contradictory elements ofhis character to bear upon one point. He had realised in the same momentthat it was impossible for her to love him; that her changing treatmentof him was not the result of caprice but of a fixed plan of her own, inthe execution of which she would spare him neither falsehood nor insult;that to love such a woman was the lowest degradation; that he couldnevertheless not destroy that love; and, finally, that the only escapefrom his shame lay in her destruction, and that this must in allprobability involve his own death also. At the same time he felt thatthere was something solemn in the expiation he was about to exact, something that accorded well with the fierce traditions of ancientIsrael, and the deed should not be done stealthily or in the dark. Unorna must know that she was to die by his hand, and why. He hadno object in concealment, for his own life was already ended by thecertainty that his love was hopeless, and on the other hand, fatalist ashe was, he believed that Unorna could not escape him and that no warningcould save her. 

The Wanderer understood most of these things as he hastened towards herhouse through the darkening streets. Not a carriage was to be seen, andhe was obliged to traverse the distance on foot, as often happens atsupreme moments, when everything might be gained by the saving of a fewminutes in conveying a warning. 

He saw himself in a very strange position. Half an hour had not elapsedsince he had watched Unorna driving away from the cemetery and hadinwardly determined that he would never, if possible, set eyes on heragain. Scarcely two hours earlier, he had been speaking to her of thesincere friendship which he felt was growing up for her in his heart. Since then he had learned, almost beyond the possibility of a doubt, that she loved him, and he had learned, too, to despise her, he had lefther meaning that the parting should be final, and now he was hurryingto her house to give her the warning which alone could save her fromdestruction. And yet, he found it impossible to detect any inconsistencyin his own conduct. As he had been conscious of doing his utmost to saveIsrael Kafka from her, so now he knew that he was doing all he could tosave Unorna from the Moravian, and he recognised the fact that no manwith the commonest feelings of humanity could have done less in eithercase. But he was conscious, also, of a change in himself which he didnot attempt to analyse. His indolent, self-satisfied apathy was gone, the strong interests of human life and death stirred him, mind and bodytogether acquired their activity and he was at all points once morea man. He was ignorant, indeed, of what had been taken from him. Thememory of Beatrice was gone, and he fancied himself one who had neverloved woman. He looked back with horror and amazement upon the emptinessof his past life, wondering how such an existence as he had led, orfancied he had led, could have been possible. 

But there was scant time for reflection upon the problem of his ownmission in the world as he hastened towards Unorna's house. His presentmission was clear enough and simple enough, though by no means easy ofaccomplishment. What Israel Kafka had told him was very true. Should heattempt a denunciation, he would have little chance of being believed. It would be easy enough for Kafka to bring witnesses to prove his ownlove for Unorna and the Wanderer's intimacy with her during the pastmonth, and the latter's consequent interest in disposing summarily ofhis Moravian rival. A stranger in the land would have small hope ofsuccess against a man whose antecedents were known, whose fortune wasreputed great, and who had at his back the whole gigantic strength ofthe Jewish interest in Prague, if he chose to invoke the assistance ofhis people. The matter would end in a few days in the Wanderer beingdriven from the country, while Israel Kafka would be left behind to workhis will as might seem best in his own eyes. 

There was Keyork Arabian. So far as it was possible to believe in thesincerity of any of the strange persons among whom the Wanderer foundhimself, it seemed certain that the sage was attached to Unorna by somebond of mutual interests which he would be loth to break. Keyork hadmany acquaintances and seemed to posses everywhere a certain amount ofrespect, whether because he was perhaps a member of some widespread, mysterious society of which the Wanderer knew nothing, or whether thisimportance of his was due to his personal superiority of mind and wideexperience of travel, no one could say. But it seemed certain that ifUnorna could be placed for the time being in a safe refuge, it would bebest to apply to Keyork to insure her further protection. Meanwhile thatrefuge must be found and Unorna must be conveyed to it without delay. 

The Wanderer was admitted without question. He found Unorna in heraccustomed place. She had thrown aside her furs and was sitting in anattitude of deep thought. Her dress was black, and in the soft light ofthe shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the midst ofthick shrubbery in a garden. Her elbow rested on her knee, her chin uponher beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was bright colour. 

She knew the Wanderer's footstep, but she neither moved her body norturned her head. She felt that she grew paler than before, and she couldhear her heart beating strongly. 

"I come from Israel Kafka, " said the Wanderer, standing still beforeher. 

She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not lookup. 

"What of him?" she asked in a voice without expression. "Is he well?"

"He bids me say to you that he has promised before Heaven to take yourlife, and that there is no escape from a man who is ready to lay downhis own. "

Unorna turned her head slowly towards him, and a very soft look stoleover her strange face. 

"And you have brought me his message--this warning--to save me?" shesaid. 

"As I tried to save him from you an hour ago. But there is little time. The man is desperate, whether mad or sane, I cannot tell. Make haste. Determine where to go for safety, and I will take you there. "

But Unorna did not move. She only looked at him, with an expression hecould no longer misunderstand. He was cold and impassive. 

"I fancy it will not be safe to hesitate long, " he said. "He is inearnest. "

"I do not fear Israel Kafka, and I fear death less, " answered Unornadeliberately. "Why does he mean to kill me?"

"I think that in his place most every human men would feel as he does, though religion, or prudence, or fear, or all three together, mightprevent them from doing what they would wish to do. "

"You too? And which of the three would prevent you from murdering me?"

"None, perhaps--though pity might. "

"I want no pity, least of all from you. What I have done, I have donefor you, and for you only. "

The Wanderer's face showed only a cold disgust. He said nothing. 

"You do not seem surprised, " said Unorna. "You know that I love you?"

"I know it. "

A silence followed, during which Unorna returned to her former attitude, turning her eyes away and resting her chin upon her hand. The Wandererbegan to grow impatient. 

"I must repeat that, in my opinion, you have not much time to spare, "he said. "If you are not in a place of safety in half an hour, I cannotanswer for the consequences. "

"No time? There is all eternity. What is eternity, or time, or life tome? I will wait for him here. Why did you tell him what I did, if youwished me to live?"

"Why--since there are to be questions--why did you exercise your crueltyupon an innocent man who loves you?"

"Why? There are reasons enough!" Unorna's voice trembled slightly. "Youdo not know what happened. How should you? You were asleep. You may aswell know, since I may be beyond telling you an hour from now. You mayas well know how I love you, and to what depths I have gone down to winyour love. "

"I would rather not receive your confidence, " the Wanderer answeredhaughtily. "I came here to save your life, not to hear yourconfessions. "

"And when you have heard, you will no longer wish to save me. If youchoose to leave me here, I will wait for Israel Kafka alone. He may killme if he pleases. I do not care. But if you stay you shall hear what Ihave to say. "

She glanced at his face. He folded his arms and stood still. Whatevershe had done, he would not leave her alone at the mercy of the desperateman whom he expected every moment to enter the room. If she would notsave herself, he might nevertheless disarm Kafka and prevent the deed. As his long sleeping energy revived in him the thought of a struggle wasnot disagreeable. 

"I loved you from the moment when I first saw you, " said Unorna, tryingto speak calmly. "But you loved another woman. Do you remember her? Hername was Beatrice, and she was very dark, as I am fair. You had lost herand you had sought her for years. You entered my house, thinking thatshe had gone in before you. Do you remember that morning? It was a monthago to-day. You told me the story. "

"You have dreamed it, " said the Wanderer in cold surprise. "I neverloved any woman yet. "

Unorna laughed bitterly. 

"How perfect it all was at first!" she exclaimed. "How smooth itseemed! How easy! You slept before me, out there by the river that veryafternoon. And in your sleep I bade you forget. And you forgot wholly, your love, the woman, her very name, even as Israel Kafka forgot to-daywhat he had suffered in the person of the martyr. You told him thestory, and he believes you, because he knows me, and knows what I cando. You can believe me or not; as you will. I did it. "

"You are dreaming, " the Wanderer repeated, wondering whether she werenot out of her mind. 

"I did it. I said to myself that if I could destroy your old love, rootit out from your heart and from your memory and make you as one who hadnever loved at all, then you would love me as you had once loved her, with your whole free soul. I said that I was beautiful--it is true, isit not? And young I am, and I loved as no woman ever loved. And I saidthat it was enough, and that soon you would love me, too. A month haspassed away since then. You are of ice--of stone--I do not know of whatyou are. This morning you hurt me. I thought it was the last hurtand that I should die then--instead of to-night. Do you remember? Youthought I was ill, and you went away. When you were gone I fought withmyself. My dreams--yes, I had dreamed of all that can make earth Heaven, and you had waked me. You said that you would be a brother to me--youtalked of friendship. The sting of it! It is no wonder that I grew faintwith pain. Had you struck me in the face, I would have kissed your hand. But your friendship! Rather be dead than, loving, be held a friend! AndI had dreamed of being dear to you for my own sake, of being dearest, and first, and alone beloved, since that other was gone and I had burnedher memory. That pride I had still, until that moment. I fancied that itwas in my power, if I would stoop so low, to make you sleep again asyou had slept before, and to make you at my bidding feel all I felt. Ifought with myself. I would not go down to that depth. And then I saidthat even that were better than your friendship, even a false semblanceof love inspired by my will, preserved by my suggestion. And so I fell. You came back to me and I led you to that lonely place, and made yousleep, and then I told you what was in my heart and poured out thefire of my soul into your ears. A look came into your face--I shall notforget it. My folly was upon me, and I thought it was for me. I know thetruth now. Sleeping, the old memory revived in you of her whom wakingyou will never remember again. But the look was there, and I bade youawake. My soul rose in my eyes. I hung upon your lips. The loving wordI longed for seemed already to tremble in the air. Then came thetruth. You awoke, and your face was stone, calm, smiling, indifferent, unloving. And all this Israel Kafka had seen, hiding like a thief almostbeside us. He saw it all, he heard it all, my words of love, my agony ofwaiting, my utter humiliation, my burning shame. Was I cruel to him? Hehad made me suffer, and he suffered in his turn. All this you did notknow. You know it now. There is nothing more to tell. Will you wait hereuntil he comes? Will you look on, and be glad to see me die? Will youremember in the years to come with satisfaction that you saw the witchkilled for her many misdeeds, and for the chief of them all--for lovingyou?"

The Wanderer had listened to her words, but the tale they told wasbeyond the power of his belief. He stood still in his place, with foldedarms, debating what he should do to save her. One thing alone was clear. She loved him to distraction. Possibly, he thought, her story was but aninvention to excuse her cruelty and to win his commiseration. It failedto do either at first, but yet he would not leave her to her fate. 

"You shall not die if I can help it, " he said simply. 

"And if you save me, do you think that I will leave you?" she asked withsudden agitation, turning and half rising from her seat. "Think what youwill be doing, if you save me. Think well. You say that Israel Kafka isdesperate. I am worse than desperate, worse than mad with my love. "

She sank back again and hid her face for a moment. He, on his part, began to see the terrible reality and strength of her passion, andsilently wondered what the end would be. He, too, was human, and pityfor her began at last to touch his heart. 

"You shall not die, if I can save you, " he said again. 

She sprang to her feet very suddenly and stood before him. 

"You pity me!" she cried. "What lie is that which says that there isa kinship between pity and love? Think well--beware--be warned. I havetold you much, but you do not know me yet. If you save me, you saveme but to love you more than I do already. Look at me. For me there isneither God, nor hell, nor pride, nor shame. There is nothing that Iwill not do, nothing I shall be ashamed or afraid of doing. If you saveme, you save me that I may follow you as long as I live. I will neverleave you. You shall never escape my presence, your whole life shall befull of me--you do not love me, and I can threaten you with nothing moreintolerable than myself. Your eyes will weary of the sight of me andyour ears at the sound of my voice. Do you think I have no hope? Amoment ago I had none. But I see it now. Whether you will, or not, I shall be yours. You may make a prisoner of me--I shall be in yourkeeping then, and shall know it, and feel it, and love my prison foryour sake, even if you will not let me see you. If you would escape fromme, you must kill me, as Israel Kafka means to kill me now--and then, I shall die by your hand and my life will have been yours and given toyou. How can you think that I have no hope! I have hope--and certainty, for I shall be near you always to the end--always, always, always! Iwill cling to you--as I do now--and say, I love you, I love you--yes, and you will cast me off, but I will not go--I will clasp your feet, and say again, I love you, and you may spurn me--man, god, wanderer, devil, --whatever you are--beloved always! Tread upon me, trample on me, crush me--you cannot save yourself, you cannot kill my love!"

She had tried to take his hand and he had withdrawn his, she had fallenupon her knees, and as he tried to free himself had fallen almost toher length upon the marble floor, clinging to his very feet, so that hecould make no step without doing her some hurt. He looked down, amazedand silent, and as he looked she cast one glance upward to his sternface, the bright tears streaming like falling gems from her unlike eyes, her face pale and quivering, her rich hair all loosened and fallingabout her. 

And then, neither body, nor heart, nor soul, could bear the enormousstrain that was laid upon them. A low cry broke from her lips, a stormysob, another and another, like quick short waves breaking over the barwhen the tide is low and the wind is rising suddenly. 

The Wanderer was in sore straits, for the minutes were passing quicklyand he remembered the last look on Kafka's face, and how he had left theMoravian standing before the weapons on the wall. And nothing had beendone yet, not so much as an order given not to admit him if he came tothe house. At any moment he might be upon them. And the storm showed nosigns of being spent. Her wild, convulsive sobbing was painful to hear. If he tried to move, she dragged herself frantically at his feet so thathe feared lest he should tread upon her hands. He pitied her now mosttruly, though he guessed rightly that to show his pity would be but toadd fuel to the blazing flame. 

Then, in the interval of a second, as she drew breath to weep afresh, hefancied that he heard sounds below as of the great door being openedand closed again. With a quick, strong movement, stooping low he put hisarms about her and raised her from the floor. At his touch, her sobbingceased for a moment, as though she had wanted only that to soothe her. In spite of him she let her head rest upon his shoulder, letting himstill feel that if he did not support her weight with his arm she wouldfall again. In the midst of the most passionate and real outburst ofdespairing love there was no artifice which she would not use to benearer to him, to extort even the semblance of a caress. 

"I heard some one come in below, " he said, hurriedly. "It must be he. Decide quickly what to do. Either stay or fly--you have not ten secondsfor your choice. "

She turned her imploring eyes to his. 

"Let me stay here and end it all--"

"That you shall not!" he exclaimed, dragging her towards the end of thehall opposite to the usual entrance, and where he knew that there mustbe a door behind the screen of plants. His hold tightened upon heryielding waist. Her head fell back and her full lips parted in anecstasy of delight as she felt herself hurried along in his arms, scarcely touching the floor with her feet. 

"Ah--now--now! Let it come now!" she sighed. 

"It must be now--or never, " he said almost roughly. "If you will leavethis house with me now, very well. But leave this room you shall. If Iam to meet that man and stop him, I will meet him alone. "

"Leave you alone? Ah no--not that----"

They had reached the exit now. At the same instant both heard some oneenter at the other end and rapid footsteps on the marble pavement. 

"Which is it to be?" asked the Wanderer, pale and calm. He had pushedher through before him and seemed ready to go back alone. 

With violent strength she drew him to her, closed the door and slippedthe strong steel bolt across below the lock. There was a dim light inthe passage. 

"Together, then, " she said. "I shall at least be with you--a littlelonger. "

"Is there another way out of the house?" asked the Wanderer anxiously. 

"More than one. Come with me. "

As they disappeared in the corridor, they heard behind them the noise ofthe door-lock as some one tried to force it open. Then a heavy sound asthough a man's shoulder struck against the solid panel. Unorna led theway through a narrow, winding passage, illuminated here and there bysmall lamps with shades of soft colours, blown in Bohemian glass. 

Pushing aside a curtain they came out into a small room. The Wandereruttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise as he recognised thevestibule and saw before him the door of the great conservatory, openas Israel Kafka had left it. That the latter was still trying to pursuethem through the opposite exit was clear enough, for the blows he wasstriking on the panel echoed loudly out into the hall. Swiftly andsilently Unorna closed the entrance and locked it securely. 

"He is safe for a little while, " she said. "Keyork will find him therewhen he comes, an hour hence, and Keyork will perhaps bring him to hissenses. "

She had regained control of herself, to all appearances, and she spokewith perfect calm and self-possession. The Wanderer looked at her insurprise and with some suspicion. Her hair was all falling about hershoulders, but saving this sign, there was no trace of the recent storm, nor the least indication of passion. If she had been acting a partthroughout before an audience, she would have seemed less indifferentwhen the curtain fell. The Wanderer, having little cause to trust her, found it hard to believe that she had not been counterfeiting. It seemedimpossible that she should be the same woman who but a moment earlierhad been dragging herself at his feet, in wild tears and wilderprotestations of her love. 

"If you are sufficiently rested, " he said with a touch of sarcasm whichhe could not restrain, "I would suggest that we do not wait any longerhere. "

She turned and faced him, and he saw now how very white she was. 

"So you think that even now I have been deceiving you? That is what youthink. I see it in your face. "

Before he could prevent her she had opened the door wide again and wasadvancing calmly into the conservatory. 

"Israel Kafka!" she cried in loud clear tones. "I am here--I amwaiting--come!"

The Wanderer ran forward. He caught sight in the distance of a pair offiery eyes and of something long and thin and sharp-gleaming under thesoft lamps. He knew then that all was deadly earnest. Swift as thoughthe caught Unorna and bore her from the hall, locking the door again andsetting his broad shoulders against it, as he put her down. The daringact she had done appealed to him, in spite of himself. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said almost deferentially. "I misjudged you. "

"It is that, " she answered. "Either I will be with you or I will die, by his hand, by yours, by my own--it will matter little when it is done. You need not lean against the door. It is very strong. Your furs arehanging there, and here are mine. Let us be going. "

Quietly, as though nothing unusual had happened, they descended thestairs together. The porter came forward with all due ceremony, to openthe shut door. Unorna told him that if Keyork Arabian came while she wasout, he was to be shown directly into the conservatory. A moment latershe and her companion were standing together in the small irregularsquare before the Clementinum. 

"Where will you go?" asked the Wanderer. 

"With you, " she answered, laying her hand upon his arm and lookinginto his face as though waiting to see what direction he would choose. "Unless you send me back to him, " she added, glancing quickly at thehouse and making as though she would withdraw her hand once more. "If itis to be that, I will go alone. "

There seemed to be no way out of the terrible dilemma, and the Wandererstood still in deep thought. He knew that if he could but free himselffrom her for half an hour, he could get help from the right quarter andtake Israel Kafka red-handed and armed as he was. For the man was caughtas in a trap and must stay there until he was released, and there wouldbe little doubt from his manner, when taken, that he was either mad orconsciously attempting some crime. There was no longer any necessity, he thought, for Unorna to take refuge anywhere for more than an hour. Inthat time Israel Kafka would be in safe custody, and she could re-enterher house with nothing to fear. But he counted without Unorna'sunyielding obstinacy. She threatened if he left her for a moment togo back to Israel Kafka. A few minutes earlier she had carried out herthreat and the consequence had been almost fatal. 

"If you are in your right mind, " he said at last, beginning to walktowards the corner, "you will see that what you wish to do is utterlyagainst reason. I will not allow you to run the risk of meeting IsraelKafka to-night, but I cannot take you with me. No--I will hold you, if you try to escape me, and I will bring you to a place of safety byforce, if need be. "

"And you will leave me there, and I shall never see you again. I willnot go, and you will find it hard to take me anywhere in the crowdedcity by force. You are not Israel Kafka, with the whole Jews' quarter atyour command in which to hide me. "

The Wanderer was perplexed. He saw, however, that if he would yield thepoint and give his word to return to her, she might be induced to followhis advice. 

"If I promise to come back to you, will you do what I ask?" he inquired. 

"Will you promise truly?"

"I have never broken a promise yet. "

"Did you promise that other woman that you would never love again, Iwonder? If so, you are faithful indeed. But you have forgotten that. Will you come back to me if I let you take me where I shall be safeto-night?"

"I will come back whenever you send for me. "

"If you fail, my blood is on your head. "

"Yes--on my head be it. "

"Very well. I will go to that house where I first stayed when I camehere. Take me there quickly--no--not quickly either--let it be verylong! I shall not see you until to-morrow. "

A carriage was passing at a foot pace. The Wanderer stopped it, andhelped Unorna to get in. The place was very near, and neither spoke, though he could feel her hand upon his arm. He made no attempt to shakeher off. At the gate they both got out, and he rang a bell that echoedthrough vaulted passages far away in the interior. 

"To-morrow, " said Unorna, touching his hand. 

He could see even in the dark the look of love she turned upon him. 

"Good-night, " he said, and in the next moment she had disappearedwithin. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Having made the necessary explanations to account for her suddenappearance, Unorna found herself installed in two rooms of modestdimensions, and very simply though comfortably furnished. It was quite acommon thing for ladies to seek retreat and quiet in the convent duringtwo or three weeks of the year, and there was plenty of available spaceat the disposal of those who wished to do so. Such visits were indeedmost commonly made during the lenten season, and on the day when Unornasought refuge among the nuns it chanced that there was but one otherstranger within the walls. She was glad to find that this was the case. Her peculiar position would have made it hard for her to bear withequanimity the quiet observation of a number of woman, most of whomwould probably have been to some extent acquainted with the story of herlife, and some of whom would certainly have wished out of curiosity toenter into nearer acquaintance with her while within the convent, whilenot intending to prolong their intercourse with her any further. Itcould not be expected, indeed, that in a city like Prague such a womanas Unorna could escape notice, and the fact that little or nothingwas known of her true history had left a very wide field for theimaginations of those who chose to invent one for her. The common story, and the one which on the whole was nearest to the truth, told that shewas the daughter of a noble of eastern Bohemia who had died soon afterher birth, the last of his family, having converted his ancestralpossessions into money for Unorna's benefit, in order to destroy alltrace of her relationship to him. The secret must, of course, havebeen confided to some one, but it had been kept faithfully, and Unornaherself was no wiser than those who mused themselves with fruitlessspeculations regarding her origin. If from the first, from the momentwhen, as a young girl, she left the convent to enter into possession ofher fortune she had chosen to assert some right to a footing in themost exclusive aristocracy in the world, it is not impossible that theprotection of the Abbess might have helped her to obtain it. The secretof her birth would, however, have rendered a marriage with a man of thatclass all but impossible, and would have entirely excluded her fromthe only other position considered dignified for a well-born womanof fortune, unmarried and wholly without living relations orconnections--that of a lady-canoness on the Crown foundation. Moreover, her wild bringing-up, and the singular natural gifts she possessed, andwhich she could not resist the impulse to exercise, had in a few monthsplaced her in a position from which no escape was possible so long asshe continued to live in Prague; and against those few--chiefly men--whofor her beauty's sake, or out of curiosity, would gladly have made heracquaintance, she raised an impassable barrier of pride and reserve. Nor was her reputation altogether an evil one. She lived in a strangefashion, it is true, but the very fact of her extreme seclusion had kepther name free from stain. If people spoke of her as the Witch, itwas more from habit and half in jest than in earnest. In strongcontradiction to the cruelty which she could exercise ruthlessly whenroused to anger, was her well-known kindness to the poor, and hercharities to institutions founded for their benefit were in realityconsiderable, and were said to be boundless. These explanations seemnecessary in order to account for the readiness with which she turnedto the convent when she was in danger, and for the facilities which werethen at once offered her for a stay long or short, as she should pleaseto make it. Some of the more suspicious nuns looked grave when theyheard that she was under their roof; others, again, had been attachedto her during the time she had formerly spent among them; and there werenot lacking those who, disapproving of her presence, held their peace, in the anticipation that the rich and eccentric lady would on departingpresent a gift of value to their order. 

The rooms which were kept at the disposal of ladies desiring to make areligious retreat for a short time were situated on the first floor ofone wing of the convent overlooking a garden which was not within thecloistered precincts, but which was cultivated for the convenience ofthe nuns, who themselves never entered it. The windows on this side werenot latticed, and the ladies who occupied the apartments were at libertyto look out upon the small square of land, their view of the streetbeyond being cut off however by a wall in which there was one iron gatefor the convenience of the gardeners, who were thus not obliged to passthrough the main entrance of the convent in order to reach their work. Within the rooms all opened out upon a broad vaulted corridor, lightedin the day-time by a huge arched window looking upon an inner court, andat night by a single lamp suspended in the middle of the passage by astrong iron chain. The pavement of this passage was of broad stones, once smooth and even but now worn and made irregular by long use. Therooms for the guests were carpeted with sober colours and warmed by highstoves built up of glazed white tiles. The furniture, as has been said, was simple, but afforded all that was strictly necessary for ordinarycomfort, each apartment consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room, smallin lateral dimensions but relatively very high. The walls were thickand not easily penetrated by any sounds from without, and, as in manyreligious houses, the entrances from the corridor were all closed bydouble doors, the outer one of strong oak with a lock and a solid bolt, the inner one of lighter material, but thickly padded to exclude soundas well as currents of cold air. Each sitting-room contained a table, a sofa, three or four chairs, a small book-shelf, and a praying-stoolprovided with a hard and well-worn cushion for the knees. Over this abrown wooden crucifix was hung upon the gray wall. 

In the majority of convents it is not usual, nor even permissible, forladies in retreat to descend to the nuns' refectory. When there are manyguests they are usually served by lay sisters in a hall set apart forthe purpose; when there are few, their simple meals are brought to themin their rooms. Moreover they of course put on no religious robe, thoughthey dress themselves in black. In the church, or chapel, as the casemay be, they do not take places within the latticed choir with thesisters, but either sit in the body of the building, or occupy a sidechapel reserved for their use, or else perform their devotions kneelingat high windows above the choir, which communicate within with roomsaccessible from the convent. It is usual for them to attend Mass, Vespers, the Benediction and Complines, but when there are midnightservices they are not expected to be present. 

Unorna was familiar with convent life and was aware that the Benedictionwas over, and that the hour for the evening meal was approaching. A firehad been lighted in her sitting-room, but the air was still very coldand she sat wrapped in her furs as when she had arrived, leaning backin a corner of the sofa, her head inclined forward, and one white handresting on the green baize cloth which covered the table. 

She was very tired, and the absolute stillness was refreshing andrestoring after the long-drawn-out emotions of the stormy day. Never, inher short and passionate life, had so many events been crowded into thespace of a few hours. Since the morning she had felt almost everythingthat her wild, high-strung nature was capable of feeling--love, triumph, failure, humiliation--anger, hate, despair, and danger of sudden death. She was amazed when, looking back, she remembered that at noon on thatday her life and all its interests had been stationary at the pointfamiliar to her during a whole month, the point that still lay withinthe boundaries of hope's kingdom, the point at which the man she lovedhad wounded her by speaking of brotherly affection and sisterly regard. She could almost believe, when she thought of it all, that some one haddone to her as she had done to others, that she had been cast into astate of sleep, and had been forced against her will to live through thestorms of years in the lethargy of an hour. And yet, despite all, hermemory was distinct, her faculties were awake, her intellect had lostnone of its clearness, even in the last and worst hour of all. She couldrecall each look on the Wanderer's face, each tone of his cold speech, each intonation of her own passionate outpourings. Her strong memory hadretained all, and there was not the slightest break in the continuity ofher recollections. But there was little comfort to be derived from thecertainty that she had not been dreaming, and that everything had reallytaken place precisely as she remembered it. She would have given all shepossessed, which was much, to return to the hour of noon on that sameday. 

In so far as a very unruly nature can understand itself, Unornaunderstood the springs of the actions, she regretted and confessed thatin all likelihood she would do again as she had done at each successivestage. Indeed, since the last great outbreak of her heart, she realisedmore than ever the great proportions which her love had of lateassumed; and she saw that she was indeed ready, as she had said, to dareeverything and risk everything for the sake of obtaining the very leastshow of passion in return. It was quite clear to her, since she hadfailed so totally, that she should have had patience, that she oughtto have accepted gratefully the man's offer of brotherly devotion, andtrusted in time to bring about a further and less platonic development. But she was equally sure that she could never have found the patience, and that if she had restrained herself to-day she would have given wayto-morrow. She possessed all the blind indifference to consequenceswhich is a chief characteristic of the Slav nature when dominated bypassion. She had shone it in her rash readiness to face Israel Kafkaat the moment of leaving her own home. If she could not have what shelonged for, she cared as little what became of her as she cared forKafka's own fate. She had but one object, one passion, one desire, andto all else her indifference was supreme. Life and death, in this worldor the next, were less weighty than feathers in a scale that measureshundreds of tons. The very idea of balance was for the moment beyondher imagination. For a while indeed the pride of a woman at onceyoung, beautiful, and accustomed to authority, had kept her firm in thedetermination to be loved for herself, as she believed that she deservedto be loved; and just so long as that remained, she had held her headhigh, confidently expecting that the mask of indifference would soon beshivered, that the eyes she adored would soften with warm light, thatthe hand she worshipped would tremble suddenly, as though waking tolife within her own. But that pride was gone, and from its disappearancethere had been but one step to the most utter degradation of soul towhich a woman can descend, and from that again but one step more to aresolution almost stupid in its hardened obstinacy. But as though toshow how completely she was dominated by the man whom she could not wineven her last determination had yielded under the slightest pressurefrom his will. She had left her house beside him with the mad resolvenever again to be parted from him, cost what it might, reputation, fortune, life itself. And yet ten minutes had not elapsed before shefound herself alone, trusting to a mere word of his for the hope ofever seeing him again. She seemed to have no individuality left. Hehad spoken and she had obeyed. He had commanded and she had done hisbidding. She was even more ashamed of this than of having wept, andsobbed, and dragged herself at his feet. In the first moment she hadsubmitted, deluding herself with the idea she had expressed, that hewas consigning her to a prison and that her freedom was dependent on hiswill. The foolish delusion vanished. She saw that she was free, when shechose, to descend the steps she had just mounted, to go out through thegate she had lately entered, and to go whithersoever she would, at themere risk of meeting Israel Kafka. And that risk she heartily despised, being thoroughly brave by nature, and utterly indifferent to death byforce of circumstance. 

She comforted herself with the thought that the Wanderer would come toher, once at least, when she was pleased to send for him. She had thatloyal belief inseparable from true love until violently overthrown byirrefutable evidence, and which sometimes has such power as to returneven then, overthrowing the evidence of the senses themselves. Are therenot men who trust women, and women who trust men, in spite of the vilestbetrayals? Love is indeed often the inspirer of subjective visions, creating in the beloved object the qualities it admires and the virtuesit adores, powerless to accept what it is not willing to see, dwellingin a fortress guarded by intangible, and therefore indestructible, fiction and proof against the artillery of facts. Unorna's confidencewas, however, not misplaced. The man whose promise she had received hadtold the truth when he had said that he had never broken any promisewhatsoever. 

In this, at least, there was therefore comfort. On the morrow she wouldsee him again. The moment of complete despair had passed when she hadreceived that assurance from his lips, and as she thought of it, sittingin the absolute stillness of her room, the proportions of the stormgrew less, and possible dimensions of a future hope greater--just as theseafarer when his ship lies in a flat calm of the oily harbour thinkshalf incredulously of the danger past, despises himself for the anxietyhe felt, and vows that on the morrow he will face the waves again, though the winds blow ever so fiercely. In Unorna the master passion wasas strong as ever. In a dim vision the wreck of her pride floated stillin the stormy distance, but she turned her eyes away, for it was nolonger a part of her. The spectre of her humiliation rose up and triedto taunt her with her shame--she almost smiled at the thought that shecould still remember it. He lived, she lived, and he should yet be hers. As her physical weariness began to disappear in the absolute quiet andrest, her determination revived. Her power was not all gone yet. On themorrow she would see him again. She might still fix her eyes on his, andin an unguarded moment cast him into a deep sleep. She remembered thatlook on his face in the old cemetery. She had guessed rightly; it hadbeen for the faint memory of Beatrice. But she would bring it backagain, and it should be for her, for he should never wake again. Had shenot done as much with the ancient scholar who for long years had lain inher home in that mysterious state, who obeyed when she commanded him torise, and walk, to eat, to speak? Why not the Wanderer, then? To outwardeyes he would be alive and awake, calm, natural, happy. And yet he wouldbe sleeping. In that condition, at least, she could command his actions, his thoughts, and his words. How long could it be made to last? She didnot know. Nature might rebel in the end and throw off the yoke of theheavily-imposed will. An interval might follow, full again of storm andpassion and despair; but it would pass, and he would again fall underher influence. She had read, and Keyork Arabian had told her, of themarvels done every day by physicians of common power in the greathospitals and universities of the Empire, and elsewhere throughoutEurope. None of them appeared to be men of extraordinary natural gifts. Their powers were but weakness compared with hers. Even with miserable, hysteric women they often had to try again and again before they couldproduce the hypnotic sleep for the first time. When they had got as faras that, indeed, they could bring their learning, their science, andtheir experience to bear--and they could make foolish experiments, familiar to Unorna from her childhood as the sights and sounds ofher daily life. Few, if any of them, had even the power necessary tohypnotise an ordinarily strong man in health. She, on the contrary, had never failed in that, and at the first trial, except with KeyorkArabian, a man of whom she said in her heart, half in jest and halfsuperstitiously, that he was not a man at all, but a devil or a monsterover whom earthly influences had no control. 

All her energy returned. The colour came back to her face, her eyessparkled, her strong white hands contracted and opened, and closedagain, as though she would grasp something. The room, too, had becomewarmer and she had forgotten to lay aside her furs. She longed for moreair and, rising, walked across the room. It occurred to her that thegreat corridor would be deserted and as quiet as her own apartment, andshe went out and began to pace the stone flags, her head high, lookingstraight before her. 

She wished that she had him there now, and she was angry at the thoughtthat she had not seen earlier how easily it could all be done. Howeverstrong he might be, having twice been under her influence before hecould not escape it again. In those moments when they had stood togetherbefore the great dark buildings of the Clementinum, it might all havebeen accomplished; and now, she must wait until the morning. But hermind was determined. It mattered not how, it mattered not in what state, he should be hers. No one would know what she had done. It was nothingto her that he would be wholly unconscious of his past life--had she notalready made him forget the most important part of it? He would still behimself, and yet he would love her, and speak lovingly to her, and actas she would have him act. Everything could be done, and she would risknothing, for she would marry him and make him her lawful husband, andthey would spend their lives together, in peace, in the house whereinshe had so abased herself before him, foolishly believing that, as amere woman, she could win him. 

She paced the corridor, passing and repassing beneath the light of thesingle lamp that hung in the middle, walking quickly, with a sensationof pleasure in the movement and in the cold draught that fanned hercheek. 

Then she heard footsteps distinct from the echo of her own and she stoodstill. Two women were coming towards her through the gloom. She waitednear her own door, supposing that they would pass her. As they camenear, she saw that the one was a nun, habited in the plain gray robe andblack and white head-dress of the order. The other was a lady dressed, like herself, in black. The light burned so badly that as the twostopped and stood for a moment conversing together, Unorna could notclearly distinguish their faces. Then the lady entered one of the rooms, the third or the fourth from Unorna's, and the nun remained standingoutside, apparently hesitating whether to turn to the right or to theleft, or asking herself in which direction her occupations calledher. Unorna made a movement, and at the sound of her foot the nun cametowards her. 

"Sister Paul!" Unorna exclaimed, recognising her as her face came underthe glare of the lamp, and holding out her hands. 

"Unorna!" cried the nun, with an intonation of surprise and pleasure. "Idid not know that you were here. What brings you back to us?"

"A caprice, Sister Paul--nothing but a caprice. I shall perhaps be goneto-morrow. "

"I am sorry, " answered the sister. "One night is but a short retreatfrom the world. " She shook her head rather sadly. 

"Much may happen in a night, " replied Unorna with a smile. "You used totell me that the soul knew nothing of time. Have you changed your mind?Come into my room and let us talk. I have not forgotten your hours. Youcan have nothing to do for the moment, unless it is supper-time. "

"We have just finished, " said Sister Paul, entering readily enough. "The other lady who is staying here insisted upon supping in the guests'refectory--out of curiosity perhaps, poor thing--and I met her on thestairs as she was coming up. "

"Are she and I the only ones here?" Unorna asked carelessly. 

"Yes. There is no one else, and she only came this morning. You see itis still the carnival season in the world. It is in Lent that the greatladies come to us, and then we have often not a room free. "

The nun smiled sadly, shaking her head again, in a way that seemedhabitual with her. 

"After all, " she added, as Unorna said nothing, "it is better that theyshould come then, rather than not at all, though I often think it wouldbe better still if they spent carnival in the convent and Lent in theworld. "

"The world you speak of would be a gloomy place if you had the orderingof it, Sister Paul!" observed Unorna with a little laugh. 

"Ah, well! I daresay it would seem so to you. I know little enough ofthe world as you understand it, save for what our guests tell me--and, indeed, I am glad that I do not know more. "

"You know almost as much as I do. "

The sister looked long and earnestly into Unorna's face as thoughsearching for something. She was a thin, pale woman over forty yearsof age. Not a wrinkle marked her waxen skin, and her hair was entirelyconcealed under the smooth head-dress, but her age was in her eyes. 

"What is your life, Unorna?" she asked suddenly. "We hear strange talesof it sometimes, though we know also that you do great works of charity. But we hear strange tales and strange words. "

"Do you?" Unorna suppressed a smile of scorn. "What do people say of me?I never asked. "

"Strange things, strange things, " repeated the nun with a shake of thehead. 

"What are they? Tell me one of them, as an instance. "

"I should fear to offend you--indeed I am sure I should, though we weregood friends once. "

"And are still. The more reason why you should tell me what is said. Ofcourse I am alone in the world, and people will always tell vile talesof women who have no one to protect them. "

"No, no, " Sister Paul hastened to assure her. "As a woman, no word hasreached us that touches your fair name. On the contrary, I have heardworldly women say much more that is good of you in that respect thanthey will say of each other. But there are other things, Unorna--otherthings which fill me with fear for you. They call you by a name thatmakes me shudder when I hear it. "

"A name?" repeated Unorna in surprise and with considerable curiosity. 

"A name--a word--what you will--no, I cannot tell you, and besides, itmust be untrue. "

Unorna was silent for a moment and then understood. She laughed aloudwith perfect unconcern. 

"I know!" she cried. "How foolish of me! They call me the Witch--ofcourse. "

Sister Paul's face grew very grave, and she immediately crossed herselfdevoutly, looking askance at Unorna as she did so. But Unorna onlylaughed again. 

"Perhaps it is very foolish, " said the nun, "but I cannot bear to hearsuch a thing said of you. "

"It is not said in earnest. Do you know why they call me the Witch? Itis very simple. It is because I can make people sleep--people who aresuffering or mad or in great sorrow, and then they rest. That is all mymagic. "

"You can put people to sleep? Anybody?" Sister Paul opened her fadedeyes very wide. "But that is not natural, " she added in a perplexedtone. "And what is not natural cannot be right. "

"And is all right that is natural?" asked Unorna thoughtfully. 

"It is not natural, " repeated the other. "How do you do it? Do you usestrange words and herbs and incantations?"

Unorna laughed again, but the nun seemed shocked by her levity and sheforced herself to be grave. 

"No, indeed!" she answered. "I look into their eyes and tell them tosleep--and they do. Poor Sister Paul! You are behind the age in the dearold convent here. The thing is done in half of the great hospitals ofEurope every day, and men and women are cured in that way of diseasesthat paralyse them in body as well as in mind. Men study to learn how itis done; it is as common to-day, as a means of healing, as the medicinesyou know by name and taste. It is called hypnotism. "

Again the sister crossed herself. 

"I have heard the word, I think, " she said, as though she thought theremight be something diabolical in it. "And do you heal the sick in thisway by means of this--thing?"

"Sometimes, " Unorna answered. "There is an old man, for instance, whomI have kept alive for many years by making him sleep--a great deal. "Unorna smiled a little. 

"But you have no words with it? Nothing?"

"Nothing. It is my will. That is all. "

"But if it is of good, and not of the Evil One, there should be a prayerwith it. Could you not say a prayer with it, Unorna?"

"I daresay I could, " replied the other, trying not to laugh. "But thatwould be doing two things at once; my will would be weakened. "

"It cannot be of good, " said the nun. "It is not natural, and it is nottrue that the prayer can distract the will from the performance of agood deed. " She shook her head more energetically than usual. "And itis not good either that you should be called a witch, you who have livedhere amongst us. "

"It is not my fault!" exclaimed Unorna, somewhat annoyed by herpersistence. "And besides, Sister Paul, even if the devil is in it, itwould be right all the same. "

The nun held up her hands in holy horror, and her jaw dropped. 

"My child! My child! How can you say such things to me!"

"It is very true, " Unorna answered, quietly smiling at her amazement. "If people who are ill are made well, is it not a real good, even if theEvil One does it? Is it not good to make him do good, if one can, evenagainst his will?"

"No, no!" cried Sister Paul, in great distress. "Do not talk likethat--let us not talk of it at all! Whatever it is, it is bad, and I donot understand it, and I am sure that none of us here could, no matterhow well you explained it. But if you will do it, Unorna, my dear child, then say a prayer each time, against temptation and the devil's works. "

With that the good nun crossed herself a third time, and unconsciously, from force of habit, began to tell her beads with one hand, mechanicallysmoothing her broad, starched collar with the other. Unorna was silentfor a few minutes, plucking at the sable lining of the cloak which laybeside her upon the sofa where she had dropped it. 

"Let us talk of other things, " she said at last. "Talk of the other ladywho is here. Who is she? What brings her into retreat at this time ofyear?"

"Poor thing--yes, she is very unhappy, " answered Sister Paul. "It is asad story, so far as I have heard it. Her father is just dead, and sheis alone in the world. The Abbess received a letter yesterday from theCardinal Archbishop, requesting that we would receive her, and thismorning she came. His eminence knew her father, it appears. She is onlyto be here for a short time, I believe, until her relations come to takeher home to her own country. Her father was taken ill in a country placenear the city, which he had hired for the shooting season, and the poorgirl was left all alone out there. The Cardinal thought she would besafer and perhaps less unhappy with us while she is waiting. "

"Of course, " said Unorna, with a faint interest. "How old is she, poorchild?"

"She is not a child, she must be five and twenty years old, thoughperhaps her sorrow makes her look older than she is. "

"And what is her name?"

"Beatrice. I cannot remember the name of the family. "

Unorna started. 

CHAPTER XIX

"What is it?" asked the nun, noticing Unorna's sudden movement. 

"Nothing; the name of Beatrice is familiar to me, that is all. Itsuggested something. "

Though Sister Paul was as unworldly as five and twenty years ofcloistered life can make a woman who is naturally simple in mind anddevout in thought, she possessed that faculty of quick observation whichis learned as readily, and exercised perhaps as constantly, in the midstof a small community, where each member is in some measure dependentupon all the rest for the daily pittance of ideas, as in wider spheresof life. 

"You may have seen this lady, or you may have heard of her, " she said. 

"I would like to see her, " Unorna answered thoughtfully. 

She was thinking of all the possibilities in the case. She rememberedthe clearness and precision of the Wanderer's first impression, whenhe first told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Kirche, and shereflected that the name was a very uncommon one. The Beatrice of hisstory too had a father and no other relation, and was supposed to betravelling with him. By the uncertain light in the corridor Unorna hadnot been able to distinguish the lady's features, but the impression shehad received had been that she was dark, as Beatrice was. There was noreason in the nature of things why this should not be the woman whomthe Wanderer loved. It was natural enough that, being left alone ina strange city at such a moment, she should have sought refuge in aconvent, and this being admitted it followed that she would naturallyhave been advised to retire to the one in which Unorna found herself, itbeing the one in which ladies were most frequently received as guests. Unorna could hardly trust herself to speak. She was conscious thatSister Paul was watching her, and she turned her face from the lamp. 

"There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking withher, if you wish it, " said the nun. "She told me that she would be atCompline at nine o'clock. If you will be there yourself you can see hercome in, and watch her when she goes out. Do you think you have everseen her?"

"No, " answered Unorna in an odd tone. "I am sure that I have not. "

Sister Paul concluded from Unorna's manner that she must have reason tobelieve that the guest was identical with some one of whom she had heardvery often. Her manner was abstracted and she seemed ill at ease. Butthat might be the result of fatigue. 

"Are you not hungry?" asked the nun. "You have had nothing since youcame, I am sure. "

"No--yes--it is true, " answered Unorna. "I had forgotten. It would bevery kind of you to send me something. "

Sister Paul rose with alacrity, to Unorna's great relief. 

"I will see to it, " she said, holding out her hand. "We shall meet inthe morning. Good-night. "

"Good-night, dear Sister Paul. Will you say a prayer for me?" She addedthe question suddenly, by an impulse of which she was hardly conscious. 

"Indeed I will--with all my heart, my dear child, " answered the nunlooking earnestly into her face. "You are not happy in your life, " sheadded, with a slow, sad movement of her head. 

"No--I am not happy. But I will be. "

"I fear not, " said Sister Paul, almost under her breath, as she went outsoftly. 

Unorna was left alone. She could not sit still in her extreme anxiety. It was agonising to think that the woman she longed to see was so nearher, but that she could not, upon any reasonable pretext, go and knockat her door and see her and speak to her. She felt also a terrible doubtas to whether she would recognise her, at first sight, as the samewoman whose shadow had passed between herself and the Wanderer on thateventful day a month ago. The shadow had been veiled, but she had aprescient consciousness of the features beneath the veil. Nevertheless, she might be mistaken. It would be necessary to seek her acquaintanceby some excuse and endeavour to draw from her some portion of her story, enough to confirm Unorna's suspicions, or to prove conclusively thatthey were unfounded. To do this, Unorna herself needed all her strengthand coolness, and she was glad when a lay sister entered the roombringing her evening meal. 

There were moments when Unorna, in favourable circumstances, was ableto sink into the so-called state of second sight, by an act of volition, and she wished now that she could close her eyes and see the face of thewoman who was only separated from her by two or three walls. But thatwas not possible in this case. To be successful she would have neededsome sort of guiding thread, or she must have already known the personshe wished to see. She could not command that inexplicable condition asshe could dispose of her other powers, at all times and in almost allmoods. She felt that if she were at present capable of falling into thetrance state at all, her mind would wander uncontrolled in some otherdirection. There was nothing to be done but to have patience. 

The lay sister went out. Unorna ate mechanically what had been setbefore her and waited. She felt that a crisis perhaps more terrible thanthat through which she had lately passed was at hand, if the strangershould prove to be indeed the Beatrice whom the Wanderer loved. Herbrain was in a whirl when she thought of being brought face to face withthe woman who had been before her, and every cruel and ruthless instinctof her nature rose and took shape in plans for her rival's destruction. 

She opened her door, careless of the draught of frozen air that rushedin from the corridor. She wished to hear the lady's footstep whenshe left her room to go to the church, and she sat down and remainedmotionless, fearing lest her own footfall should prevent the sound fromreaching her. The heavy-toned bells began to ring, far off in the night. 

At last it came, the opening of a door, the slight noise made by a lighttread upon the pavement. She rose quietly and went out, following in thesame direction. She could see nothing but a dark shadow moving beforeher towards the opposite end of the passage, farther and fartherfrom the hanging lamp. Unorna could hear her own heart beating as shefollowed, first to the right, then to the left. There was another lightat this point. The lady had noticed that some one was coming behind herand turned her head to look back. The delicate, dark profile stoodout clearly. Unorna held her breath, walking swiftly forward. But in amoment the lady went on, and entered the chapel-like room from which agreat balconied window looked down into the church above the choir. AsUnorna went in, she saw her kneeling upon one of the stools, her handsfolded, her head inclined, her eyes closed, a black veil loosely thrownover her still blacker hair and falling down upon her shoulder withouthiding her face. 

Unorna sank upon her knees, compressing her lips to restrain theincoherent exclamation that almost broke from them in spite of her, clasping her hands desperately, so that the faint blue veins stood outupon the marble surface. 

Below, hundreds of candles blazed upon the altar in the choir and senttheir full yellow radiance up to the faces of the two women, as theyknelt there almost side by side, both young, both beautiful, but utterlyunlike. In a single glance Unorna had understood that it was true. Anarm's length separated her from the rival whose very existence made herown happiness an utter impossibility. With unchanging, unwilling gazeshe examined every detail of that beauty which the Wanderer had soloved, that even when forgotten there was no sight in his eyes for otherwomen. 

It was indeed such a face as a man would find it hard to forget. Unorna, seeing the reflection of it in the Wanderer's mind, had fancied itotherwise, though she could not but recognise the reality from theimpression she had received. She had imagined it more ethereal, morefaint, more sexless, more angelic, as she had seen it in her thoughts. Divine it was, but womanly beyond Unorna's own. Dark, delicatelyaquiline, tall and noble, the purity it expressed was of earth and notof heaven. It was not transparent, for there was life in every feature;it was sad indeed almost beyond human sadness, but it was sad with themortal sorrows of this world, not with the unfathomable melancholy ofthe suffering saint. The lips were human, womanly, pure and tender, butnot formed for speech of prayer alone. The drooping lids, not drawn, but darkened with faint, uneven shadows by the flow of many tears, wereslowly lifted now and again, disclosing a vision of black eyes not meantfor endless weeping, nor made so deep and warm only to strain theirsight towards heaven above, forgetting earth below. Unorna knew thatthose same eyes could gleam, and flash, and blaze, with love and hateand anger, that under the rich, pale skin, the blood could rise and ebbwith the changing tide of the heart, that the warm lips could partwith passion and, moving, form words of love. She saw pride in the widesensitive nostrils, strength in the even brow, and queenly dignity inthe perfect poise of the head upon the slender throat. And the claspedhands were womanly, too, neither full and white and heavy like thoseof a marble statue, as Unorna's were, nor thin and over-sensitive likethose of holy women in old pictures, but real and living, delicate inoutline, but not without nervous strength, hands that might linger inanother's, not wholly passive, but all responsive to the thrill of aloving touch. 

It was very hard to bear. A better woman than Unorna might have feltsomething evil and cruel and hating in her heart, at the sight of somuch beauty in one who held her place, in the queen of the kingdom whereshe longed to reign. Unorna's cheek grew very pale, and her unlike eyeswere fierce and dangerous. It was well for her that she could not speakto Beatrice then, for she wore no mask, and the dark beauty would haveseen the danger of death in the face of the fair, and would have turnedand defended herself in time. 

But the sweet singing of the nuns came softly up from below, echoingto the groined roof, rising and falling, high and low; and the fullradiance of the many waxen tapers shone steadily from the great altar, gilding and warming statue and cornice and ancient moulding, and castingdeep shadows into all the places that it could not reach. And still thetwo women knelt in their high balcony, the one rapt in fervent prayer, the other wondering that the presence of such hatred as hers should haveno power to kill, and all the time making a supreme effort to composeher own features into the expression of friendly sympathy and interestwhich she knew she would need so soon as the singing ceased and it wastime to leave the church again. 

The psalms were finished. There was a pause, and then the words of theancient hymn floated up to Unorna's ears, familiar in years gone by. Almost unconsciously she herself, by force of old habit, joined in thefirst verse. Then, suddenly, she stopped, not realising, indeed, thehorrible gulf that lay between the words that passed her lips, and thethoughts that were at work in her heart, but silenced by the near soundof a voice less rich and full, but far more exquisite and tender thanher own. Beatrice was singing, too, with joined hands, and parted lips, and upturned face. 

"Let dreams be far, and phantasms of the night--bind Thou our Foe, " sangBeatrice in long, sweet notes. 

Unorna heard no more. The light dazzled her, and the blood beat inher heart. It seemed as though no prayer that was ever prayed could beoffered up more directly against herself, and the voice that sangit, though not loud, had the rare power of carrying every syllabledistinctly in its magic tones, even to a great distance. As she knelt, it was as if Beatrice had been even nearer, and had breathed the wordsinto her very ear. Afraid to look round, lest her face should betray heremotion, Unorna glanced down at the kneeling nuns. She started. SisterPaul, alone of them all, was looking up, her faded eyes fixed onUnorna's with a look that implored and yet despaired, her clasped handsa little raised from the low desk before her, most evidently offeringup the words with the whole fervent intention of her pure soul, as anintercession for Unorna's sins. 

For one moment the strong, cruel heart almost wavered, not through fear, but under the nameless impression that sometimes takes hold of men andwomen. The divine voice beside her seemed to dominate the hundred voicesbelow; the nun's despairing look chilled for one instant all her loveand all her hatred, so that she longed to be alone, away from it all, and for ever. But the hymn ended, the voice was silent, and SisterPaul's glance turned again towards the altar. The moment was passed andUnorna was again what she had been before. 

Then followed the canticle, the voice of the prioress in the versiclesafter that, and the voices of the nuns, no longer singing, as they madethe responses; the Creed, a few more versicles and responses, the short, final prayers, and all was over. From the church below came up the softsound that many women make when they move silently together. The nunswere passing out in their appointed order. 

Beatrice remained kneeling a few moments longer, crossed herself andthen rose. At the same moment Unorna was on her feet. The necessityfor immediate action at all costs restored the calm to her face and thetactful skill to her actions. She reached the door first, and then, halfturning her head, stood aside, as though to give Beatrice precedence inpassing. Beatrice glanced at her face for the first time, and then bya courteous movement of the head signified that Unorna should go outfirst. Unorna appeared to hesitate, Beatrice to protest. Both womensmiled a little, and Unorna, with a gesture of submission, passedthrough the doorway. She had managed it so well that it was almostimpossible to avoid speaking as they threaded the long corridorstogether. Unorna allowed a moment to pass, as though to let hercompanion understand the slight awkwardness of the situation, and thenaddressed her in a tone of quiet and natural civility. 

"We seem to be the only ladies in retreat, " she said. 

"Yes, " Beatrice answered. Even in that one syllable something of thequality of her thrilling voice vibrated for an instant. They walked afew steps farther in silence. 

"I am not exactly in retreat, " she said presently, either because shefelt that it would be almost rude to say nothing, or because she wishedher position to be clearly understood. "I am waiting here for some onewho is to come for me. "

"It is a very quiet place to rest in, " said Unorna. "I am fond of it. "

"You often come here, perhaps. "

"Not now, " answered Unorna. "But I was here for a long time when I wasvery young. "

By a common instinct, as they fell into conversation, they began to walkmore slowly, side by side. 

"Indeed, " said Beatrice, with a slight increase of interest. "Then youwere brought up here by the nuns?"

"Not exactly. It was a sort of refuge for me when I was almost a child. I was left here alone, until I was thought old enough to take care ofmyself. "

There was a little bitterness in her tone, intentional, but masterly inits truth to nature. 

"Left by your parents?" Beatrice asked. The question seemed almostinevitable. 

"I had none. I never knew a father or a mother. " Unorna's voice grew sadwith each syllable. 

They had entered the great corridor in which their apartments weresituated, and were approaching Beatrice's door. They walked more andmore slowly, in silence during the last few moments, after Unorna hadspoken. Unorna sighed. The passing breath traveling on the air of thelonely place seemed both to invite and to offer sympathy. 

"My father died last week, " Beatrice said in a very low tone, that wasnot quite steady. "I am quite alone--here and in the world. "

She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested uponUnorna's, as though almost, but not quite, conveying an invitation, hungry for human comfort, yet too proud to ask it. 

"I am very lonely, too, " said Unorna. "May I sit with you for a while?"

She had but just time to make the bold stroke that was necessary. Inanother moment she knew that Beatrice would have disappeared within. Herheart beat violently until the answer came. She had been successful. 

"Will you, indeed?" Beatrice exclaimed. "I am poor company, but I shallbe very glad if you will come in. "

She opened her door, and Unorna entered. The apartment was almostexactly like her own in size and shape and furniture, but it alreadyhad the air of being inhabited. There were books upon the table, and asquare jewel-case, and an old silver frame containing a large photographof a stern, dark man in middle age--Beatrice's father, as Unorna at onceunderstood. Cloaks and furs lay in some confusion upon the chairs, alarge box stood with the lid raised, against the wall, displaying aquantity of lace, among which lay silks and ribbons of soft colours. 

"I only came this morning, " Beatrice said, as though to apologise forthe disorder. 

Unorna sank down in a corner of the sofa, shading her eyes from thebright lamp with her hand. She could not help looking at Beatrice, butshe felt that she must not let her scrutiny be too apparent, norher conversation too eager. Beatrice was proud and strong, and coulddoubtless be very cold and forbidding when she chose. 

"And do you expect to be here long?" Unorna asked, as Beatriceestablished herself at the other end of the sofa. 

"I cannot tell, " was the answer. "I may be here but a few days, or I mayhave to stay a month. 

"I lived here for years, " said Unorna thoughtfully. "I suppose it wouldbe impossible now--I should die of apathy and inanition. " She laughedin a subdued way, as though respecting Beatrice's mourning. "But I wasyoung then, " she added, suddenly withdrawing her hand from her eyes, sothat the full light of the lamp fell upon her. 

She chose to show that she, too, was beautiful, and she knew thatBeatrice had as yet hardly seen her face as they passed through thegloomy corridors. It was an instinct of vanity, and yet, for herpurpose, it was the right one. The effect was sudden and unexpected, andBeatrice looked at her almost fixedly, in undisguised admiration. 

"Young then!" she exclaimed. "You are young now!"

"Less young than I was then, " Unorna answered with a little sigh, followed instantly by a smile. 

"I am five and twenty, " said Beatrice, woman enough to try and force aconfession from her new acquaintance. 

"Are you? I would not have thought it--we are nearly of an age--quite, perhaps, for I am not yet twenty-six. But then, it is not the years--"She stopped suddenly. 

Beatrice wondered whether Unorna were married or not. Considering theage she admitted and her extreme beauty it seemed probable that she mustbe. It occurred to her that the acquaintance had been made without anypresentation, and that neither knew the other's name. 

"Since I am a little the younger, " she said, "I should tell you who Iam. "

Unorna made a slight movement. She was on the point of saying that sheknew already--and too well. 

"I am Beatrice Varanger. "

"I am Unorna. " She could not help a sort of cold defiance that soundedin her tone as she pronounced the only name she could call hers. 

"Unorna?" Beatrice repeated, courteously enough, but with an air ofsurprise. 

"Yes--that is all. It seems strange to you? They called me so because Iwas born in February, in the month we call Unor. Indeed it is strange, and so is my story--though it would have little interest for you. "

"Forgive me, you are wrong, It would interest me immensely--if you wouldtell me a little of it; but I am such a stranger to you----"

"I do not feel as though you are that, " Unorna answered with a verygentle smile. 

"You are very kind to say so, " said Beatrice quietly. 

Unorna was perfectly well aware that it must seem strange, to say theleast of it, that she should tell Beatrice the wild story of her life, when they had as yet exchanged barely a hundred words. But she caredlittle what Beatrice thought, provided that she could interest her. Shehad a distinct intention in making the time slip by unnoticed, until itshould be late. 

She related her history, so far as it was known to herself, simply andgraphically, substantially as it has been already set forth, but with anabundance of anecdote and comment which enhanced the interest and at thesame time extended its limits, interspersing her monologues with remarkswhich called for an answer and which served as tests of her companion'sattention. She hinted but lightly at her possession of unusual powerover animals, and spoke not at all of the influence she could exert uponpeople. Beatrice listened eagerly. She could have told, on her part, that for years her own life had been dull and empty, and that it waslong since she had talked with any one who had so roused her interest. 

At last Unorna was silent. She had reached the period of her life whichhad begun a month before that time, and at that point her story ended. 

"Then you are not married?" Beatrice's tone expressed an interrogationand a certain surprise. 

"No, " said Unorna, "I am not married. And you, if I may ask?"

Beatrice started visibly. It had not occurred to her that the questionmight seem a natural one for Unorna to ask, although she had said thatshe was alone in the world. Unorna might have supposed her to have losther husband. But Unorna could see that it was not surprise alone thathad startled her. The question, as she knew it must, had roused a deepand painful train of thought. 

"No, " said Beatrice, in an altered voice. "I am not married. I shallnever marry. "

A short silence followed, during which she turned her face away. 

"I have pained you, " said Unorna with profound sympathy and regret. "Forgive me! How could I be so tactless!"

"How could you know?" Beatrice asked simply, not attempting to deny thesuggestion. 

But Unorna was suffering too. She had allowed herself to imagine that inthe long years which had passed Beatrice might perhaps have forgotten. It had even crossed her mind that she might indeed be married. But inthe few words, and in the tremor that accompanied them, as well as inthe increased pallor of Beatrice's face, she detected a love not lessdeep and constant and unforgotten than the Wanderer's own. 

"Forgive me, " Unorna repeated. "I might have guessed. I have loved too. "

She knew that here, at least, she could not feign and she could notcontrol her voice, but with supreme judgment of the effect she allowedherself to be carried beyond all reserve. In the one short sentence herwhole passion expressed itself, genuine, deep, strong, ruthless. Shelet the words come as they would, and Beatrice was startled by thepassionate cry that burst from the heart, so wholly unrestrained. 

For a long time neither spoke again, and neither looked at the other. To all appearances Beatrice was the first to regain her self-possession. And then, all at once the words came to her lips which could berestrained no longer. For years she had kept silence, for there had beenno one to whom she could speak. For years she had sought him, as bestshe could, as he had sought her, fruitlessly and at last hopelessly. Andshe had known that her father was seeking him also, everywhere, thathe might drag her to the ends of the earth at the mere suspicion of theWanderer's presence in the same country. It had amounted to a madnesswith him of the kind not seldom seen. Beatrice might marry whom shepleased, but not the one man she loved. Day by day and year by yeartheir two strong wills had been silently opposed, and neither the onenor the other had ever been unconscious of the struggle, nor had eitheryielded a hair's-breadth. But Beatrice had been at her father's mercy, for he could take her whither he would, and in that she could not resisthim. Never in that time had she lost faith in the devotion of the manshe sought, and at last it was only in the belief that he was dead thatshe could discover an explanation of his failure to find her. Still shewould not change, and still, through the years, she loved more and moretruly, and passionately, and unchangingly. 

The feeling that she was in the presence of a passion as great, asunhappy, and as masterful as her own, unloosed her tongue. Such thingshappen in this strange world. Men and women of deep and strong feedings, outwardly cold, reserved, taciturn and proud, have been known, once intheir lives, to pour out the secrets of their hearts to a stranger or amere acquaintance, as they could never have done to a friend. 

Beatrice seemed scarcely conscious of what she was saying, or ofUnorna's presence. The words, long kept back and sternly restrained, fell with a strange strength from her lips, and there was not one ofthem from first to last that did not sheathe itself like a sharp knifein Unorna's heart. The enormous jealousy of Beatrice which had beengrowing within her beside her love during the last month was reachingthe climax of its overwhelming magnitude. She hardly knew when Beatriceceased speaking, for the words were still all ringing in her ears, andclashing madly in her own breast, and prompting her fierce nature to dosome violent deed. But Beatrice looked for no sympathy and did not seeUnorna's face. She had forgotten Unorna herself at the last, as she satstaring at the opposite wall. 

Then she rose quickly, and taking something from the jewel-box, thrustit into Unorna's hands. 

"I cannot tell why I have told you--but I have. You shall see him too. What does it matter? We have both loved, we are both unhappy--we shallnever meet again. "

"What is it?" Unorna tried to ask, holding the closed case in herhands. She knew what was within it well enough, and her self-command wasforsaking her. It was almost more than she could bear. It was as thoughBeatrice were wreaking vengeance on her, instead of her destroying herrival as she had meant to do, sooner or later. 

Beatrice took the thing from her, opened it, gazed at it a moment, andput it again into Unorna's hands. "It was like him, " she said, watchingher companion as though to see what effect the portrait would produce. Then she shrank back. 

Unorna was looking at her. Her face was livid and unnaturally drawn, andthe extraordinary contrast in the colour of her two eyes was horriblyapparent. The one seemed to freeze, the other to be on fire. Thestrongest and worst passions that can play upon the human soul were allexpressed with awful force in the distorted mask, and not a trace of themagnificent beauty so lately there was visible. Beatrice shrank back inhorror. 

"You know him!" she cried, half guessing at the truth. 

"I know him--and I love him, " said Unorna slowly and fiercely, her eyesfixed on her enemy, and gradually leaning towards her so as to bring herface nearer and nearer to Beatrice. 

The dark woman tried to rise, and could not. There was worse than anger, or hatred, or the intent to kill, in those dreadful eyes. There wasa fascination from which no living thing could escape. She tried toscream, to shut out the vision, to raise her hand as a screen before it. Nearer and nearer it came, and she could feel the warm breath of it uponher cheek. Then her brain reeled, her limbs relaxed, and her head fellback against the wall. 

"I know him, and I love him, " were the last words Beatrice heard. 

CHAPTER XX[*]

 [*] The deeds here recounted are not imaginary. Not very long ago the sacrilege which Unorna attempted was actually committed at night in a Catholic church in London, under circumstances that clearly proved the intention of some person or persons to defile the consecrated wafers. A case of hypnotic suggestion to the committal of a crime in a convent occurred in Hungary not many years since, with a different object, namely, a daring robbery, but precisely as here described. A complete account of the case will be found, with authority and evidence, in a pamphlet entitled _Eine experimentale Studie auf dem Gebiete des Hypnotismus_, by Dr. R. Von Krafft-Ebing, Professor of Psychiatry and for nervous diseases, in the University of Gratz. Second Edition, Stuttgart, Ferdinand Enke, 1889. It is not possible, in a work of fiction, to quote learned authorities at every chapter, but it may be said here, and once for all, that all the most important situations have been taken from cases which have come under medical observation within the last few years. 

Unorna was hardly conscious of what she had done. She had not had theintention of making Beatrice sleep, for she had no distinct intentionwhatever at that moment. Her words and her look had been but the naturalresults of overstrained passion, and she repeated what she had saidagain and again, and gazed long and fiercely into Beatrice's face beforeshe realised that she had unintentionally thrown her rival and enemyinto the intermediate state. It is rarely that the first stage ofhypnotism produces the same consequences in two different individuals. In Beatrice it took the form of total unconsciousness, as though she hadmerely fainted away. 

Unorna gradually regained her self-possession. After all, Beatrice hadtold her nothing which she did not either wholly know or partly guess, and her anger was not the result of the revelation but of the way inwhich the story had been told. Word after word, phrase after phrase hadcut her and stabbed her to the quick, and when Beatrice had thrust theminiature into her hands her wrath had risen in spite of herself. But now that she had returned to a state in which she could thinkconnectedly, and now that she saw Beatrice asleep before her, she didnot regret what she had unwittingly done. From the first moment when, in the balcony over the church, she had realised that she was in thepresence of the woman she hated, she had determined to destroy her. Toaccomplish this she would in any case have used her especial weapons, and though she had intended to steal by degrees upon her enemy, lullingher to sleep by a more gentle fascination, at an hour when the wholeconvent should be quiet, yet since the first step had been madeunexpectedly and without her will, she did not regret it. 

She leaned back and looked at Beatrice during several minutes, smilingto herself from time to time, scornfully and cruelly. Then she rose andlocked the outer door and closed the inner one carefully. She knew fromlong ago that no sound could then find its way to the corridor without. She came back and sat down again, and again looked at the sleeping face, and she admitted for the hundredth time that evening, that Beatrice wasvery beautiful. 

"If he could see us now!" she exclaimed aloud. 

The thought suggested something to her. She would like to see herselfbeside this other woman and compare the beauty he loved with the beautythat could not touch him. It was very easy. She found a small mirror, and set it up upon the back of the sofa, on a level with Beatrice'shead. Then she changed the position of the lamp and looked at herself, and touched her hair, and smoothed her brow, and loosened the black laceabout her white throat. And she looked from herself to Beatrice, andback to herself again, many times. 

"It is strange that black should suit us both so well--she so dark and Iso fair!" she said. "She will look well when she is dead. "

She gazed again for many seconds at the sleeping woman. 

"But he will not see her, then, " she added, rising to her feet andlaying the mirror on the table. 

She began to walk up and down the room as was her habit when in deepthought, turning over in her mind the deed to be done and the surest andbest way of doing it. It never occurred to her that Beatrice couldbe allowed to live beyond that night. If the woman had been but anunconscious obstacle in her path Unorna would have spared her life, butas matters stood, she had no inclination to be merciful. 

There was nothing to prevent the possibility of a meeting betweenBeatrice and the Wanderer, if Beatrice remained alive. They were inthe same city together, and their paths might cross at any moment. The Wanderer had forgotten, but it was not sure that the artificialforgetfulness would be proof against an actual sight of the woman onceso dearly loved. The same consideration was true of Beatrice. She, too, might be made to forget, though it was always an experiment of uncertainissue and of more than uncertain result, even when successful, so far asduration was concerned. Unorna reasoned coldly with herself, recallingall that Keyork Arabian had told her and all that she had read. Shetried to admit that Beatrice might be disposed of in some other way, but the difficulties seemed to be insurmountable. To effect such adisappearance Unorna must find some safe place in which the wretchedwoman might drag out her existence undiscovered. But Beatrice wasnot like the old beggar who in his hundredth year had leaned againstUnorna's door, unnoticed and uncared for, and had been taken in and hadnever been seen again. The case was different. The aged scholar, too, had been cared for as he could not have been cared for elsewhere, and, in the event of an inquiry being made, he could be produced at anymoment, and would even afford a brilliant example of Unorna's charitabledoings. But Beatrice was a stranger and a person of some importancein the world. The Cardinal Archbishop himself had directed the nuns toreceive her, and they were responsible for her safety. To spirit heraway in the night would be a dangerous thing. Wherever she was to betaken, Unorna would have to lead her there alone. Unorna would herselfbe missed. Sister Paul already suspected that the name of Witch was morethan a mere appellation. There would be a search made, and suspicionmight easily fall upon Unorna, who would have been obliged, of course, to conceal her enemy in her own house for lack of any other convenientplace. 

There was no escape from the deed. Beatrice must die. Unorna couldproduce death in a form which could leave no trace, and it would beattributed to a weakness of the heart. Does any one account otherwisefor those sudden deaths which are no longer unfrequent in the world?A man, a woman, is to all appearances in perfect health. He or she waslast seen by a friend, who describes the conversation accurately, andexpresses astonishment at the catastrophe which followed so closely uponthe visit. He, or she, is found alone by a servant, or a third person, in a profound lethargy from which neither restoratives nor violentshocks upon the nerves can produce any awakening. In one hour, or afew hours, it is over. There is an examination, and the authoritiespronounce an ambiguous verdict--death from a syncope of the heart. Suchthings happen, they say, with a shake of the head. And, indeed, theyknow that such things really do happen, and they suspect that they donot happen naturally; but there is no evidence, not even so much asmay be detected in a clever case of vegetable poisoning. The heart hasstopped beating, and death has followed. There are wise men by the scoreto-day who do not ask "What made it stop?" but "Who made it stop?" Butthey have no evidence to bring, and the new jurisprudence, which in somecountries covers the cases of thefts and frauds committed under hypnoticsuggestion, cannot as yet lay down the law for cases where a man hasbeen told to die, and dies--from "weakness of the heart. " And yet it isknown, and well known, that by hypnotic suggestion the pulse can be madeto fall to the lowest number of beatings consistent with life, and thatthe temperature of the body can be commanded beforehand to stand at acertain degree and fraction of a degree at a certain hour, high or low, as may be desired. Let those who do not believe read the accounts ofwhat is done from day to day in the great European seats of learning, accounts of which every one bears the name of some man speaking withauthority and responsible to the world of science for every word hespeaks, and doubly so for every word he writes. A few believe in theantiquated doctrine of electric animal currents, the vast majority arefirm in the belief that the influence is a moral one--all admit thatwhatever force, or influence, lies at the root of hypnotism, theeffects it can produce are practically unlimited, terrible in theircomprehensiveness, and almost entirely unprovided for in the scheme ofmodern criminal law. 

Unorna was sure of herself, and of her strength to perform what shecontemplated. There lay the dark beauty in the corner of the sofa, whereshe had sat and talked so long, and told her last story, the story ofher life which was now to end. A few determined words spoken in her ear, a pressure of the hand upon the brow and the heart, and she would neverwake again. She would lie there still, until they found her, hour afterhour, the pulse growing weaker and weaker, the delicate hands colder, the face more set. At the last, there would be a convulsive shiver ofthe queenly form, and that would be the end. The physicians and theauthorities would come and would speak of a weakness of the heart, andthere would be masses sung for her soul, and she would rest in peace. 

Her soul? In peace? Unorna stood still. Was that to be all her vengeanceupon the woman who stood between her and happiness? Was there to benothing but that, nothing but the painless passing of the pure youngspirit from earth to heaven? Was no one to suffer for all Unorna's pain?It was not enough. There must be more than that. And yet, what more?That was the question. What imaginable wealth of agony would be a justretribution for her existence? Unorna could lead her, as she had ledIsrael Kafka, through the life and death of a martyr, through a lifeof wretchedness and a death of shame, but then, the moment must come atlast, since this was to be death indeed, and her spotless soul would bebeyond Unorna's reach forever. No, that was not enough. Since she couldnot be allowed to live to be tormented, vengeance must follow her beyondthe end of life. 

Unorna stood still and an awful light of evil came into her face. Athought of which the enormity would have terrified a common being hadentered her mind and taken possession of it. Beatrice was in her power. Beatrice should die in mortal sin, and her soul would be lost for ever. 

For a long time she did not move, but stood looking down at the calm andlovely face of her sleeping enemy, devising a crime to be imposed uponher for her eternal destruction. Unorna was very superstitious, or thehideous scheme could never have presented itself to her. To her mindthe deed was everything, whatever it was to be, and the intention orthe unconsciousness in doing it could have nothing to do withthe consequences to the soul of the doer. She made no theologicaldistinctions. Beatrice should commit some terrible crime and should diein committing it. Then she would be lost, and devils would do inhell the worst torment which Unorna could not do on earth. A crime--arobbery, a murder--it must be done in the convent. Unorna hesitated, bending her brows and poring in imagination over the dark catalogue ofall imaginable evil. 

A momentary and vague terror cast its shadow on her thoughts. By someaccident of connection between two ideas, her mind went back a month, and reviewed as in a flash of light all that she had thought and donesince that day. She had greatly changed since then. She could thinkcalmly now of deeds which even she would not have dared then. Shethought of the evening when she had cried aloud that she would give hersoul to know the Wanderer safe, of the quick answer that had followed, and of Keyork Arabian's face. Was he a devil, indeed, as she sometimesfancied, and had there been a reality and a binding meaning in thatcontract?

Keyork Arabian! He, indeed, possessed the key to all evil. What wouldhe have done with Beatrice? Would he make her rob the church--murder theabbess in her sleep? Bad, but not bad enough. 

Unorna started. A deed suggested itself so hellish, so horrible in itsenormity, so far beyond all conceivable human sin, that for one momenther brain reeled. She shuddered again and again, and groped for supportand leaned against the wall in a bodily weakness of terror. For onemoment she, who feared nothing, was shaken by fear from head to foot, her face turned white, her knees shook, her sight failed her, her teethchattered, her lips moved hysterically. 

But she was strong still. The thing she had sought had come to hersuddenly. She set her teeth, and thought of it again and again, till shecould face the horror of it without quaking. Is there any limit to thehardening of the human heart?

The distant bells rang out the call to midnight prayer. Unorna stoppedand listened. She had not known how quickly time was passing. But it wasbetter so. She was glad it was so late, and she said so to herself, butthe evil smile that was sometimes in her face was not there now. Shehad thought a thought that left a mark on her forehead. Was there anyreality in that jesting contract with Keyork Arabian?

She must wait before she did the deed. The nuns would go down into thelighted church, and kneel and pray before the altar. It would last sometime, the midnight lessons, the psalms, the prayers--and she must besure that all was quiet, for the deed could not be done in the roomwhere Beatrice was sleeping. 

She was conscious of the time now, and every minute seemed an hour, andevery second was full of that one deed, done over and over again beforeher eyes, until every awful detail of the awful whole was stampedindelibly upon her brain. She had sat down now, and leaning forwards, was watching the innocent woman and wondering how she would look whenshe was doing it. But she was calm now, as she felt that she had neverbeen in her life. Her breath came evenly, her heart beat naturally, shethought connectedly of what she was about to do. But the time seemedendless. 

The distant clocks chimed the half hour, three-quarters, past midnight. Still she waited. At the stroke of one she rose from her seat, andstanding beside Beatrice laid her hand upon the dark brow. 

A few questions, a few answers followed. She must assure herself thather victim was in the right state to execute minutely all her commands. Then she opened the door upon the corridor and listened. Not a soundbroke the intense stillness, and all was dark. The hanging lamp had beenextinguished and the nuns had all returned from the midnight service totheir cells. No one would be stirring now until four o'clock, and halfan hour was all that Unorna needed. 

She took Beatrice's hand. The dark woman rose with half-closed eyes andset features. Unorna led her out into the dark passage. 

"It is light here, " Unorna said. "You can see your way. But I am blind. Take my hand--so--and now lead me to the church by the nun's staircase. Make no noise. "

"I do not know the staircase, " said the sleeper in drowsy tones. 

Unorna knew the way well enough, but not wishing to take a light withher, she was obliged to trust herself to her victim, for whose visionthere was no such thing as darkness unless Unorna willed it. 

"Go as you went to-day, to the room where the balcony is, but do notenter it. The staircase is on the right of the door, and leads into thechoir. Go!"

Without hesitation Beatrice led her out into the impenetrable gloom, with swift, noiseless footsteps in the direction commanded, neverwavering nor hesitating whether to turn to the right or the left, butwalking as confidently as though in broad daylight. Unorna counted theturnings and knew that there was no mistake. Beatrice was leading herunerringly towards the staircase. They reached it, and began to descendthe winding steps. Unorna, holding her leader by one hand, steadiedherself with the other against the smooth, curved wall, fearing atevery moment lest she should stumble and fall in the total darkness. But Beatrice never faltered. To her the way was as bright as though thenoonday sun had shone before her. 

The stairs ended abruptly against a door. Beatrice stood still. She hadreceived no further commands and the impulse ceased. 

"Draw back the bolt and take me into the church, " said Unorna, who couldsee nothing, but who knew that the nuns fastened the door behind themwhen they returned into the convent. Beatrice obeyed without hesitationand led her forward. 

They came out between the high carved seats of the choir, behind thehigh altar. The church was not quite as dark as the staircase andpassages had been, and Unorna stood still for a moment. In some of thechapels hanging lamps of silver were lighted, and their tiny flamesspread a faint radiance upwards and sideways, though not downwards, sufficient to break the total obscurity to eyes accustomed for someminutes to no light at all. The church stood, too, on a little eminencein the city, where the air without was less murky and impenetrable withthe night mists, and though there was no moon the high upper windowsof the nave were distinctly visible in the gloomy height like greatlancet-shaped patches of gray upon a black ground. 

In the dimness, all objects took vast and mysterious proportions. A hugegiant reared his height against one of the pillars, crowned with a high, pointed crown, stretching out one great shadowy hand into the gloom--thetall pulpit was there, as Unorna knew, and the hand was the woodencrucifix standing out in its extended socket. The black confessionals, too, took shape, like monster nuns, kneeling in their heavy hoods andveils, with heads inclined, behind the fluted pilasters, just within thecircle of the feeble chapel lights. Within the choir, the deep shadowsseemed to fill the carved stalls with the black ghosts of long deadsisters, returned to their familiar seats out of the damp crypt below. The great lectern in the midst of the half circle behind the high altarbecame a hideous skeleton, headless, its straight arms folded on itsbony breast. The back of the high altar itself was a great thronewhereon sat in judgment a misty being of awful form, judging the deadwomen all through the lonely night. The stillness was appalling. Not arat stirred. 

Unorna shuddered, not at what she saw, but at what she felt. She hadreached the place, and the doing of the deed was at hand. Beatrice stoodbeside her erect, asleep, motionless, her dark face just outlined in thesurrounding dusk. 

Unorna took her hand and led her forwards. She could see now, and themoment had come. She brought Beatrice before the high altar and madeher stand in front of it. Then she herself went back and groped forsomething in the dark. It was the pair of small wooden steps uponwhich the priest mounts in order to open the golden door of the hightabernacle above the altar, when it is necessary to take therefrom theSacred Host for the Benediction, or other consecrated wafers for theadministration of the Communion. To all Christians, of all denominationswhatsoever, the bread-wafer when once consecrated is a holy thing. ToCatholics and Lutherans there is there, substantially, the Presence ofGod. No imaginable act of sacrilege can be more unpardonable than thedesecration of the tabernacle and the wilful defilement and destructionof the Sacred Host. 

This was Unorna's determination. Beatrice should commit this crimeagainst Heaven, and then die with the whole weight of it upon her soul, and thus should her soul itself be tormented for ever and ever to agesof ages. 

Considering what she believed, it is no wonder that she should haveshuddered at the tremendous thought. And yet, in the distortion of herreasoning, the sin would be upon Beatrice who did the act, and not uponherself who commanded it. There was no diminution of her own faithin the sacredness of the place and the holiness of the consecratedobject--had she been one whit less sure of that, her vengeance wouldhave been vain and her whole scheme meaningless. 

She came back out of the darkness and set the wooden steps in theirplace before the altar at Beatrice's feet. Then, as though to saveherself from all participation in the guilt of the sacrilege which wasto follow, she withdrew outside the Communion rail, and closed the gatebehind her. 

Beatrice, obedient to her smallest command, and powerless to move oract without her suggestion, stood still as she had been placed, with herback to the church and her face to the altar. Above her head the richlywrought door of the tabernacle caught what little light there was andreflected it from its own uneven surface. 

Unorna paused a moment, looked at the shadowy figure, and then glancedbehind her into the body of the church, not out of any ghostly fear, butto assure herself that she was alone with her victim. She saw that allwas quite ready, and then she calmly knelt down just upon one side ofthe gate and rested her folded hands upon the marble railing. A momentof intense stillness followed. Again the thought of Keyork Arabianflashed across her mind. Had there been any reality, she vaguelywondered, in that compact made with him? What was she doing now? But thecrime was to be Beatrice's, not hers. Her heart beat fast for a moment, and then she grew very calm again. 

The clock in the church tower chimed the first quarter past one. Shewas able to count the strokes and was glad to find that she had lost notime. As soon as the long, singing echo of the bells had died away, shespoke, not loudly, but clearly and distinctly. 

"Beatrice Varanger, go forward and mount the steps I have placed foryou. "

The dark figure moved obediently, and Unorna heard the slight sound ofBeatrice's foot upon the wood. The shadowy form rose higher and higherin the gloom, and stood upon the altar itself. 

"Now do as I command you. Open wide the door of the tabernacle. "

Unorna watched the black form intently. It seemed to stretch out itshand as though searching for something, and then the arm fell again tothe side. 

"Do as I command you, " Unorna repeated with the angry and dominantintonation that always came into her voice when she was not obeyed. 

Again the hand was raised for a moment, groped in the darkness and sankdown into the shadow. 

"Beatrice Varanger, you must do my will. I order you to open the doorof the tabernacle, to take out what is within and to throw it to theground!" Her voice rang clearly through the church. "And may the crimebe on your soul for ever and ever, " she added in a low voice. 

A third time the figure moved. A strange flash of light played for amoment upon the tabernacle, the effect, Unorna thought, of the goldendoor being suddenly opened. 

But she was wrong. The figure moved, indeed, and stretched out a handand moved again. A sudden crash of something very heavy, falling uponstone, broke the great stillness--the dark form tottered, reeled andfell to its length upon the great altar. Unorna saw that the golden doorwas still closed, and that Beatrice had fallen. Unable to move or act byher own free judgment, and compelled by Unorna's determined command, shehad made a desperate effort to obey. Unorna had forgotten that there wasa raised step upon the altar itself, and that there were other obstaclesin the way, including heavy candlesticks and the framed Canon of theMass, all of which are usually set aside before the tabernacle is openedby the priest. In attempting to do as she was told, the sleeping womanhad stumbled, had overbalanced herself, had clutched one of the greatsilver candlesticks so that it fell heavily beside her, and then, havingno further support, she had fallen herself. 

Unorna sprang to her feet and hastily opened the gate of the railing. Ina moment she was standing by the altar at Beatrice's head. She could seethat the dark eyes were open now. The great shock had recalled her toconsciousness. 

"Where am I?" she asked in great distress, seeing nothing in thedarkness now, and groping with her hands. 

"Sleep--be silent and sleep!" said Unorna in low, firm tones, pressingher palm upon the forehead. 

"No--no!" cried the startled woman in a voice of horror. "No--I will notsleep--no, do not touch me! Oh, where am I--help! Help!"

She was not hurt. With one strong, lithe movement, she sprang to theground and stood with her back to the altar, her hands stretched out todefend herself from Unorna. But Unorna knew what extreme danger she wasin if Beatrice left the church awake and conscious of what had happened. She seized the moving arms and tried to hold them down, pressing herface forward so as to look into the dark eyes she could but faintlydistinguish. It was no easy matter, however, for Beatrice was young andstrong and active. Then all at once she began to see Unorna's eyes, asUnorna could see hers, and she felt the terrible influence stealing overher again. 

"No--no--no!" she cried, struggling desperately. "You shall not make mesleep. I will not--I will not!"

There was a flash of light again in the church, this time from behindthe high altar, and the noise of quick footsteps. But neither Unorna norBeatrice noticed the light or the sound. Then the full glow of a stronglamp fell upon the faces of both and dazzled them, and Unorna felt acool thin hand upon her own. Sister Paul was beside them, her face verywhite and her faded eyes turning from the one to the other. 

It was very simple. Soon after Compline was over the nun had gone toUnorna's room, had knocked and had entered. To her surprise Unornawas not there, but Sister Paul imagined that she had lingered over herprayers and would soon return. The good nun had sat down to wait forher, and telling her beads had fallen asleep. The unaccustomed warmthand comfort of the guest's room had been too much for the wearinessthat constantly oppressed a constitution broken with ascetic practices. Accustomed by long habit to awake at midnight to attend the service, hereyes opened of themselves, indeed, but a full hour later than usual. She heard the clock strike one, and for a moment could not believe hersenses. Then she understood that she had been asleep, and was amazedto find that Unorna had not come back. She went out hastily into thecorridor. The lay sister had long ago extinguished the hanging lamp, butSister Paul saw the light streaming from Beatrice's open door. She wentin and called aloud. The bed had not been touched. Beatrice was notthere. Sister Paul began to think that both the ladies must have gone tothe midnight service. The corridors were dark and they might have losttheir way. She took the lamp from the table and went to the balcony atwhich the guests performed their devotion. It had been her light thathad flashed across the door of the tabernacle. She had looked down intothe choir, and far below her had seen a figure, unrecognisable fromthat height in the dusk of the church, but clearly the figure of a womanstanding upon the altar. Visions of horror rose before her eyes of thesacrilegious practices of witchcraft, for she had thought of nothingelse during the whole evening. Lamp in hand she descended the stairs tothe choir and reached the altar, providentially, just in time to saveBeatrice from falling a victim again to the evil fascination of theenemy who had planned the destruction of her soul as well as of herbody. 

"What is this? What are you doing in this holy place and at this hour?"asked Sister Paul, solemnly and sternly. 

Unorna folded her arms and was silent. No possible explanation of thestruggle presented itself even to her quick intellect. She fixed hereyes on the nun's face, concentrating all her will, for she knew thatunless she could control her also, she herself was lost. Beatriceanswered the question, drawing herself up proudly against the greataltar and pointing at Unorna with her outstretched hand, her dark eyesflashing indignantly. 

"We were talking together, this woman and I. She looked at me--she wasangry--and then I fainted, or fell asleep, I cannot tell which. I awokein the dark to find myself lying upon the altar here. Then she tookhold of me and tried to make me sleep again. But I would not. Let herexplain, herself, what she has done, and why she brought me here!"

Sister Paul turned to Unorna and met the full glare of the unlike eyes, with her own calm, half heavenly look of innocence. 

"What have you done, Unorna? What have you done?" she asked very sadly. 

But Unorna did not answer. She only looked at the nun more fixedly andsavagely. She felt that she might as well have looked upon some ancientpicture of a saint in heaven, and bid it close its eyes. But she wouldnot give up the attempt, for her only safety lay in its success. For along time Sister Paul returned her gaze steadily. 

"Sleep!" said Unorna, putting up her hand. "Sleep, I command you!"

But Sister Paul's eyes did not waver. A sad smile played for a momentupon her waxen features. 

"You have no power over me--for your power is not of good, " she said, slowly and softly. 

Then she quietly turned to Beatrice, and took her hand. 

"Come with me, my daughter, " she said. "I have a light and will takeyou to a place where you will be safe. She will not trouble you any moreto-night. Say a prayer, my child, and do not be afraid. "

"I am not afraid, " said Beatrice. "But where is she?" she askedsuddenly. 

Unorna had glided away while they were speaking. Sister Paul held thelamp high and looked in all directions. Then she heard the heavy door ofthe sacristy swing upon its hinges and strike with a soft thud againstthe small leathern cushion. Both women followed her, but as they openedthe door again a blast of cold air almost extinguished the lamp. Thenight wind was blowing in from the street. 

"She is gone out, " said Sister Paul. "Alone and at this hour--Heavenhelp her!" It was as she said, Unorna had escaped. 

CHAPTER XXI

After leaving Unorna at the convent, the Wanderer had not hesitated asto the course he should pursue. It was quite clear that the only personto whom he could apply at the present juncture was Keyork Arabian. Hadhe been at liberty to act in the most natural and simple way, he wouldhave applied to the authorities for a sufficient force with which totake Israel Kafka into custody as a dangerous lunatic. He was wellaware, however, that such a proceeding must lead to an inquiry of a moreor less public nature, of which the consequences might be serious, orat least extremely annoying, to Unorna. Of the inconvenience to which hemight himself be exposed, he would have taken little account, though hisposition would have been as difficult to explain as any situation couldbe. The important point was to prevent the possibility of Unorna's namebeing connected with an open scandal. Every present circumstance inthe case was directly or indirectly the result of Unorna's unreasoningpassion for himself, and it was clearly his duty, as a man of honour, toshield her from the consequences of her own acts, as far as lay in hispower. 

He did not indeed believe literally all that she had told him in her madconfession. Much of that, he was convinced, was but a delusion. It mightbe possible, indeed, for Unorna to produce forgetfulness of such a dreamas she impressed upon Kafka's mind in the cemetery that same afternoon, or even, perhaps, of some real circumstance of merely relativeimportance in a man's life; but the Wanderer could not believe thatit was in her power to destroy the memory of the great passion throughwhich she pretended that he himself had passed. He smiled at the idea, for he had always trusted his own senses and his own memory. Unorna'sown mind was clearly wandering, or else she had invented the story, supposing him credulous enough to believe it. In either case it did notdeserve a moment's consideration except as showing to what lengths herfoolish and ill-bestowed love could lead her. 

Meanwhile she was in danger. She had aroused the violent and deadlyresentment of Israel Kafka, a man who, if not positively insane, asKeyork Arabian had hinted, was by no means in a normal state of mind orbody, a man beside himself with love and anger, and absolutelyreckless of life for the time being, a man who, for the security of allconcerned, must be at least temporarily confined in a place of safety, until a proper treatment and the lapse of a certain length of timeshould bring him to his senses. For the present, he was whollyuntractable, being at the mercy of the most uncontrolled passions and ofone of those intermittent phases of blind fatalism to which the Semiticraces are peculiarly subject. 

There were two reasons which determined the Wanderer to turn to KeyorkArabian for assistance, besides his wish to see the bad business endquickly and without publicity. Keyork, so far as the Wanderer was aware, was himself treating Israel Kafka's case, and would therefore know whatto do, if any one knew at all. Secondly, it was clear from the messagewhich Unorna had left with the porter of her own house that she expectedKeyork to come at any moment. He was then in immediate danger of beingbrought face to face with Israel Kafka without having received the leastwarning of his present condition, and it was impossible to say what theinfuriated youth might do at such a moment. He had been shut up, caughtin his own trap, as it were, for some time, and his anger and madnessmight reasonably be supposed to have been aggravated rather than cooledby his unexpected confinement. It was as likely as not that he would usethe weapon he carried upon the first person with whom he found himselfface to face, especially if that person made any attempt to overpowerand disarm him. 

The Wanderer drove to Keyork Arabian's house, and leaving his carriageto wait in case of need, ascended the stairs and knocked at the door. For some reason or other Keyork would not have a bell in his dwelling, whether because, like Mahomet, he regarded the bell as the devil'sinstrument, or because he was really nervously sensitive to the soundof one, nobody had ever discovered. The Wanderer knocked therefore, andKeyork answered the knock in person. 

"My dear friend!" he exclaimed in his richest and deepest voice, as herecognised the Wanderer. "Come in. I am delighted to see you. You willjoin me at supper. This is good indeed!"

He took his visitor by the arm and led him in. Upon one of the tablesstood a round brass platter covered, so far as it was visible, withArabic inscriptions, and highly polished--one of those commonly used allover the East at the present day for the same purpose. Upon this wereplaced at random several silver bowls, mere hemispheres without feet, remaining in a convenient position by their own weight. One of thesecontained snowy rice, in that perfectly dry but tender state dear tothe taste of Orientals, in another there was a savoury, steaming mess oftender capon, chopped in pieces with spices and aromatic herbs, a thirdcontained a pure white curd of milk, and a fourth was heaped upwith rare fruits. A flagon of Bohemian glass, clear and bright asrock-crystal, and covered with very beautiful traceries of black andgold, with a drinking-vessel of the same design, stood upon the tablebeside the platter. 

"My simple meal, " said Keyork, spreading out his hands, and smilingpleasantly. "You will share it with me. There will be enough for two. "

"So far as I am concerned, I should say so, " the Wanderer answered witha smile. "But my business is rather urgent. "

Suddenly he saw that there was a third person in the room, and glancedat Keyork in surprise. 

"I want to speak a few words with you alone, " he said. "I would nottrouble you but----"

"Not in the least, not in the least, my dear friend!" asseveratedKeyork, motioning him to a chair beside the board. 

"But we are not alone, " observed the Wanderer, still standing andlooking at the stranger. Keyork saw the glance and understood. He brokeinto peals of laughter. 

"That!" he exclaimed, presently. "That is only the Individual. He willnot disturb us. Pray be seated. "

"I assure you that my business is very private--" the Wanderer objected. 

"Quite so--of course. But there is nothing to fear. The Individual is myservant--a most excellent creature who has been with me for many years. He cooks for me, cleans the specimens, and takes care of me in all ways. A most reliable man, I assure you. "

"Of course, if you can answer for his discretion----"

The Individual was standing at a little distance from the tableobserving the two men intently but respectfully with his keen littleblack eyes. The rest of his square, dark face expressed nothing. He hadperfectly straight, jet-black hair which hung evenly all around his headand flat against his cheeks. He was dressed entirely in a black robeof the nature of a kaftan, gathered closely round his waist by a blackgirdle, and fitting tightly over his stalwart shoulders. 

"His discretion is beyond all doubt, " Keyork answered, "and for the bestof all reasons. He is totally deaf and dumb and absolutely illiterate. I brought him years ago in Astrakhan, of a Russian friend. He is veryclever with his fingers. It is he who stole for me the Malayan lady'shead over there, after she was executed. And now, my dear friend, let ushave supper. "

There were neither plates nor knives nor forks upon the table, and ata sign from Keyork the Individual retired to procure those Westernincumbrances to eating. The Wanderer, acquainted as he had long beenwith his host's eccentricities, showed little surprise, but understoodthat whatever he said would not be overheard, any more than if they hadbeen alone. He hesitated a moment, however, for he had not determinedexactly how far it was necessary to acquaint Keyork with thecircumstances, and he was anxious to avoid all reference to Unorna'sfolly in regard to himself. The Individual returned, bringing, withother things, a drinking-glass for the Wanderer. Keyork filled it andthen filled his own. It was clear that ascetic practices formed no partof his scheme for the prolongation of life. As he raised his glass tohis lips, his bright eyes twinkled. 

"To Keyork's long life and happiness, " he said calmly, and then sippedthe wine. "And now for your story, " he added, brushing the brown dropsfrom his white moustache with a small damask napkin which the Individualpresented to him and immediately received again, to throw it aside asunfit for a second use. 

"I hardly think that we can afford to linger over supper, " the Wanderersaid, noticing Keyork's coolness with some anxiety. "The case is urgent. Israel Kafka has lost his head completely. He has sworn to kill Unorna, and is at the present moment confined in the conservatory in her house. "

The effect of the announcement upon Keyork was so extraordinary thatthe Wanderer started, not being prepared for any manifestation of whatseemed to be the deepest emotion. The gnome sprang from the table with acry that would have been like the roar of a wounded wild beast if it hadnot articulated a terrific blasphemy. 

"Unorna is quite safe, " the Wanderer hastened to say. 

"Safe--where?" shouted the little man, his hands already on his furs. The Individual, too, had sprung across the room like a cat and washelping him. In five seconds Keyork would have been out of the house. 

"In a convent. I took her there, and saw the gate close behind her. "

Keyork dropped his furs and stood still a moment. The Individual, alwaysunmoved, rearranged the coat and cap neatly in their place, followingall his master's movements, however, with his small eyes. Then the sagebroke out in a different strain. He flung his arms round the Wanderer'sbody and attempted to embrace him. 

"You have saved my life!--the curse of the three black angels on you fornot saying so first!" he cried in an agony of ecstasy. "Preserver! Whatcan I do for you?--Saviour of my existence, how can I repay you! Youshall live forever, as I will; you shall have all my secrets; the goldspider shall spin her web in your dwelling; the Part of Fortune shallshine on your path, it shall rain jewels on your roof; and your wintershall have snows of pearls--you shall--"

"Good Heavens! Keyork, " interrupted the Wanderer. "Are you mad? What isthe matter with you?"

"Mad? The matter? I love you! I worship you! I adore you! You have savedher life, and you have saved mine; you have almost killed me with frightand joy in two moments, you have--"

"Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is quite safe, but we must do somethingabout Kafka and--"

The rest of his speech was drowned in another shout from the gnome, ending in a portentous peal of laughter. He had taken his glass againand was toasting himself. 

"To Keyork, to his long life, to his happiness!" he cried. Then hewet his lips again in the golden juice, and the Individual, unmoved, presented him with a second napkin. 

The wine seemed to steady him, and he sat down again in his place. 

"Come!" he said. "Let us eat first. I have an amazing appetite, andIsrael Kafka can wait. "

"Do you think so? Is it safe?" the Wanderer asked. 

"Perfectly, " returned Keyork, growing quite calm again. "The locks arevery good on those doors. I saw to them myself. "

"But some one else--"

"There is no some one else, " interrupted the sage sharply. "Only threepersons can enter the house without question--you, I, and Kafka. You andI are here, and Kafka is there already. When we have eaten we will go tohim, and I flatter myself that the last state of the young man will beso immeasurably worse than the first, that he will not recognise himselfwhen I have done with him. "

He had helped his friend and began eating. Somewhat reassured theWanderer followed his example. Under the circumstances it was as wellto take advantage of the opportunity for refreshment. No one could tellwhat might happen before morning. 

"It just occurs to me, " said Keyork, fixing his keen eyes on hiscompanion's face, "that you have told me absolutely nothing, except thatKafka is mad and that Unorna is safe. "

"Those are the most important points, " observed the Wanderer. 

"Precisely. But I am sure that you will not think me indiscreet if Iwish to know a little more. For instance, what was the immediate causeof Kafka's extremely theatrical and unreasonable rage? That wouldinterest me very much. Of course, he is mad, poor boy! But I takedelight in following out the workings of an insane intellect. Now thereare no phases of insanity more curious than those in which the patientis possessed with a desire to destroy what he loves best. These casesare especially worthy of study because they happen so often in our day. "

The Wanderer saw that some explanation was necessary and he determinedto give one in as few words as possible. 

"Unorna and I had strolled into the Jewish Cemetery, " he said. "Whilewe were talking there, Israel Kafka suddenly came upon us and spoke andacted very wildly. He is madly in love with her. She became very angryand would not let me interfere. Then, by way of punishment for hisintrusion I suppose, she hypnotised him and made him believe that he wasSimon Abeles, and brought the whole of the poor boy's life so vividlybefore me, as I listened, that I actually seemed to see the scenes. Iwas quite unable to stop her or to move from where I stood, though I wasquite awake. But I realised what was going on and I was disgusted at hercruelty to the unfortunate man. He fainted at the end, but when he cameto himself he seemed to remember nothing. I took him home and Unornawent away by herself. Then he questioned me so closely as to what hadhappened that I was weak enough to tell him the truth. Of course, asa fervent Hebrew, which he seems to be, he did not relish the idea ofhaving played the Christian martyr for Unorna's amusement, and amidstthe graves of his own people. He there and then impressed me that heintended to take Unorna's life without delay, but insisted that I shouldwarn her of her danger, saying that he would not be a common murderer. Seeing that he was mad and in earnest I went to her. There was somedelay, which proved fortunate, as it turned out, for we left theconservatory by the small door just as he was entering from the otherend. We locked it behind us, and going round by the passages locked theother door upon him also, so that he was caught in a trap. And there heis, unless some one has let him out. "

"And then you took Unorna to the convent?" Keyork had listenedattentively. 

"I took her to the convent, promising to come to her when she shouldsend for me. Then I saw that I must consult you before doing anythingmore. It will not do to make a scandal of the matter. "

"No, " answered Keyork thoughtfully. "It will not do. "

The Wanderer had told his story with perfect truth and yet in a waywhich entirely concealed the very important part Unorna's passion forhim had played in the sequence of events. Seeing that Keyork asked nofurther questions he felt satisfied that he had accomplished his purposeas he had intended, and that the sage suspected nothing. He would havebeen very much disconcerted had he known that the latter had long beenaware of Unorna's love, and was quite able to guess at the cause ofKafka's sudden appearance and extreme excitement. Indeed, so soon as hehad finished the short narrative, his mind reverted with curiosity toKeyork himself, and he wondered what the little man had meant by hisamazing outburst of gratitude on hearing of Unorna's safety. Perhapshe loved her. More impossible things than that had occurred in theWanderer's experience. Or, possibly, he had an object to gain inexaggerating his thankfulness to Unorna's preserver. He knew thatKeyork rarely did anything without an object, and that, although he wasoccasionally very odd and excitable, he was always in reality perfectlywell aware of what he was doing. He was roused from his speculations byKeyork's voice. 

"There will be no difficulty in securing Kafka, " he said. "The realquestion is, what shall we do with him? He is very much in the wayat present, and he must be disposed of at once, or we shall have moretrouble. How infinitely more to the purpose it would have been if he hadwisely determined to cut his own throat instead of Unorna's! But youngmen are so thoughtless!"

"I will only say one thing, " said the Wanderer, "and then I will leavethe direction to you. The poor fellow has been driven mad by Unorna'scaprice and cruelty. I am determined that he shall not be made to suffergratuitously anything more. "

"Do you think that Unorna was intentionally cruel to him?" inquiredKeyork. "I can hardly believe that. She has not a cruel nature. "

"You would have changed your mind, if you had seen her this afternoon. But that is not the question. I will not allow him to be ill-treated. "

"No, no! of course not!" Keyork answered with eager assent. "Butof course you will understand that we have to deal with a dangerouslunatic, and that it may be necessary to use whatever means are mostsure and certain. "

"I shall not quarrel with your means, " the Wanderer said quietly, "provided that there is no unnecessary brutality. If I see anything ofthe kind I will take the matter into my own hands. "

"Certainly, certainly!" said the other, eyeing with curiosity theman who spoke so confidently of taking out of Keyork Arabian's graspwhatever had once found its way into it. 

"He shall be treated with every consideration, " the Wanderer continued. "Of course, if he is very violent, we shall have to use force. "

"We will take the Individual with us, " said Keyork. "He is very strong. He has a trick of breaking silver florins with his thumbs and fingerswhich is very pretty. "

"I fancy that you and I could manage him. It is a pity that neither ofus has the faculty of hypnotising. This would be the proper time to useit. "

"A great pity. But there are other things that will do almost as well. "

"What, for instance?"

"A little ether in a sponge. He would only struggle a moment, andthen he would be much more really unconscious than if he had beenhypnotised. "

"Is it quite painless?"

"Quite, if you give it gradually. If you hurry the thing, the man feelsas though he were being smothered. But the real difficulty is what to dowith him, as I said before. "

"Take him home and get a keeper from the lunatic asylum, " the Wanderersuggested. 

"Then comes the whole question of an inquiry into his sanity, " objectedKeyork. "We come back to the starting-point. We must settle all thisbefore we go to him. A lunatic asylum is not a club in this country. There is a great deal of formality connected with getting into it, anda great deal more connected with getting out. Now, I could not get akeeper for Kafka without going to the physician in charge and makinga statement, and demanding an examination, and all the rest of it. AndIsrael Kafka is a person of importance among his own people. He comes ofgreat Jews in Moravia, and we should have the whole Jews' quarter--whichmeans nearly the whole of Prague, in a broad sense--about our earsin twenty-four hours. No, no, my friend. To avoid an enormous scandalthings must be done very quietly indeed. "

"I cannot see anything to be done, then, unless we bring him here, " saidthe Wanderer, falling into the trap from sheer perplexity. Everythingthat Keyork had said was undeniably true. 

"He would be a nuisance in the house, " answered the sage, not wishing, for reasons of his own, to appear to accept the proposition too eagerly. "Not but that the Individual would make a capital keeper. He is asgentle as he is strong, and as quick as a tiger-cat. "

"So far as that is concerned, " said the Wanderer coolly, "I could takecharge of him myself, if you did not object to my presence. "

"You do not trust me, " said the other, with a sharp glance. 

"My dear Keyork, we are old acquaintances, and I trust you implicitlyto do whatever you have predetermined to do for the advantage of yourstudies, unless some one interferes with you. You have no more respectfor human life or sympathy for human suffering than you have beliefin the importance of anything not conducive to your researches. I amperfectly well aware that if you thought you could learn something bymaking experiments upon the body of Israel Kafka, you would not scrupleto make a living mummy of him, you would do it without the leasthesitation. I should expect to find him with his head cut off, livingby means of a glass heart and thinking through a rabbit's brain. That isthe reason why I do not trust you. Before I could deliver him into yourhands, I would require of you a contract to give him back unhurt--and acontract of the kind you would consider binding. "

Keyork Arabian wondered whether Unorna, in the recklessness of herpassion, had betrayed the nature of the experiment they had been makingtogether, but a moment's reflection told him that he need have noanxiety on this score. He understood the Wanderer's nature too well tosuspect him of wishing to convey a covert hint instead of saying openlywhat was in his mind. 

"Taste one of these oranges, " he said, by way of avoiding an answer. "they have just come from Smyrna. " The Wanderer smiled as he took theproffered fruit. 

"So that unless you have a serious objection to my presence, " he said, continuing his former speech, "you will have me as a guest so long asIsrael Kafka is here. "

Keyork Arabian saw no immediate escape. 

"My dear friend!" he exclaimed with alacrity. "If you are really inearnest, I am as really delighted. So far from taking your distrust ill, I regard it as a providentially fortunate bias of your mind, since itwill keep us together for a time. You will be the only loser. You seehow simply I live. "

"There is a simplicity which is the extremest development of refinedsybarism, " the Wanderer said, smiling again. "I know your simplicity ofold. It consists of getting precisely what you want, and in producinglocal earthquakes and revolutions when you cannot get it. Moreover youwant what is good--to the taste, at least. "

"There is something in that, " answered Keyork with a merry twinkle inhis eye. "Happiness is a matter of speculation. Comfort is a matter offact. Most men are uncomfortable, because they do not know what theywant. If you have tastes, study them. If you have intelligence, apply itto the question of gratifying your tastes. Consult yourself first--andnobody second. Consider this orange--I am fond of oranges and theysuit my constitution admirably. Consider the difficulty I have had inprocuring it at this time of year--not in the wretched condition inwhich they are sold in the market, plucked half green in Spain or Italyand ripened on the voyage in the fermenting heat of the decay of thosewhich are already rotten--but ripe from the tree and brought to medirectly by the shortest and quickest means possible. Consider thisorange, I say. Do you vainly imagine that if I had but two or three likeit I would offer you one?"

"I would not be so rash as to imagine anything of the kind, my dearKeyork. I know you very well. If you offer me one it is because you havea week's supply at least. "

"Exactly, " said Keyork. "And a few to spare, because they will onlykeep a week as I like them, and because I would no more run the riskof missing my orange a week hence for your sake, than I would deprivemyself of it to-day. "

"And that is your simplicity. "

"That is my simplicity. It is indeed a perfectly simple matter, forthere is only one idea in it, and in all things I carry that one ideaout to its ultimate expression. That one idea, as you very well put it, is to have exactly what I want in this world. "

"And will you be getting what you want in having me quartered upon youas poor Israel Kafka's keeper?" asked the Wanderer, with an expressionof amusement. But Keyork did not wince. 

"Precisely, " he answered without hesitation. "In the first place youwill relieve me of much trouble and responsibility, and the Individualwill not be so often called away from his manifold and importanthousehold duties. In the second place I shall have a most agreeable andintelligent companion with whom I can talk as long as I like. In thethird place I shall undoubtedly satisfy my curiosity. "

"In what respect, if you please?"

"I shall discover the secret of your wonderful interest in IsraelKafka's welfare. I always like to follow the workings of a brainessentially different from my own, philanthropic, of course. How couldit be anything else? Philanthropy deals with a class of ideas whollyunfamiliar to me. I shall learn much in your society. "

"And possibly I shall learn something from you, " the Wanderer answered. "There is certainly much to be learnt. I wonder whether your ideas uponall subjects are as simple as those you hold about oranges. "

"Absolutely. I make no secret of my principles. Everything I do is formy own advantage. "

"Then, " observed the Wanderer, "the advantage of Unorna's life must bean enormous one to you, to judge by your satisfaction at her safety. "

Keyork stared at him a moment and then laughed, but less heartily andloudly than usual his companion fancied. 

"Very good!" he exclaimed. "Excellent! I fell into the trap like a ratinto a basin of water. You are indeed an interesting companion, my dearfriend--so interesting that I hope we shall never part again. " There wasa rather savage intonation in the last words. 

They looked at each other intently, neither wincing nor lowering hisgaze. The Wanderer saw that he had touched upon Keyork's greatest andmost important secret, and Keyork fancied that his companion knew morethan he actually did. But nothing further was said, for Keyork was fartoo wise to enter into explanation, and the Wanderer knew well enoughthat if he was to learn anything it must be by observation and not byquestioning. Keyork filled both glasses in silence and both men drankbefore speaking again. 

"And now that we have refreshed ourselves, " he said, returning naturallyto his former manner, "we will go and find Israel Kafka. It is as wellthat we should have given him a little time to himself. He may havereturned to his senses without any trouble on our part. Shall we takethe Individual?"

"As you please, " the Wanderer answered indifferently as he rose from hisplace. 

"It is very well for you not to care, " observed Keyork. "You are bigand strong and young, whereas I am a little man and very old at that. I shall take him for my own protection. I confess that I value my lifevery highly. It is a part of that simplicity which you despise. Thatdevil of a Jew is armed, you say?"

"I saw something like a knife in his hand, as we shut him in, " said theWanderer with the same indifference as before. 

"Then I will take the Individual, " Keyork answered promptly. "A man'sbare hands must be strong and clever to take a man's life in a scuffle, and few men can use a pistol to any purpose. But a knife is a weapon ofprecision. I will take the Individual, decidedly. "

He made a few rapid signs, and the Individual disappeared, coming back amoment later attired in a long coat not unlike his master's except thatthe fur of the great collar was of common fox instead of being of sable. Keyork drew his peaked cape comfortably down over the tips of his ears. 

"The ether!" he exclaimed. "How forgetful I am growing! Your charmingconversation had almost made me forget the object of our visit!"

He went back and took the various things he needed. Then the three menwent out together. 

CHAPTER XXII

More than an hour had elapsed since the Wanderer and Unorna had finallyturned the key upon Israel Kafka, leaving him to his own reflections. During the first moments he made desperate efforts to get out of theconservatory, throwing himself with all his weight and strength againstthe doors and thrusting the point of his long knife into the smallapertures of the locks. Then, seeing that every attempt was fruitless, he desisted and sat down, in a state of complete exhaustion. A reactionbegan to set in after the furious excitement of the afternoon, and hefelt all at once that it would be impossible for him to make anotherstep or raise his arm to strike. A man less sound originally in bodilyconstitution would have broken down sooner, and it was a proof of IsraelKafka's extraordinary vigour and energy that he did not lose his sensesin a delirious fever at the moment when he felt that his strength couldbear no further strain. 

But his thoughts, such as they were, did not lack clearness. He saw thathis opportunity was gone, and he began to think of the future, wonderingwhat would take place next. Assuredly when he had come to Unorna's housewith the fixed determination to take her life, the last thing thathe had expected had been to be taken prisoner and left to his ownmeditations. It was clear that the Wanderer's warning had been conveyedwithout loss of time and had saved Unorna from her immediate fate. Nevertheless, he did not regret having given her the opportunity ofdefending herself. He had not meant that there should be any secretabout the deed, for he was ready to sacrifice his own life in executingit. 

Yet he was not altogether brave. He had neither Unorna's innateindifference to physical danger, nor the Wanderer's calm superiority tofear. He would not have made a good soldier, and he could not have facedanother man's pistol at fifteen paces without experiencing a mental andbodily commotion not unlike terror, which he might or might not haveconcealed from others, but which would in any case have been painfullyapparent to himself. 

It is a noticeable fact in human nature that a man of even ordinarycourage will at any time, when under excitement, risk his life ratherthan his happiness. Moreover, an immense number of individuals, naturally far from brave, destroy their own lives yearly in the momentwhen all chances of happiness are temporarily eclipsed. The inferenceseems to be that mankind, on the whole, values happiness more highlythan life. The proportion of suicides from so-called "honourablemotives" is small as compared with the many committed out of despair. 

Israel Kafka's case was by no means a rare one. The fact of having beenmade to play a part which to him seemed at once blasphemous and ignoblehad indeed turned the scale, but was not the motive. In all things, the final touch which destroys the balance is commonly mistaken for theforce which has originally produced a state of unstable equilibrium, whereas there is very often no connection between the one and the other. The Moravian himself believed that the sacrifice of Unorna, and ofhimself afterwards, was to be an expiation of the outrage Unorna had putupon his faith in his own person. He had merely seized upon the firstexcuse which presented itself for ending all, because he was in realitypast hope. 

We have, as yet, no absolute test of sanity, as we have of fever in thebody and of many other unnatural conditions of the human organism. The only approximately accurate judgments in the patient's favourare obtained from examinations into the relative consecutiveness andconsistency of thought in the individual examined, when the wholetendency of that thought is towards an end conceivably approvable by amajority of men. A great many philosophers and thinkers have accordinglybeen pronounced insane at one period of history and have been held upas models of sanity at another. The most immediately destructiveconsequences of individual reasoning on a limited scale, murder andsuicide, have been successively regarded as heroic acts, as criminaldeeds, and as the deplorable but explicable actions of irresponsiblebeings in consecutive ages of violence, strict law and humanitarianism. It seems to be believed that the combination of murder and suicide ismore commonly observed under the last of the three reigns than it wasunder the first; it was undoubtedly least common under the second. Inother words it appears probable that the practice of considering certaincrimes as the result of insanity has a tendency to make those crimesincrease in number, as they undoubtedly increase in barbarity, from yearto year. Meanwhile, however, no definite conclusion has been reached asto the state of mind of a man who murders the woman he loves and thenends his own life. 

Israel Kafka may therefore be regarded as mad or sane. In favour of thetheory of his madness the total uselessness of the deed he contemplatedmay be adduced; on the other hand the extremely consecutive andconsistent nature of his thoughts and actions gives evidence of hissanity. 

When he found himself a prisoner in Unorna's conservatory, his intentionunderwent no change though his body was broken with fatigue and hisnerves with the long continued strain of a terrible excitement. Hisdetermination was as cool and as fixed as ever. 

These somewhat dry reflections seem necessary to the understanding ofwhat followed. 

The key turned in the lock and the bolt was slipped back. InstantlyIsrael Kafka's energy returned. He rose quickly and hid himself in theshrubbery, in a position from which he could observe the door. He hadseen Unorna enter before and had of course heard her cry before theWanderer had carried her away, and he had believed that she had wishedto face him, either with the intention of throwing herself upon hismercy or in the hope of dominating him with her eyes as she had so oftendone before. Of course, he had no means of knowing that she had alreadyleft the house. He imagined that the Wanderer had gone and that Unorna, being freed from his restraint, was about to enter the place again. Thedoor opened and the three men came in. Kafka's first idea, on seeinghimself disappointed, was that they had come to take him into custody, and his first impulse was to elude them. 

The Wanderer entered first, tall, stately, indifferent, the quick glanceof his deep eyes alone betraying that he was looking for some one. Nextcame Keyork Arabian, muffled still in his furs, turning his head sharplyfrom side to side in the midst of the sable collar that half buriedit, and evidently nervous. Last of all the Individual, who had divestedhimself of his outer coat and whose powerful proportions did not escapeIsrael Kafka's observation. It was clear that if there were a struggleit could have but one issue. Kafka would be overpowered. His knowledgeof the disposition of the plants and trees offered him a hope of escape. The three men had entered the conservatory, and if he could reach thedoor before they noticed him, he could lock it upon them, as it hadbeen locked upon himself. He could hear their footsteps on the marblepavement very near him, and he caught glimpses of their moving figuresthrough the thick leaves. 

With cat-like tread he glided along in the shadows of the foliage untilhe could see the door. From the entrance an open way was left in astraight line towards the middle of the hall, down which his pursuerswere still slowly walking. He must cross an open space in the line oftheir vision in order to get out, and he calculated the distance to betraversed, while listening to their movements, until he felt sure thatthey were so far from the door as not to be able to reach him. Then hemade his attempt, darting across the smooth pavement with his knife inhis hand. There was no one in the way. 

Then came a violent shock and he was held as in a vice, so tightly thathe could not believe himself in the arms of a human being. Hiscaptors had anticipated that he would try to escape and has posted theIndividual in the shadow of a tree near the doorway. The deaf and dumbman had received his instructions by means of a couple of quick signs, and not a whisper had betrayed the measures taken. Kafka struggleddesperately, for he was within three feet of the door and still believedan escape possible. He tried to strike behind him with his sharp bladeof which a single touch would have severed muscle and sinew like silkthreads, but the bear-like embrace seemed to confine his whole body, his arms and even his wrists. Then he felt himself turned round and theIndividual pushed him towards the middle of the hall. The Wanderer wasadvancing quickly, and Keyork Arabian, who had again fallen behind, peered at Kafka from behind his tall companion with a grotesqueexpression in which bodily fear and a desire to laugh at the captivewere strongly intermingled. 

"It is of no use to resist, " said the Wanderer quietly. "We are toostrong for you. "

Kafka said nothing, but his bloodshot eyes glared up angrily at the tallman's face. 

"He looks dangerous, and he still has that thing in his hand, " saidKeyork Arabian. "I think I will give him ether at once while theIndividual holds him. Perhaps you could do it. "

"You will do nothing of the kind, " the Wanderer answered. "What a cowardyou are, Keyork!" he added contemptuously. 

Going to Kafka's side he took him by the wrist of the hand which heldthe knife. But Kafka still clutched it firmly. 

"You had better give it up, " he said. 

Kafka shook his head angrily and set his teeth, but the Wandererunclasped the fingers by quiet force and took the weapon away. He handedit to Keyork, who breathed a sigh of relief as he looked at it, smilingat last, and holding his head on one side. 

"To think, " he soliloquised, "that an inch of such pretty stuff asDamascus steel, in the right place, can draw the sharp red line betweentime and eternity!"

He put the knife tenderly away in the bosom of his fur coat. His wholemanner changed and he came forward with his usual, almost jaunty step. 

"And now that you are quite harmless, my dear friend, " he said, addressing Israel Kafka, "I hope to make you see the folly of your ways. I suppose you know that you are quite mad and that the proper place foryou is a lunatic asylum. "

The Wanderer laid his hand heavily upon Keyork's shoulder. 

"Remember what I told you, " he said sternly. "He will be reasonable now. Make your fellow understand that he is to let him go. "

"Better shut the door first, " said Keyork, suiting the action to theword and then coming back. 

"Make haste!" said the Wanderer with impatience. "The man is ill, whether he is mad or not. "

Released at last from the Individual's iron grip, Israel Kafka staggereda little. The Wanderer took him kindly by the arm, supporting his stepsand leading him to a seat. Kafka glanced suspiciously at him and at theother two, but seemed unable to make any further effort and sank backwith a low groan. His face grew pale and his eyelids drooped. 

"Get some wine--something to restore him, " the Wanderer said. 

Keyork looked at the Moravian critically for a moment. 

"Yes, " he assented, "he is more exhausted than I thought. He is notvery dangerous now. " Then he went in search of what was needed. TheIndividual retired to a distance and stood looking on with folded arms. 

"Do you hear me?" asked the Wanderer, speaking gently. "Do youunderstand what I say?"

Israel Kafka nodded, but said nothing. 

"You are very ill. This foolish idea that has possessed you this eveningcomes from your illness. Will you go away quietly with me, and make noresistance, so that I may take care of you?"

This time there was not even a movement of the head. 

"This is merely a passing thing, " the Wanderer continued in a tone ofquiet encouragement. "You have been feverish and excited, and I daresayyou have been too much alone of late. If you will come with me, I willtake care of you, and see that all is well. "

"I told you that I would kill her--and I will, " said Israel Kafka, faintly but distinctly. 

"You will not kill her, " answered his companion. "I will preventyou from attempting it, and as soon as you are well you will see theabsurdity of the idea. "

Israel Kafka made an impatient gesture, feeble but sufficientlyexpressive. Then all at once his limbs relaxed, and his head fellforward upon his breast. The Wanderer started to his feet and moved himinto a more comfortable position. There were one or two quickly drawnbreaths and the breathing ceased altogether. At that moment Keyorkreturned carrying a bottle of wine and a glass. 

"It is too late, " said the Wanderer gravely. "Israel Kafka is dead. "

"Dead!" exclaimed Keyork, setting down what he had in his hands, and hastening to examine the unfortunate man's face and eyes. "TheIndividual squeezed him a little too hard, I suppose, " he added, applying his ear to the region of the heart, and moving his head about alittle as he did so. 

"I hate men who make statements about things they do not understand, "he said viciously, looking up as he spoke, but without any expressionof satisfaction. "He is no more dead than you are--the greater pity!It would have been so convenient. It is nothing but a slightsyncope--probably the result of poorness of blood and an over-excitedstate of the nervous system. Help me to lay him on his back. You oughtto have known that was the only thing to do. Put a cushion under hishead. There--he will come to himself presently, but he will not be sodangerous as he was. "

The Wanderer drew a long breath of relief as he helped Keyork to makethe necessary arrangements. 

"How long will it last?" he inquired. 

"How can I tell?" returned Keyork sharply. "Have you never heard of asyncope? Do you know nothing about anything?"

He had produced a bottle containing some very strong salt and wasapplying it to the unconscious man's nostrils. The Wanderer paid noattention to his irritable temper and stood looking on. A long timepassed and yet the Moravian gave no further signs of consciousness. 

"It is clear that he cannot stay here if he is to be seriously ill, " theWanderer said. 

"And it is equally clear that he cannot be taken away, " retorted Keyork. 

"You seem to be in a very combative frame of mind, " the other answered, sitting down and looking at his watch. "If you cannot revive him, heought to be brought to more comfortable quarters for the night. "

"In his present condition--of course, " said Keyork with a sneer. 

"Do you think he would be in danger on the way?"

"I never think--I know, " snarled the sage. 

The Wanderer showed a slight surprise at the roughness of the answer, but said nothing, contenting himself with watching the proceedingskeenly. He was by no means past suspecting that Keyork might applysome medicine the very reverse of reviving, if left to himself. Forthe present there seemed to be no danger. The pungent smell of saltsof ammonia pervaded the place; but the Wanderer knew that Keyork had abottle of ether in the pocket of his coat, and he rightly judged that avery little of that would put an end to the life that was hanging inthe balance. Nearly half an hour passed before either spoke again. ThenKeyork looked up. This time his voice was smooth and persuasive. Hisirritability had all disappeared. 

"You must be tired, " he said. "Why do you not go home? Or else go to myhouse and wait for us. The Individual and I can take care of him verywell. "

"Thanks, " replied the Wanderer with a slight smile. "I am not in theleast tired, and I prefer to stay where I am. I am not hindering you, Ibelieve. "

Now Keyork Arabian had no interest in allowing Israel Kafka to die, though the Wanderer half believed that he had, though he could notimagine what that interest might be. The little man was in reality onthe track of an experiment, and he knew very well that so long as he wasso narrowly watched it would be quite impossible to try it. In spite ofhis sneers at his companion's ignorance, he was aware that the latterknew enough to make every effort conducive to reviving the patient ifleft to himself, and he submitted with a bad grace to doing what hewould rather have left undone. 

He would have wished to let the flame of life sink yet lower beforemaking it brighten again, for he had with him a preparation which hehad been carrying in his pocket for months in the hope of accidentallyhappening upon just such a case as the present, and he longed for anopportunity of trying it. But to give it a fair trial he wished to applyit at the precise point when, according to all previous experience, themoment of death was past--the moment when the physician usually putshis watch in his pocket and looks about for his hat. Possibly ifKafka, being left without any assistance, had shown no further signs ofsinking, Keyork would have helped him to sink a little lower. To producethis much-desired result, he had nothing with him but the ether, ofwhich the Wanderer of course knew the smell and understood the effects. He saw the chances of making the experiment upon an excellent subjectslipping away before his eyes and he grew more angry in proportion asthey seemed farther removed. 

"He is a little better, " he said discontentedly, after another longinterval of silence. 

The Wanderer bent down and saw that the eyelids were quivering and thatthe face was less deathly livid than before. Then the eyes opened andstared dreamily at the glass roof. 

"And I will, " said the faint, weak voice, as though completing asentence. 

"I think not, " observed Keyork, as though answering. "The people who dowhat they mean to do are not always talking about will. " But Kafka hadclosed his eyes again. 

This time, however, his breathing was apparent and he was evidentlyreturning to a conscious state. The Wanderer arranged the pillow morecomfortably under his head and covered him with his own furs. Keyork, relinquishing all hopes of trying the experiment at present, poured alittle wine down his throat. 

"Do you think we can take him home to-night?" inquired the Wanderer. 

He was prepared for an ill-tempered answer, but not for what Keyorkactually said. The little man got upon his feet and coolly buttoned hiscoat. 

"I think not, " he replied. "There is nothing to be done but to keep himquiet. Good-night. I am tired of all this nonsense, and I do not meanto lose my night's rest for all the Israels in Jewry--or all the Jews inIsrael. You can stay with him if you please. "

Thereupon he turned on his heel, making a sign to the Individual, whohad not moved from his place since Kafka had lost consciousness, and whoimmediately followed his master. 

"I will come and see to him in the morning, " said Keyork carelessly, ashe disappeared from sight among the plants. 

The Wanderer's long-suffering temper was roused and his eyes gleamedangrily as he looked after the departing sage. 

"Hound!" he exclaimed in a very audible voice. 

He hardly knew why he was so angry with the man who called himself hisfriend. Keyork had behaved no worse than an ordinary doctor, for he hadstayed until the danger was over and had promised to come again in themorning. It was his cool way of disclaiming all further responsibilityand of avoiding all further trouble which elicited the Wanderer'sresentment, as well as the unpleasant position in which the latter foundhimself. 

He had certainly not anticipated being left in charge of a sick man--andthat sick man Israel Kafka--in Unorna's house for the whole night, andhe did not enjoy the prospect. The mere detail of having to give someexplanation to the servants, who would doubtless come before long toextinguish the lights, was far from pleasant. Moreover, though Keyorkhad declared the patient out of danger, there seemed no absolutecertainty that a relapse would not take place before morning, and Kafkamight actually lay in the certainty--delusive enough--that Unorna couldnot return until the following day. 

He did not dare to take upon himself the responsibility of calling someone to help him and of removing the Moravian in his present condition. The man was still very weak and either altogether unconscious, orsleeping the sleep of exhaustion. The weather, too, was bitterly cold, and the exposure to the night air might bring on immediate and fatalconsequences. He examined Kafka closely and came to the conclusion thathe was really asleep. To wake him would be absolutely cruel as well asdangerous. He looked kindly at the weary face and then began to walkup and down between the plants, coming back at the end of every turn tolook again and assure himself that no change had taken place. 

After some time he began to wonder at the total silence in the house, or, rather, the silence which was carefully provided for in theconservatory impressed itself upon him for the first time. It wasstrange, he thought, that no one came to put out the lamps. He thoughtof looking out into the vestibule beyond, to see whether the lights werestill burning there. To his great surprise he found the door securelyfastened. Keyork Arabian had undoubtedly locked him in, and to allintents and purposes he was a prisoner. He suspected some treachery, but in this he was mistaken. Keyork's sole intention had been to insurehimself from being disturbed in the course of the night by a secondvisit from the Wanderer, accompanied perhaps by Kafka. It immediatelyoccurred to the Wanderer that he could ring the bell. But disliking theidea of entering into an explanation, he reserved that for an emergency. Had he attempted it he would have been still further surprised to findthat it would have produced no result. In going through the vestibuleKeyork had used Kafka's sharp knife to cut one of the slendersilk-covered copper wires which passed out of the conservatory onthat side, communicating with the servants' quarters. He was perfectlyacquainted with all such details of the household arrangement. 

Keyork's precautions were in reality useless and they merely illustratethe ruthlessly selfish character of the man. The Wanderer would in allprobability neither have attempted to leave the house with Kafka thatnight, nor to communicate with the servants, even if he had been leftfree to do either, and if no one had disturbed him in his watch. He wasdisturbed, however, and very unexpectedly, between half-past one and aquarter to two in the morning. 

More than once he had remained seated for a long time, but his eyeswere growing heavy and he roused himself and walked again until hewas thoroughly awake. It was certainly true that of all the personsconcerned in the events of the day, except Keyork, he had undergone theleast bodily fatigue and mental excitement. But even to the strongest, the hours of the night spent in watching by a sick person seem endlesswhen there is no really strong personal anxiety felt. He was undoubtedlyinterested in Kafka's fate, and was resolved to protect him as well asto hinder him from committing any act of folly. But he had only met himfor the first time that very afternoon, and under circumstances whichhad not in the first instance suggested even the possibility of afriendship between the two. His position towards Israel Kafka wasaltogether unexpected, and what he felt was no more than pity for hissufferings and indignation against those who had caused them. 

When the door was suddenly opened, he stood still in his walk and facedit. He hardly recognised Unorna in the pale, dishevelled woman withcircled eyes who came towards him under the bright light. She, too, stood still when she saw him, starting suddenly. She seemed to be verycold, for she shivered visibly and her teeth were chattering. Withoutthe least protection against the bitter night air she had fledbareheaded and cloakless through the open streets from the church to herhome. 

"You here!" she exclaimed, in an unsteady voice. 

"Yes, I am still here, " answered the Wanderer. "But I hardly expectedyou to come back to-night, " he added. 

At the sound of his voice a strange smile came into her wan face andlingered there. She had not thought to hear him speak again, kindlyor unkindly, for she had come with the fixed determination to meet herdeath at Israel Kafka's hands and to let that be the end. Amid all thewild thoughts that had whirled through her brain as she ran home in thedark, that one had not once changed. 

"And Israel Kafka?" she asked, almost timidly. 

"He is there--asleep. "

Unorna came forward and the Wanderer showed her where the man lay upon athick carpet, wrapped in furs, his pale head supported by a cushion. 

"He is very ill, " she said, almost under her breath. "Tell me what hashappened. "

It was like a dream to her. The tremendous excitement of what hadhappened in the convent had cut her off from the realisation of whathad gone before. Strange as it seemed even to herself, she scarcelycomprehended the intimate connection between the two series of events, nor the bearing of the one upon the other. Israel Kafka sank into suchinsignificance that she had began to pity his condition, and it was hardto remember that the Wanderer was the man whom Beatrice had loved, andof whom she had spoken so long and so passionately. She found, too, an unreasoned joy in being once more by his side, no matter underwhat conditions. In that happiness, one-sided and unshared, she forgoteverything else. Beatrice had been a dream, a vision, an unreal shadow. Kafka was nothing to her, and yet everything, as she suddenly saw, sincehe constituted a bond between her and the man she loved, which would atleast outlast the night. In a flash she saw that the Wanderer wouldnot leave her alone with the Moravian, and that the latter could notbe moved for the present without danger to his life. They must watchtogether by his side through the long hours. Who could tell what thenight would bring forth?

As the new development of the situation presented itself, the colourrose again to her cheeks. The warmth of the conservatory, too, dispelledthe chill that had penetrated her, and the familiar odours of theflowers contributed to restore the lost equilibrium of mind and body. 

"Tell me what has happened, " she said again. 

In the fewest possible words the Wanderer told her all that had occurredup to the moment of her coming, not omitting the detail of the lockeddoor. 

"And for what reason do you suppose that Keyork shut you in?" she asked. 

"I do not know, " the Wanderer answered. "I do not trust him, though Ihave known him so long. "

"It was mere selfishness, " said Unorna scornfully. "I know him betterthan you do. He was afraid you would disturb him again in the night. "

The Wanderer said nothing, wondering how any man could be so elaboratelythoughtful of his own comfort. 

"There is no help for it, " Unorna said, "we must watch together. "

"I see no other way, " the Wanderer answered indifferently. 

He placed a chair for her to sit in, within sight of the sick man, andtook one himself, wondering at the strange situation, and yet not caringto ask Unorna what had brought her back, so breathless and so pale, atsuch an hour. He believed, not unnaturally, that her motive had beeneither anxiety for himself, or the irresistible longing to see himagain, coupled with a distrust of his promise to return when she shouldsend for him. It seemed best to accept her appearance without question, lest an inquiry should lead to a fresh outburst, more unbearable nowthan before, since there seemed to be no way of leaving the housewithout exposing her to danger. A nervous man like Israel Kafka mightspring up at any moment and do something dangerous. 

After they had taken their places the silence lasted some moments. 

"You did not believe all I told you this evening?" said Unorna softly, with an interrogation in her voice. 

"No, " the Wanderer answered quietly, "I did not. "

"I am glad of that--I was mad when I spoke. "

CHAPTER XXIII

The Wanderer was not inclined to deny the statement which accorded wellenough with his total disbelief of the story Unorna had told him. But hedid not answer her immediately, for he found himself in a very difficultposition. He would neither do anything in the least discourteous beyondadmitting frankly that he had not believed her, when she taxed himwith incredulity; nor would say anything which might serve her as astepping-stone for returning to the original situation. He was, perhaps, inclined to blame her somewhat less than at first, and her changedmanner in speaking of Kafka somewhat encouraged his leniency. A manwill forgive, or at least condone, much harshness to others when he isthoroughly aware that it has been exhibited out of love for himself;and a man of the Wanderer's character cannot help feeling a sort ofchivalrous respect and delicate forbearance for a woman who loves himsincerely, though against his will, while he will avoid with an almostexaggerated prudence the least word which could be interpreted as anexpression of reciprocal tenderness. He runs the risk, at the same time, of being thrust into the ridiculous position of the man who, thoughyoung, assumes the manner and speech of age and delivers himself ofgrave, paternal advice to one who looks upon him, not as an elder, butas her chosen mate. 

After Unorna had spoken, the Wanderer, therefore, held his peace. Heinclined his head a little, as though to admit that her plea of madnessmight not be wholly imaginary; but he said nothing. He sat looking atIsrael Kafka's sleeping face and outstretched form, inwardly wonderingwhether the hours would seem very long before Keyork Arabian returned inthe morning and put an end to the situation. Unorna waited in vain forsome response, and at last spoke again. 

"Yes, " she said, "I was mad. You cannot understand it. I daresay youcannot even understand how I can speak of it now, and yet I cannot helpspeaking. "

Her manner was more natural and quiet than it had been since the momentof Kafka's appearance in the cemetery. The Wanderer noticed the tone. There was an element of real sadness in it, with a leaven of bitterdisappointment and a savour of heartfelt contrition. She was in earnestnow, as she had been before, but in a different way. He could hardlyrefuse her a word in answer. 

"Unorna, " he said gravely, "remember that you are leaving me no choice. I cannot leave you alone with that poor fellow, and so, whatever youwish to say, I must hear. But it would be much better to say nothingabout what has happened this evening--better for you and for me. Neithermen nor women always mean exactly what they say. We are not angels. Isit not best to let the matter drop?"

Unorna listened quietly, her eyes upon his face. 

"You are not so hard with me as you were, " she said thoughtfully, aftera moment's hesitation, and there was a touch of gratitude in her voice. As she felt the dim possibility of a return to her former relations offriendship with him, Beatrice and the scene in the church seemed to bevery far away. Again the Wanderer found it difficult to answer. 

"It is not for me to be hard, as you call it, " he said quietly. Therewas a scarcely perceptible smile on his face, brought there not by anyfeeling of satisfaction, but by his sense of his own almost laughableperplexity. He saw that he was very near being driven to the ridiculousnecessity of giving her some advice of the paternal kind. "It is notfor me, either, to talk to you of what you have done to Israel Kafkato-day, " he confessed. "Do not oblige me to say anything about it. Itwill be much safer. You know it all better than I do, and you understandyour own reasons, as I never can. If you are sorry for him now, so muchthe better--you will not hurt him any more if you can help it. If youwill say that much about the future I shall be very glad, I confess. "

"Do you think that there is anything which I will not do--if you askit?" Unorna asked very earnestly. 

"I do not know, " the Wanderer answered, trying to seem to ignorethe meaning conveyed by her tone. "Some things are harder to do thanothers----"

"Ask me the hardest!" she exclaimed. "Ask me to tell you the wholetruth----"

"No, " he said firmly, in the hope of checking an outburst of passionatespeech. "What you have thought and done is no concern of mine. If youhave done anything that you are sorry for, without my knowledge, Ido not wish to know of it. I have seen you do many good and kind actsduring the last month, and I would rather leave those memories untouchedas far as possible. You may have had an object in doing them which initself was bad. I do not care. The deeds were good. Take credit forthem and let me give you credit for them. That will do neither of us anyharm. "

"I could tell you--if you would let me--"

"Do not tell me, " he interrupted. "I repeat that I do not wish to know. The one thing that I have seen is bad enough. Let that be all. Doyou not see that? Besides, I am myself the cause of it in ameasure--unwilling enough, Heaven knows!"

"The only cause, " said Unorna bitterly. 

"Then I am in some way responsible. I am not quite without blame--we mennever are in such cases. If I reproach you, I must reproach myself aswell--"

"Reproach yourself!--ah no! What can you say against yourself?" shecould not keep the love out of her voice, if she would; her bitternesshad been for herself. 

"I will not go into that, " he answered. "I am to blame in one way oranother. Let us say no more about it. Will you let the matter rest?"

"And let bygones be bygones, and be friends to each other, as we werethis morning?" she asked, with a ray of hope. 

The Wanderer was silent for a few seconds. His difficulties wereincreasing. A while ago he had told her, as an excuse for herself, thatmen and women did not always mean exactly what they said, and even nowhe did not set himself up in his own mind as an exception to the rule. Very honourable and truthful men do not act upon any set of principlesin regard to truth and honour. Their instinctively brave actions andnaturally noble truthfulness make those principles which are held up tothe unworthy for imitation, by those whose business is the teaching ofwhat is good. The Wanderer's only hesitation lay between answering thequestion or not answering it. 

"Shall we be friends again?" Unorna asked a second time, in a low tone. "Shall we go back to the beginning?"

"I do not see how that is possible, " he answered slowly. 

Unorna was not like him, and did not understand such a nature as his asshe understood Keyork Arabian. She had believed that he would at leasthold out some hope. 

"You might have spared me that!" she said, turning her face away. Therewere tears in her voice. 

A few hours earlier his answer would have brought fire to her eyes andanger to her voice. But a real change had come over her, not lasting, perhaps, but strong in its immediate effects. 

"Not even a little friendship left?" she said, breaking the silence thatfollowed. 

"I cannot change myself, " he answered, almost wishing that he could. "Iought, perhaps, " he added, as though speaking to himself. "I have doneenough harm as it is. "

"Harm? To whom?" She looked round suddenly and he saw the moisture inher eyes. 

"To him, " he replied, glancing at Kafka, "and to you. You loved himonce. I have ruined his life. "

"Loved him? No--I never loved him. " She shook her head, wonderingwhether she spoke the truth. 

"You must have made him think so. "

"I? No--he is mad. " But she shrank before his honest look, and suddenlybroke down. "No--I will not lie to you--you are too true--yes, I lovedhim, or I thought I did, until you came, and I saw that there was noone----"

But she checked herself, as she felt the blood rising to her cheeks. Shecould blush still, and still be ashamed. Even she was not all bad, nowthat she was calm and that the change had come over her. 

"You see, " the Wanderer said gently, "I am to blame for it all. "

"For it all? No--not for the thousandth part of it all. What blame haveyou in being what you are? Blame God in Heaven--for making such a man. Blame me for what you know; blame me for all that you will not let metell you. Blame Kafka for his mad belief in me and Keyork Arabian forthe rest--but do not blame yourself--oh, no! Not that!"

"Do not talk like that, Unorna, " he said. "Be just first. "

"What is justice?" she asked. Then she turned her head away again. "Ifyou knew what justice means for me--you would not ask me to be just. Youwould be more merciful. "

"You exaggerate----" He spoke kindly, but she interrupted him. 

"No. You do not know, that is all. And you can never guess. There isonly one man living who could imagine such things as I have done--andtried to do. He is Keyork Arabian. But he would have been wiser than I, perhaps. "

She relapsed into silence. Before her rose the dim altar in the church, the shadowy figure of Beatrice standing up in the dark, the horriblesacrilege that was to have been done. Her face grew dark with fear ofher own soul. The Wanderer went so far as to try and distract her fromher gloomy thoughts, out of pure kindness of heart. 

"I am no theologian, " he said, "but I fancy that in the long reckoningthe intention goes for more than the act. "

"The intention!" she cried, looking back with a start. "If that betrue----"

With a shudder she buried her face in her two hands, pressing them toher eyes as though to blind them to some awful sight. Then, with a shortstruggle, she turned to him again. 

"There is no forgiveness for me in Heaven, " she said. "Shall there benone on earth! Not even a little, from you to me?"

"There is no question of forgiveness between you and me. You have notinjured me, but Israel Kafka. Judge for yourself which of us two, he orI, has anything to forgive. I am to-day what I was yesterday and may beto-morrow. He lies there, dying of his love for you, if ever a mandied for love. And as though that were not enough, you have torturedhim--well, I will not speak of it. But that is all. I know nothing ofthe deeds, or intentions, of which you accuse yourself. You are tired, overwrought, worn out with all this--what shall I say? It is naturalenough, I suppose--"

"You say there is no question of forgiveness, " she said, interruptinghim, but speaking more calmly. "What is it then? What is the realquestion? If you have nothing to forgive why can we not be friends as wewere before?"

"There is something besides that needed. It is not enough that of twopeople neither should have injured the other. You have broken something, destroyed something--I cannot mend it. I wish I could. "

"You wish you could?" she repeated earnestly. 

"I wish that the thing had not been done. I wish that I had not seenwhat I saw to-day. We should be where we were this morning--and heperhaps would not be here. "

"It must have come some day, " Unorna said. "He must have seen that Iloved--that I loved you. Is there any use in not speaking plainly now?Then at some other time, in some other place, he would have done what hedid, and I should have been angry and cruel--for it is my nature tobe cruel when I am angry, and to be angry easily, at that. Men talk soeasily of self-control, and self-command and dignity, and self-respect!They have not loved--that is all. I am not angry now, nor cruel. Iam sorry for what I did, and I would undo it, if deeds were knots andwishes deeds. I am sorry, beyond all words to tell you. How poor itsounds now that I have said it! You do not even believe me. "

"You are wrong. I know that you are in earnest. "

"How do you know?" she asked bitterly. "Have I never lied to you? If youbelieved me, you would forgive me. If you forgave me, your friendshipwould come back. I cannot even swear to you that I am telling the truth. Heaven would not be my witness now if I told a thousand truths, eachtruer than the last. "

"I have nothing to forgive, " the Wanderer said, almost wearily. "I havetold you so, you have not injured me, but him. "

"But if it meant a whole world to me--no, for I am nothing to you--butif it cost you nothing, but the little breath that can carry the threewords--would you say it? Is it much to say? Is it like saying, I loveyou, or, I honour you, respect you? It is so little, and would mean somuch. "

"To me it can mean nothing, unless you ask me to forgive you deeds ofwhich I know nothing. And then it means still less to me. "

"Will you say it, only say the three words once?"

"I forgive you, " said the Wanderer quietly. It cost him nothing, and, tohim, meant less. 

Unorna bent her head and was silent. It was something to have heard himsay it though he could not guess the least of the sins which she made itinclude. She herself hardly knew why she had so insisted. Perhaps it wasonly the longing to hear words kind in themselves, if not in tone, norin his meaning of them. Possibly, too, she felt a dim presentiment ofher coming end, and would take with her that infinitesimal grain ofpardon to the state in which she hoped for no other forgiveness. 

"It was good of you to say it, " she said at last. 

A long silence followed during which the thoughts of each went theirown way. Suddenly Israel Kafka stirred in his sleep. The Wanderer wentquickly forward and knelt down beside him and arranged the silken pillowas best he could. Unorna was on the other side almost as soon. With atenderness of expression and touch which nothing can describe she movedthe sleeping head into a comfortable position and smoothed the cushion, and drew up the furs disturbed by the nervous hands. The Wanderer lether have her way. When she had finished their eyes met. He could nottell whether she was asking his approval and a word of encouragement, but he withheld neither. 

"You are very gentle with him. He would thank you if he could. "

"Did you not tell me to be kind to him?" she said. "I am keeping myword. But he would not thank me. He would kill me if he were awake. "

The Wanderer shook his head. 

"He was ill and mad with pain, " he answered. "He did not know what hewas doing. When he wakes, it will be different. "

Unorna rose, and the Wanderer followed her. 

"You cannot believe that I care, " she said, as she resumed her seat. "Heis not you. My soul would not be the nearer to peace for a word of his. "

For a long time she sat quite still, her hands lying idly in her lap, her head bent wearily as though she bore a heavy burden. 

"Can you not rest?" the Wanderer asked at length. "I can watch alone. "

"No. I cannot rest. I shall never rest again. "

The words came slowly, as though spoken to herself. 

"Do you bid me go?" she asked after a time, looking up and seeing hiseyes fixed on her. 

"Bid you go? In your own house?" The tone was one of ordinary courtesy. Unorna smiled sadly. 

"I would rather you struck me than that you spoke to me like that!" sheexclaimed. "You have no need of such civil forbearance with me. If youbid me go, I will go. If you bid me stay, I will not move. Only speakfrankly. Say which you would prefer. "

"Then stay, " said the Wanderer simply. 

She bowed her head slightly and was silent again. A distant clock chimedthe hour. The morning was slowly drawing near. 

"And you, " said Unorna, looking up at the sound. "Will you not rest? Whyshould you not sleep?"

"I am not tired. "

"You do not trust me, I think, " she answered sadly. "And yet youmight--you might. " Her voice died away dreamily. 

"Trust you to watch that poor man? Indeed I do. You were not acting justnow, when you touched him so tenderly. You are in earnest. You will bekind to him, and I thank you for it. "

"And you yourself? Do you fear nothing from me, if you should sleepbefore my eyes? Do you not fear that in your unconsciousness I mighttouch you and make you more unconscious still and make you dream dreamsand see visions?"

The Wanderer looked at her and smiled incredulously, partly out of scornfor the imaginary danger, and partly because something told him that shehad changed and would not attempt any of her witchcraft upon him. 

"No, " he answered. "I am not afraid of that. "

"You are right, " she said gravely. "My sins are enough already. The evilis sufficient. Do as you will. If you can sleep, then sleep in peace. Ifyou will watch, watch with me. "

Then neither spoke again. Unorna bent her head as she had done before. The Wanderer leaned back resting comfortably against the cushion ofthe high carved chair, his eyes directed towards the place where IsraelKafka lay. The air was warm, the scent of the flowers sweet but notheavy. The silence was intense, for even the little fountain was still. He had watched almost all night and his eyelids drooped. He forgotUnorna and thought only of the sick man, trying to fix his attention onthe pale head as it lay under the bright light. 

When Unorna looked up at last she saw that he was asleep. At firstshe was surprised, in spite of what she had said to him half an hourearlier, for she herself could not have closed her eyes, and felt thatshe could never close them again. Then she sighed. It was but one proofmore of his supreme indifference. He had not even cared to speak to her, and if she had not constantly spoken to him throughout the hours theyhad passed together he would perhaps have been sleeping long before now. 

And yet she feared to wake him and was almost glad that he wasunconscious. In the solitude she could gaze on him to her heart'sdesire, she could let her eyes look their fill, and no one could say hernay. He must be very tired, she thought, and she vaguely wondered whyshe felt no bodily weariness, when her soul was so heavy. 

She sat still and watched him. It might be the last time, she thought, for who could tell what would happen to-morrow? She shuddered as shethought of it all. What would Beatrice do? What would Sister Paul say?How much would she tell of what she had seen? How much had she reallyseen which she could tell clearly? There were terrible possibilities inthe future if all were known. Such deeds, and even the attempt at suchdeeds as she had tried to do, could be judged by the laws of the land, she might be brought to trial, if she lived, as a common prisoner, andheld up to the execration of the world in all her shame and guilt. Butdeath would be worse than that. As she thought of that other Judgment, she grew dizzy with horror as she had been when the idea had firstentered her brain. 

Then she was conscious that she was again looking at the Wanderer as helay back asleep in his tall chair. The pale and noble face expressed thestainless soul and the manly character. She saw in it the peace she hadlost, and yet knew that through him she had lost her peace for ever. 

It was perhaps the last time. Never again, perhaps, after the morninghad broken, should she look on what she loved best on earth. She wouldbe gone, ruined, dead perhaps. And he? He would be still himself. Hewould remember her half carelessly, half in wonder, as a woman who hadonce been almost his friend. That would be all that would be left in himof her, beyond a memory of the repulsion he had felt for her deeds. 

She fancied she could have met the worst in the future less hopelesslyif he could have remembered her a little more kindly when all was over. Even now, it might be in her power to cast a veil upon the pictures inhis mind. But the mere thought was horrible to her, though a few hoursbefore she had hardly trembled at the doing of a frightful sacrilege. Inthat short time the humiliation of failure, the realisation of what shehad almost done, above all the ever-rising tide of a real and passionatelove, had swept away many familiar landmarks in her thoughts, and hadturned much to lead which had once seemed brighter than gold. She hatedthe very idea of using again those arts which had so directly wroughther utter destruction. But she longed to know that in the world whitherhe would doubtless go to-morrow he would bear with him one kind memoryof her, one natural friendly thought not grafted upon his mind by herpower, but growing of its own self in his inmost heart. Only a friendlymemory--nothing more than that. 

She rose noiselessly and came to his side and looked down into hisface. Very long she stood there, motionless as a statue, beautiful as amourning angel. 

It was so little that she asked. It was so little compared with allshe had hoped, or in comparison with all she had demanded, so little inrespect of what she had given. For she had given her soul. And in returnshe asked only for one small kindly thought when all should be over. 

She bent down as she stood and touched his cool forehead with her lips. 

"Sleep on, my beloved, " she said in a voice that murmured softly andsadly. 

She started a little at what she had done, and drew back, half afraid, like an innocent girl. But as though he had obeyed her words, he seemedto sleep more deeply still. He must be very tired, she thought, to sleeplike that, but she was thankful that the soft kiss, the first and last, had not waked him. 

"Sleep on, " she said again in a whisper scarcely audible to herself. "Forget Unorna, if you cannot think of her mercifully and kindly. Sleepon, you have the right to rest, and I can never rest again. You haveforgiven--forget, too, then, unless you can remember better things of methan I have deserved in your memory. Let her take her kingdom back. Itwas never mine--remember what you will, forget at least the wrong I did, and forgive the wrong you never knew--for you will know it surely someday. Ah, love--I love you so--dream but one dream, and let me thinkI take her place. She never loved you more than I, she never can. Shewould not have done what I have done. Dream only that I am Beatrice forthis once. Then when you wake you will not think so cruelly of me. Oh, that I might be she--and you your loving self--that I might be she forone day in thought and word, in deed and voice, in face and soul! Dearlove--you would never know it, yet I should know that you had had oneloving thought for me. You would forget. It would not matter thento you, for you would have only dreamed, and I should have thecertainty--for ever, to take with me always!"

As though the words carried a meaning with them to his sleeping senses, a look of supreme and almost heavenly happiness stole over his sleepingface. But Unorna could not see it. She had turned suddenly away, buryingher face in her hands upon the back of her own chair. 

"Are there no miracles left in Heaven?" she moaned, half whispering lestshe should wake him. "Is there no miracle of deeds undone again and offorgiveness given--for me? God! God! That we should be for ever what wemake ourselves!"

There were no tears in her eyes now, as there had been twice that night. In her despair, that fountain of relief, shallow always and not aptto overflow, was dried up and scorched with pain. And, for the time atleast, worse things were gone from her, though she suffered more. Asthough some portion of her passionate wish had been fulfilled, she feltthat she could never do again what she had done; she felt that shewas truthful now as he was, and that she knew evil from good even asBeatrice knew it. The horror of her sins took new growth in her changedvision. 

"Was I lost from the first beginning?" she asked passionately. "Was Iborn to be all I am, and fore-destined to do all I have done? Was sheborn an angel and I a devil from hell? What is it all? What is thislife, and what is that other beyond it?"

Behind her, in his chair, the Wanderer still slept. Still his face worethe radiant look of joy that had so suddenly come into it as she turnedaway. He scarcely breathed, so calmly he slept. But Unorna did not raiseher head nor look at him, and on the carpet near her feet Israel Kafkalay as still and as deeply unconscious as the Wanderer himself. By astrange destiny she sat there, between the two men in whom her wholelife had been wrecked, and she alone was waking. 

When she at last raised her eyes the dawn was breaking. Through thetransparent roof of glass a cold gray light began to descend upon thewarm, still brightness of the lamps. The shadows changed, the coloursgrew more cold, the dark nooks among the heavy foliage less black. Israel Kafka's face was ghostly and livid--the Wanderer's had thealabaster transparency that comes upon some strong men in sleep. Still, neither stirred. Unorna turned from the one and looked upon the other. For the first time she saw how he had changed, and wondered. 

"How peacefully he sleeps!" she thought. "He is dreaming of her. "

The dawn came stealing on, not soft and blushing as in southern lands, but cold, resistless and grim as ancient fate; not the maiden herald ofthe sun with rose-tipped fingers and grey, liquid eyes, but hard, cruel, sullen, and less darkness following upon a greater and going before adull, sunless and heavy day. 

The door opened somewhat noisily and a brisk step fell upon the marblepavement. Unorna rose noiselessly to her feet and hastening along theopen space came face to face with Keyork Arabian. He stopped and lookedup at her from beneath his heavy brows, with surprise and suspicion. Sheraised one finger to her lips. 

"You here already?" he asked, obeying her gesture and speaking in a lowvoice. 

"Hush! Hush!" she whispered, not satisfied. "They are asleep. You willwake them. "

Keyork came forward. He could move quietly enough when he chose. Heglanced at the Wanderer. 

"He looks comfortable enough, " he whispered, half contemptuously. 

Then he bent down over Israel Kafka and carefully examined his face. Tohim the ghastly pallor meant nothing. It was but the natural result ofexcessive exhaustion. 

"Put him into a lethargy, " said he under his breath, but with authorityin his manner. 

Unorna shook her head. Keyork's small eyes brightened angrily. 

"Do it, " he said. "What is this caprice? Are you mad? I want to take histemperature without waking him. "

Unorna folded her arms. 

"Do you want him to suffer more?" asked Keyork with a diabolical smile. "If so I will wake him by all means; I am always at your service, youknow. "

"Will he suffer, if he wakes naturally?"

"Horribly--in the head. "

Unorna knelt down and let her hand rest a few seconds on Kafka's brow. The features, drawn with pain, immediately relaxed. 

"You have hypnotised the one, " grumbled Keyork as he bent down again. "Icannot imagine why you should object to doing the same for the other. "

"The other?" Unorna repeated in surprise. 

"Our friend there, in the arm chair. "

"It is not true. He fell asleep of himself. "

Keyork smiled again, incredulously this time. He had already appliedhis pocket-thermometer and looked at his watch. Unorna had risen to herfeet, disdaining to defend herself against the imputation expressed inhis face. Some minutes passed in silence. 

"He has no fever, " said Keyork looking at the little instrument. "I willcall the Individual and we will take him away. "

"Where?"

"To his lodging, of course. Where else?" He turned and went towards thedoor. 

In a moment, Unorna was kneeling again by Kafka's side, her hand uponhis forehead, her lips close to his ear. 

"This is the last time that I will use my power on you or upon any one, "she said quickly, for the time was short. "Obey me, as you must. Do youunderstand me? Will you obey?"

"Yes, " came the faint answer as from very far off. 

"You will wake two hours from now. You will not forget all that hashappened, but you will never love me again. I forbid you ever to love meagain! Do you understand?"

"I understand. "

"You will only forget that I have told you this, though you will obey. You will see me again, and if you can forgive me of your own free will, forgive me then. That must be of your own free will. Wake in two hoursof yourself, without pain or sickness. "

Again she touched his forehead and then sprang to her feet. Keyork wascoming back with his dumb servant. At a sign, the Individual liftedKafka from the floor, taking from him the Wanderer's furs and wrappinghim in others which Keyork had brought. The strong man walked away withhis burden as though he were carrying a child. Keyork Arabian lingered amoment. 

"What made you come back so early?" he asked. 

"I will not tell you, " she answered, drawing back. 

"No? Well, I am not curious. You have an excellent opportunity now. "

"An opportunity?" Unorna repeated with a cold interrogative. 

"Excellent, " said the little man, standing on tiptoe to reach her ear, for she would not bend her head. "You have only to whisper into his earthat you are Beatrice and he will believe you for the rest of his life. "

"Go!" said Unorna. 

Though the word was not spoken above her breath it was fierce andcommanding. Keyork Arabian smiled in an evil way, shrugged his shouldersand left her. 

CHAPTER XXIV

Unorna was left alone with the Wanderer. His attitude did not change, his eyes did not open, as she stood before him. Still he wore the lookwhich had at first attracted Keyork Arabian's attention and which hadamazed Unorna herself. It was the expression that had come into his facein the old cemetery when in his sleep she had spoken to him of love. 

"He is dreaming of her, " Unorna said to herself again, as she turnedsadly away. 

But since Keyork had been with her a doubt had assailed her whichpainfully disturbed her thoughts, so that her brow contracted withanxiety and from time to time she drew a quick hard breath. Keyork hadtaken it for granted that the Wanderer's sleep was not natural. 

She tried to recall what had happened shortly before dawn but it wasno wonder that her memory served her ill and refused to bring backdistinctly the words she had spoken. Her whole being was unsettled andshaken, so that she found it hard to recognise herself. The stormy hoursthrough which she had lived since yesterday had left their trace; thelack of rest, instead of producing physical exhaustion, had broughtabout an excessive mental weariness, and it was not easy for her now tofind all the connecting links between her actions. Then, above all else, there was the great revulsion that had swept over her after her last andgreatest plan of evil had failed, causing in her such a change as couldhardly have seemed natural or even possible to a calm person watchingher inmost thoughts. 

And yet such sudden changes take place daily in the world of crime andpassion. In one uncalled-for confession, of which it is hard to tracethe smallest reasonable cause, the intricate wickednesses of a lifetimeare revealed and repeated; in the mysterious impulse of a moment themurderer turns back and delivers himself to justice; under an influencefor which there is often no accounting, the woman who has sinnedsecurely through long years lays bare her guilt and throws herselfupon the mercy of the man whom she has so skilfully and consistentlydeceived. We know the fact. The reason we cannot know. Perhaps, tonatures not wholly bad, sin is a poison of which the moral organizationcan only bear a certain fixed amount, great or small, before rejectingit altogether and with loathing. We do not know. We speak of theworkings of conscience, not understanding what we mean. It is like thatsubtle something which we call electricity; we can play with it, commandit, lead it, neutralise it and die of it, make light and heat with it, or language and sound, kill with it and cure with it, while absolutelyignorant of its nature. We are no nearer to a definition of it than theGreek who rubbed a bit of amber and lifted with it a tiny straw, andfrom amber, Elektron called the something electricity. Are we even asnear as that to a definition of the human conscience?

The change that had come over Unorna, whether it was to be lasting ornot, was profound. The circumstances under which it took place are plainenough. The reasons must be left to themselves--it remains only to tellthe consequences which thereon followed. 

The first of these was a hatred of that extraordinary power with whichnature had endowed her, which brought with it a determination neveragain to make use of it for any evil purpose, and, if possible, nevereven for good. 

But as though her unhappy fate were for ever fighting against her goodimpulses, that power of hers had exerted itself unconsciously, sinceher resolution had been formed. Keyork Arabian's words, and his evidentthough unspoken disbelief in her denial, showed that he at least wasconvinced of the fact that the Wanderer was not sleeping a naturalsleep. Unorna tried to recall what she had done and said, but all wasvague and indistinct. Of one thing she was sure. She had not laid herhand upon his forehead, and she had not intentionally done any of thosethings which she had always believed necessary for producing the resultsof hypnotism. She had not willed him to do anything, she thought and shefelt sure that she had pronounced no words of the nature of a command. Step by step she tried to reconstruct for her comfort a detailedrecollection of what had passed, but every effort in that direction wasfruitless. Like many men far wiser than herself, she believed in themechanics of hypnotic science, in the touches, in the passes, in thefixed look, in the will to fascinate. More than once Keyork Arabian hadscoffed at what he called her superstitions, and had maintained thatall the varying phenomena of hypnotism, all the witchcraft of the darkerages, all the visions undoubtedly shown to wondering eyes by mediaevalsorcerers, were traceable to moral influence, and to no other cause. Unorna could not accept his reasoning. For her there was a deeper andyet a more material mystery in it, as in her own life, a mystery whichshe cherished as an inheritance, which impressed her with a sense ofher own strange destiny and of the gulf which separated her from otherwomen. She could not detach herself from the idea that the supernaturalplayed a part in all her doings, and she clung to the use of gesturesand passes and words in the exercise of her art, in which she fancieda hidden and secret meaning to exist. Certain things had especiallyimpressed her. The not uncommon answer of hypnotics to the questionconcerning their identity, "I am the image in your eyes, " is undoubtedlyelicited by the fact that their extraordinarily acute and, perhaps, magnifying vision, perceives the image of themselves in the eyes ofthe operator with abnormal distinctness, and, not impossibly, of asize quite incompatible with the dimensions of the pupil. To Unorna theanswer meant something more. It suggested the actual presence of theperson she was influencing, in her own brain, and whenever she wasundertaking anything especially difficult, she endeavoured to obtain thereply relating to the image as soon as possible. 

In the present case, she was sure that she had done none of the thingswhich she considered necessary to produce a definite result. She wastotally unconscious of having impressed upon the sleeper any suggestionof her will. Whatever she had said, she had addressed the words toherself without any intention that they should be heard and understood. 

These reflections comforted her as she paced the marble floor, and yetKeyork's remark rang in her ears and disturbed her. She knew how vasthis experience was and how much he could tell by a single glance ata human face. He had been familiar with every phase of hypnotism longbefore she had known him, and might reasonably be supposed to knowby inspection whether the sleep were natural or not. That a personhypnotised may appear to sleep as naturally as one not under theinfluence is certain, but the condition of rest is also very oftendifferent, to a practised eye, from that of ordinary slumber. There isa fixity in the expression of the face, and in the attitude of thebody, which cannot continue under ordinary circumstances. He had perhapsnoticed both signs in the Wanderer. 

She went back to his side and looked at him intently. She had scarcelydared to do so before, and she felt that she might have been mistaken. The light, too, had changed, for it was broad day, though the lamps werestill burning. Yet, even now, she could not tell. Her judgment of whatshe saw was disturbed by many intertwining thoughts. 

At least, he was happy. Whatever she had done, if she had done anything, it had not hurt him. There was no possibility of misinterpreting thesleeping man's expression. 

She wished that he would wake, though she knew how the smile would fade, how the features would grow cold and indifferent, and how the grey eyesshe loved would open with a look of annoyance at seeing her before him. It was like a vision of happiness in a house of sorrow to see him lyingthere, so happy in his sleep, so loving, so peaceful. She could makeit all to last, too, if she would, and she realised that with a suddenpang. The woman of whom he dreamed, whom he had loved so faithfully andsought so long, was very near him. A word from Unorna and Beatrice couldcome and find him as he lay asleep, and herself open the dear eyes. 

Was that sacrifice to be asked of her before she was taken away to theexpiation of her sins? Fate could not be so very cruel--and yet the mereidea was an added suffering. The longer she looked at him the more thepossibility grew and tortured her. 

After all, it was almost certain that they would meet now, and at themeeting she felt sure that all his memory would return. Why should shedo anything, why should she raise her hand, to bring them to each other?It was too much to ask. Was it not enough that both were free, and bothin the same city together, and that she had vowed neither to hurt norhinder them? If it was their destiny to be joined together it would sohappen surely in the natural course; if not, was it her part to jointhem? The punishment of her sins, whatever it should be, she could bear;but this thing she could not do. 

She passed her hand across her eyes as though to drive it away, andher thoughts came back to the point from which they had started. Thesuspense became unbearable when she realised that she did not know inwhat condition the Wanderer would wake, nor whether, if left to nature, he would wake at all. She could not endure it any longer. She touchedhis sleeve, lightly at first, and then more heavily. She moved his arm. It was passive in her hand and lay where she placed it. Yet she wouldnot believe that she had made him sleep. She drew back and looked athim. Then her anxiety overcame her. 

"Wake!" she cried, aloud. "For God's sake, wake! I cannot bear it!"

His eyes opened at the sound of her voice, naturally and quietly. Thenthey grew wide and deep and fixed themselves in a great wonder of manyseconds. Then Unorna saw no more. 

Strong arms lifted her suddenly from her feet and pressed her fiercelyand carried her, and she hid her face. A voice she knew sounded, as shehad never heard it sound, nor hoped to hear it. 

"Beatrice!" it cried, and nothing more. 

In the presence of that strength, in the ringing of that cry, Unorna washelpless. She had no power of thought left in her, as she felt herselfborne along, body and soul, in the rush of a passion more masterful thanher own. 

Then she was on her feet again, but his arms were round her still, andhers, whether she would or not, were clasped about his neck. Dreams, truth, faith kept or broken, hell and Heaven itself were swept away, allwrecked together in the tide of love. And through it all his voice wasin her ear. 

"Love, love, at last! From all the years, you have come back--atlast--at last!"

Broken and almost void of sense the words came then, through the stormof his kisses and the tempest of her tears. She could no more resist himnor draw herself away than the frail ship, wind-driven through crashingwaves, can turn and face the blast; no more than the long dry grasscan turn and quench the roaring flame; no more than the drooping willowbough can dam the torrent and force it backwards up the steep mountainside. 

In those short, false moments, Unorna knew what happiness could mean. Torn from herself, lifted high above the misery and the darkness ofher real life, it was all true to her. There was no other Beatrice butherself, no other woman whom he had ever loved. An enchantment greaterthan her own was upon her and held her in bonds she could neither bendnor break. 

She was sitting in her own chair now and he was kneeling before her, holding her hands and looking up to her. For him the world held nothingelse. For him her hair was black as night; for him the unlike eyeswere dark and fathomless; for him the heavy marble hand was light, responsive, delicate; for him her face was the face of Beatrice, ashe had last seen it long ago. The years had passed, indeed, and he hadsought her through many lands, but she had come back to him the same, inthe glory of her youth, in the strength of her love, in the divinity ofher dark beauty, his always, through it all, his now--for ever. 

For a long time he did not speak. The words rose to his lips and failedof utterance, as the first mist of early morning is drawn heavenwards tovanish in the rising sun. The long-drawn breath could have made no soundof sweeter meaning than the unspoken speech that rose in the deep grayeyes. Nature's grand organ, touched by hands divine, can yield no chordmore moving than a lover's sigh. 

Words came at last, as after the welcome shower in summer's heat thesong of birds rings through the woods, and out across the fields, uponthe clear, earth-scented air--words fresh from their long rest withinhis heart, unused in years of loneliness but unforgotten and familiarstill--untarnished jewels from the inmost depths; rich treasures fromthe storehouse of a deathless faith; diamonds of truth, rubies ofpassion, pearls of devotion studding the golden links of the chain oflove. 

"At last--at last--at last! Life of my life, the day is come that is notday without you, and now it will always be day for us two--day withoutend and sun for ever! And yet, I have seen you always in my night, justas I see you now. As I hold your dear hands, I have held them--day byday and year by year--and I have smoothed that black hair of yours thatI love, and kissed those dark eyes of yours many and many a thousandtimes. It has been so long, love, so very long! But I knew it would comesome day. I knew I should find you, for you have been always with me, dear--always and everywhere. The world is all full of you, for I havewandered through it all and taken you with me and made every place yourswith the thought of you, and the love of you and the worship of you. Forme, there is not an ocean nor a sea nor a river, nor rock nor islandnor broad continent of earth, that has not known Beatrice and lovedher name. Heart of my heart, soul of my soul--the nights and thedays without you, the lands and the oceans where you were not, theendlessness of this little world that hid you somewhere, the littlenessof the whole universe without you--how can you ever know what it hasbeen to me? And so it is gone at last--gone as a dream of sickness inthe morning of health; gone as the blackness of storm-clouds in thesweep of the clear west wind; gone as the shadow of evil before the faceof an angel of light! And I know it all. I see it all in your eyes. You knew I was true, and you knew I sought you, and would find you atlast--and you have waited--and there has been no other, not the thoughtof another, not the passing image of another between us. For I knowthere has not been that and I should have known it anywhere in all theseyears, the chill of it would have found me, the sharpness of it wouldhave been in my heart--no matter where, no matter how far--yet say it, say it once--say that you have loved me, too--"

"God knows how I have loved you--how I love you now!" Unorna said in alow, unsteady voice. 

The light that had been in his face grew brighter still as she spoke, while she looked at him, wondering, her head thrown back against thehigh chair, her eyelids wet and drooping, her lips still parted, herhand in his. Small wonder if he had loved her for herself, she was sobeautiful. Small wonder it would have been if she had taken Beatrice'splace in his heart during those weeks of close and daily converse. But that first great love had left no fertile ground in which to plantanother seed, no warmth of kindness under which the tender shoot mightgrow to strength, no room beneath its heaven for other branches than itsown. Alone it had stood in majesty as a lordly tree, straight, tall, andever green, on a silent mountain top. Alone it had borne the burdenof grief's heavy snows; unbent, for all its loneliness, it had stoodagainst the raging tempest; and green still, in all its giant strengthof stem and branch, in all its kingly robe of unwithered foliage. Unscathed, unshaken, it yet stood. Neither storm nor lightning, windnor rain, sun nor snow had prevailed against it to dry it up and cast itdown that another might grow in its place. 

Yet this love was not for her to whom he spoke, and she knew it as sheanswered him, though she answered truly, from the fulness of her heart. She had cast an enchantment over him unwittingly, and she was taken inthe toils of her own magic even as she had sworn that she would neveragain put forth her powers. She shuddered as she realised it all. In afew short moments she had felt his kisses, and heard his words, and beenclasped to his heart, as she had many a time madly hoped. But in thosemoments, too, she had known the truth of her woman's instinct when ithad told her that love must be for herself and for her own sake, or notbe love at all. 

The falseness, the fathomless untruth of it, would have been bad enoughalone. But the truth that was so strong made it horrible. Had she butinspired in him a burning love for herself, however much against hiswill, it would have been very different. She would have heard her namefrom his lips, she would have known that all, however false, howeverartificial, was for herself, while it might last. To know that it wasreal, and not for her, was intolerable. To see this love of his breakout at last--this other love which she had dreaded, against which shehad fought, which she had met with a jealousy as strong as itself, andstruggled with and buried under an imposed forgetfulness--to feel itsgreat waves surging around her and beating up against her heart, wasmore than she could bear. Her face grew whiter and her hands were cold. She dreaded each moment lest he should call her Beatrice again, and saythat her fair hair was black and that he loved those deep dark eyes ofhers. 

There had been one moment of happiness, in that first kiss, in the firstpressure of those strong arms. Then night descended. The hands that heldher had not been yet unclasped, the kiss was not cold upon her cheek, the first great cry of his love had hardly died away in a softenedecho, and her punishment was upon her. His words were lashes, histouch poison, his eyes avenging fires. As in nature's great alchemy thediamond and the blackened coal are one, as nature with the same elementspours life and death from the same vial with the same hand, so now thelove which would have been life to Unorna was made worse than deathbecause it was not for her. 

Yet the disguise was terribly perfect. The unconscious spell haddone its work thoroughly. He took her for Beatrice, and her voice forBeatrice's there in the broad light, in the familiar place where he hadso often talked with her for hours and known her for Unorna. But a fewpaces away was the very spot where she had fallen at his feet last nightand wept and abused herself before him. There was the carpet on whichIsrael Kafka had lain throughout the long hours while they had watchedtogether. Upon that table at her side a book lay which they had readtogether but two days ago. In her own chair she sat, Unorna still, unchanged, unaltered save for him. She doubted her own senses as sheheard him speak, and ever and again the name of Beatrice rang in herears. He looked at her hands, and knew them; at her black dress, and knew it for her own, and yet he poured out the eloquence of hislove--kneeling, then standing, then sitting at her side, drawing herhead to his shoulder and smoothing her fair hair--so black to him--witha gentle hand. She was passive through it all, as yet. There seemed tobe no other way. He paused sometimes, then spoke again. Perhaps, inthe dream that possessed him, he heard her speak. Possibly, he wasunconscious of her silence, borne along by the torrent of his own longpent-up speech. She could not tell, she did not care to know. Of onething alone she thought, of how to escape from it all and be alone. 

She feared to move, still more to rise, not knowing what he would do. Ashe was now, she could not tell what effect her words would have ifshe spoke. It might be but a passing state after all. What would theawakening be? Would his forgetfulness of Beatrice and his coldness toherself return with the subsidence of his passion? Far better that thanto see him and hear him as he was now. 

And yet there were moments now and then when he pronounced no name, whenhe recalled no memory of the past, when there was only the tendernessof love itself in his words, and then, as she listened, she could almostthink it was for her. It was bitter joy, unreal and fantastic, but itwas a relief. Had she loved him less, such a conflict between sense andsenses would have been impossible even in imagination. But she lovedhim greatly and the deep desire to be loved in turn was in her still, shaming her better thoughts, but sometimes ruling her in spite ofherself and of the pain she suffered with each word self-applied. Allthe vast contradictions, all the measureless inconsistency, all theenormous selfishness of which human hearts are capable, had met in hersas in a battle-ground, fighting each other, rending what they foundof herself amongst them, sometimes uniting to throw their whole weighttogether against the deep-rooted passion, sometimes taking side with itto drive out every other rival. 

It was shameful, base, despicable, and she knew it. A moment ago she hadlonged to tear herself away, to silence him, to stop her ears, anythingnot to hear those words that cut like whips and stung like scorpions. And now again she was listening for the next, eagerly, breathlessly, drunk with their sound and revelling almost in the unreality of thehappiness they brought. More and more she despised herself as theintervals between one pang of suffering and the next grew longer, andthe illusion deeper and more like reality. 

After all, it was he, and no other. It was the man she loved who waspouring out his own love into her ears, and smoothing her hair andpressing the hand he held. Had he not said it once, and more than once?What matter where, what matter how, provided that he loved? She hadreceived the fulfilment of her wish. He loved her now. Under anothername, in a vision, with another face and another voice, yet, still, shewas herself. 

As in a storm the thunder-claps came crashing through the air, deafeningand appalling at first, then rolling swiftly into a far distance, fainter and fainter, till all is still and only the plash of thefast-falling rain is heard, so, as she listened, the tempest of her painwas passing away. Easier and easier it became to hear herself calledBeatrice, easier and easier it grew to take the other's place, to acceptthe kiss, the touch, the word, the pressure of the hand that were allanother's due, and given to herself only for the mask she wore in hisdream. 

And the tide of the great temptation rose, and fell a little, and rosehigher again each time, till it washed the fragile feet of the lastgood thought that lingered, taking refuge on the highest point above thewaves. On and on it came, receding and coming back, higher and higher, surer and surer. Had she drawn back in time it would have been so easy. Had she turned and fled when the first moment of senseless joy wasover, when she could still feel all the shame, and blush for all theabasement, it would have been over now, and she would have been safe. But she had learned to look upon the advancing water, and the sound ofit had no more terror for her. It was very high now. Presently it wouldclimb higher and close above her head. 

There were long intervals of silence now. The first rush of his speechhad spent itself, for he had told her much and she had heard it all, even through the mists of her changing moods. And now that he was silentshe longed to hear him speak again. She could never weary of that voice. It had been music to her in the days when it had been full of coldindifference--now each vibration roused high harmonies in her heart, each note was a full chord, and all the chords made but one greatprogression. She longed to hear it all again, wondering greatly how itcould never have been not good to hear. 

Then with the greater temptation came the less, enclosed within it, suddenly revealed to her. There was but one thing she hated in it all. That was the name. Would he not give her another--her own perhaps? Shetrembled as she thought of speaking. Would she still have Beatrice'svoice? Might not her own break down the spell and destroy all at once?Yet she had spoken once before. She had told him that she loved him andhe had not been undeceived. 

"Beloved--" she said at last, lingering on the single word and thenhesitating. 

He looked into her face as he drew her to him, with happy eyes. Shemight speak, then, for he would hear tones not hers. 

"Beloved, I am tired of my name. Will you not call me by another?" Shespoke very softly. 

"By another name?" he exclaimed, surprised, but smiling at what seemed astrange caprice. 

"Yes. It is a sad name to me. It reminds me of many things--of a timethat is better forgotten since it is gone. Will you do it for me? Itwill make it seem as though that time had never been. "

"And yet I love your own name, " he said, thoughtfully. "It is somuch--or has been so much in all these years, when I had nothing butyour name to love. "

"Will you not do it? It is all I ask. "

"Indeed I will, if you would rather have it so. Do you think there isanything that I would not do if you asked it of me?"

They were almost the words she had spoken to him that night when theywere watching together by Israel Kafka's side. She recognised them and astrange thrill of triumph ran through her. What matter how? What matterwhere? The old reckless questions came to her mind again. If he lovedher, and if he would but call her Unorna, what could it matter, indeed?Was she not herself? She smiled unconsciously. 

"I see it pleases you, " he said tenderly. "Let it be as you wish. Whatname will you choose for your dear self?"

She hesitated. She could not tell how far he might remember what waspast. And yet, if he had remembered he would have seen where he was inthe long time that had passed since his awakening. 

"Did you ever--in your long travels--hear the name Unorna?" she askedwith a smile and a little hesitation. 

"Unorna? No. I cannot remember. It is a Bohemian word--it means 'she ofFebruary. ' It has a pretty sound--half familiar to me. I wonder where Ihave heard it. "

"Call me Unorna, then. It will remind us that you found me in February. "

CHAPTER XXV

After carefully locking and bolting the door of the sacristy Sister Paulturned to Beatrice. She had set down her lamp upon the broad, polishedshelf which ran all round the place, forming the top of a continuousseries of cupboards, as in most sacristies, used for the vestmentsof the church. At the back of these high presses rose half way to thespring of the vault. 

The nun seemed a little nervous and her voice quavered oddly as shespoke. If she had tried to take up her lamp her hand would have shaken. In the moment of danger she had been brave and determined, but now thatall was over her enfeebled strength felt the reaction from the strain. She turned to Beatrice and met her flashing black eyes. The young girl'sdelicate nostrils quivered and her lips curled fiercely. 

"You are angry, my dear child, " said Sister Paul. "So am I, and it seemsto me that our anger is just enough. 'Be angry and sin not. ' I think wecan apply that to ourselves. "

"Who is that woman?" Beatrice asked. She was certainly angry, as thenun had said, but she felt by no means sure that she could resist thetemptation of sinning if it presented itself as the possibility oftearing Unorna to pieces. 

"She was once with us, " the nun answered. "I knew her when she was amere girl--and I loved her then, in spite of her strange ways. But shehas changed. They call her a Witch--and indeed I think it is the onlyname for her. "

"I do not believe in witches, " said Beatrice, a little scornfully. "Butwhatever she is, she is bad. I do not know what it was that she wantedme to do in the church, upon the altar there--it was something horrible. Thank God you came in time! What could it have been, I wonder?"

Sister Paul shook her head sorrowfully, but said nothing. She knewno more than Beatrice of Unorna's intention, but she believed in theexistence of a Black Art, full of sacrilegious practices, and creditedUnorna vaguely with the worst designs which she could think of, thoughin her goodness she was not able to imagine anything much worse thanthe saying of a _Pater Noster_ backwards in a consecrated place. But shepreferred to say nothing, lest she should judge Unorna unjustly. Afterall, she did not know. What she had seen had seemed bad enough andstrange enough, but apart from the fact that Beatrice had been foundupon the altar, where she certainly had no business to be, and thatUnorna had acted like a guilty woman, there was little to lay hold of inthe way of fact. 

"My child, " she said at last, "until we know more of the truth, and havebetter advice than we can give each other, let us not speak of it toany one of the sisters. In the morning I will tell all I have seen inconfession, and then I shall get advice. Perhaps you should do the same. I know nothing of what happened before you left your room. Perhaps youhave something to reproach yourself with. It is not for me to ask. Thinkit over. "

"I will tell you the whole truth, " Beatrice answered, resting her elbowupon the polished shelf and supporting her head in her hand, while shelooked earnestly into Sister Paul's faded eyes. 

"Think well, my daughter. I have no right to any confession from you. Ifthere is anything----"

"Sister Paul--you are a woman, and I must have a woman's help. I havelearned something to-night which will change my whole life. No--do notbe afraid--I have done nothing wrong. At least, I hope not. While myfather lived, I submitted. I hoped, but I gave no sign. I did not evenwrite, as I once might have done. I have often wished that I had--wasthat wrong?"

"But you have told me nothing, dear child. How can I answer you?" Thenun was perplexed. 

"True. I will tell you. Sister Paul--I am five-and-twenty years old, I am a grown woman and this is no mere girl's love story. Seven yearsago--I was only eighteen then--I was with my father as I have been eversince. My mother had not been dead long then--perhaps that is the reasonwhy I seemed to be everything to my father. But they had not beenhappy together, and I had loved her best. We were travelling--nomatter where--and then I met the man I have loved. He was not of ourcountry--that is, of my father's. He was of the same people as mymother. Well--I loved him. How dearly you must guess, and try tounderstand. I could not tell you that. No one could. It began gradually, for he was often with us in those days. My father liked him for his wit, his learning, though he was young; for his strength and manliness--for ahundred reasons which were nothing to me. I would have loved him hadhe been a cripple, poor, ignorant, despised, instead of being what hewas--the grandest, noblest man God ever made. For I did not love himfor his face, nor for his courtly ways, nor for such gifts as other menmight have, but for himself and for his heart--do you understand?"

"For his goodness, " said Sister Paul, nodding in approval. "Iunderstand. "

"No, " Beatrice answered, half impatiently. "Not for his goodness either. Many men are good, and so was he--he must have been, of course. Nomatter. I loved him. That is enough. He loved me, too. And one day wewere alone, in the broad spring sun, upon a terrace. There were lemontrees there--I can see the place. Then we told each other that weloved--but neither of us could find the words--they must be somewhere, those strong beautiful words that could tell how we loved. We told eachother--"

"Without your father's consent?" asked the nun almost severely. 

Beatrice's eyes flashed. "Is a woman's heart a dog that must follow atheel?" she asked fiercely. "We loved. That was enough. My father hadthe power, but not the heart, to come between. We told him, then, forwe were not cowards. We told him boldly that it must be. He was athoughtful man, who spoke little. He said that we must part at once, before we loved each other better--and that we should soon forget. Welooked at each other, the man I loved and I. We knew that we should lovebetter yet, parted or together, though we could not tell how that couldbe. But we knew also that such love as there was between us was enough. My father gave no reasons, but I knew that he hated the name of mymother's nation. Of course we met again. I remember that I could cry inthose days. My father had not learned to part us then. Perhaps he wasnot quite sure himself, at all events the parting did not come so soon. We told him that we would wait, for ever if it must be. He may have beentouched, though little touched him at the best. Then, one day, suddenlyand without warning, he took me away to another city. And what of him?I asked. He told me that there was an evil fever in the city and thatit had seized him--the man I loved. 'He is free to follow us if hepleases, ' said my father. But he never came. Then followed a journey, and another, and another, until I knew that my father was travellingto avoid him. When I saw that I grew silent, and never spoke his nameagain. Farther and farther, longer and longer, to the ends of the earth. We saw many people, many asked for my hand. Sometimes I heard of him, from men who had seen him lately. I waited patiently, for I knew that hewas on our track, and sometimes I felt that he was near. "

Beatrice paused. 

"It is a strange story, " said Sister Paul, who had rarely heard a taleof love. 

"The strange thing is this, " Beatrice answered. "That woman--what is hername? Unorna? She loves him, and she knows where he is. "

"Unorna?" repeated the nun in bewilderment. 

"Yes. She met me after Compline to-night. I could not but speak to her, and then I was deceived. I cannot tell whether she knew what I am tohim, but she deceived me utterly. She told me a strange story of her ownlife. I was lonely. In all those years I have never spoken of what hasfilled me. I cannot tell how it was. I began to speak, and then I forgotthat she was there, and told all. "

"She made you tell her, by her secret arts, " said Sister Paul in a lowvoice. 

"No--I was lonely and I believed that she was good, and I felt that Imust speak. Then--I cannot think how I could have been so mad--but Ithought that we should never meet again, and I showed her a likeness ofhim. She turned on me. I shall not forget her face. I heard her say thatshe knew him and loved him too. When I awoke I was lying on the altar. That is all I know. "

"Her evil arts, her evil arts, " repeated the nun, shaking her head. "Come, my dear child, let us see if all is in order there, upon thealtar. If these things are to be known they must be told in the rightquarter. The sacristan must not see that any one has been in thechurch. "

Sister Paul took up the lamp, but Beatrice laid a hand upon her arm. 

"You must help me to find him, " she said firmly. "He is not far away. "

Her companion looked at her in astonishment. 

"Help you to find him?" she stammered. "But I cannot--I do not know--Iam afraid it is not right--an affair of love--"

"An affair of life, Sister Paul, and of death too, perhaps. This womanlives in Prague. She is rich and must be well known--"

"Well known, indeed. Too well known--the Witch they call her. "

"Then there are those who know her. Tell me the name of one persononly--it is impossible that you should not remember some one who isacquainted with her, who has talked with you of her--perhaps one of theladies who have been here in retreat. "

The nun was silent for a moment, gathering her recollections. 

"There is one, at least, who knows her, " she said at length. "A greatlady here--it is said that she, too, meddles with forbidden practicesand that Unorna has often been with her--that together they have calledup the spirits of the dead with strange rappings and writings. Sheknows her, I am sure, for I have talked with her and she says it isall natural, and that there is a learned man with them sometimes, whoexplains how all such things may happen in the course of nature--aman--let me see, let me see--it is George, I think, but not as wecall it, not Jirgi, nor Jegor--no--it sounds harder--Ke-Keyrgi--no, Keyork--Keyork Aribi----"

"Keyork Arabian!" exclaimed Beatrice. "Is he here?"

"You know him?" Sister Paul looked almost suspiciously at the younggirl. 

"Indeed I do. He was with us in Egypt once. He showed us wonderfulthings among the tombs. A strange little man, who knew everything, butvery amusing. "

"I do not know. But that is his name. He lives in Prague. "

"How can I find him? I must see him at once--he will help me. "

The nun shook her head with disapproval. 

"I should be sorry that you should talk with him, " she said. "I fear heis no better than Unorna, and perhaps worse. "

"You need not fear, " Beatrice answered, with a scornful smile. "I am notin the least afraid. Only tell me how I am to find him. He lives here, you say--is there no directory in the convent?"

"I believe the portress keeps such a book, " said Sister Paul stillshaking her head uneasily. "But you must wait until the morning, mydear child, if you will do this thing. Of the two, I should say that youwould do better to write to the lady. Come, we must be going. It is verylate. "

She had taken the lamp again and was moving slowly towards the door. Beatrice had no choice but to submit. It was evident that nothing morecould be done at present. The two women went back into the church, andgoing round the high altar began to examine everything carefully. Theonly trace of disorder they could discover was the fallen candlestick, so massive and strong that it was not even bent or injured. They climbedthe short wooden steps, and uniting their strength, set it up again, carefully and in its place, restoring the thick candle to the socket. Though broken in the middle by the fall, the heavy wax supported itselfeasily enough. Then they got down again and Sister Paul took away thesteps. For a few moments both women knelt down before the altar. 

They left the church by the nuns' staircase, bolting the door behindthem, and ascended to the corridors and reached Beatrice's room. Unorna's door was open, as the nun had left it, and the yellow lightstreamed upon the pavement. She went in and extinguished the lamp, andthen came back to Beatrice. 

"Are you not afraid to be alone after what has happened?" she asked. 

"Afraid? Of what? No, indeed. " Then she thanked her companion again andkissed Sister Paul's waxen cheek. 

"Say a prayer, my daughter--and may all be well with you, now and ever!"said the good sister as she went away through the darkness. She neededno light in the familiar way to her cell. 

Beatrice searched among her numerous belongings and at last brought outa writing-case. Then she sat down to her table by the light of the lampthat had illuminated so many strange sights that night. 

She wrote the name of the convent clearly upon the paper, and then wrotea plain message in the fewest possible words. Something of her strong, devoted nature showed itself in her handwriting. 

"Beatrice Varanger begs that Keyork Arabian will meet her in the parlourof the convent as soon after receiving this as possible. The matter isvery important. "

She had reasons of her own for believing that Keyork had not forgottenher in the five years or more since they had been in Egypt together. Apart from the fact that his memory had always been surprisingly good, he had at that time professed the most unbounded admiration for her, andshe remembered with a smile his quaint devotion, his fantastic courtesy, and his gnome-like attempts at grace. 

She folded the note, to wait for the address which she could notascertain until the morning. She could do nothing more. It was nearlytwo o'clock and there was evidently nothing to be done but to sleep. 

As she laid her head upon the pillow a few minutes later she wasamazed at her own calm. Strong natures, in great tests, often surprisethemselves far more than they surprise others. Others see the results, always simpler in proportion as they are greater. But the actorsthemselves alone know how hard the great and simple can seem. 

Beatrice's calmness was not only of the outward kind at the presentmoment. She felt that she was alone in the world, and that she had takenher life into her own hands. Fate had lent her the clue of her happinessat last and she would hold it firmly to the end. It would be time enoughthen to open the flood-gates. It would have been unlike her to dwelllong upon the thought of Unorna or to give way to any passionateoutbreak of hatred. Why should Unorna not love him? The whole worldloved him, and small wonder. She feared no rival. 

But he was near her now. Her heart leaped as she realised how very nearhe might well be, then sank again to its calm beating. He had been nearher a score of times in the past years, and yet they had not met. Butshe had not been free, then, as she was now. There was more hope thanbefore, but she could not delude herself with any belief in a certainty. 

So thinking, and so saying to herself, she fell asleep, and sleptsoundly without dreaming as most people do who are young and strong, andwho are clear-headed and active when they are awake. 

It was late when she opened her eyes, and the broad cold light filledthe room. She lost no time in thinking over the events of the night, foreverything was fresh in her memory. Half dressed, she wrapped about hera cloak that came down to her feet, and throwing a black veil over herhair she went down to the portress's lodge. In five minutes she hadfound Keyork's address and had despatched one of the convent gardenerswith the note. Then she leisurely returned to her room and set aboutcompleting her toilet. She naturally supposed that an hour or two mustelapse before she received an answer, certainly before Keyork appearedin person, a fact which showed that she had forgotten something of theman's characteristics. 

Twenty minutes had scarcely passed, and she had not finished dressingwhen Sister Paul entered the room, evidently in a state of considerableanxiety. As has been seen, it chanced to be her turn to superintend theguest's quarters at that time, and the portress had of course informedher immediately of Keyork's coming, in order that she might tellBeatrice. 

"He is there!" she said, as she came in. 

Beatrice was standing before the little mirror that hung upon the wall, trying, under no small difficulties, to arrange her hair. He turned herhead quickly. 

"Who is there? Keyork Arabian?"

Sister Paul nodded, glad that she was not obliged to pronounce the namethat had for her such an unChristian sound. 

"Where is he? I did not think he could come so soon. Oh, Sister Paul, dohelp me with my hair! I cannot make it stay. "

"He is in the parlour, down stairs, " answered the nun, coming to herassistance. "Indeed, child, I do not see how I can help you. " Shetouched the black coils ineffectually. "There! Is that better?" sheasked in a timid way. "I do not know how to do it--"

"No, no!" Beatrice exclaimed. "Hold that end--so--now turn it thatway--no, the other way--it is in the glass--so--now keep it there whileI put in a pin--no, no--in the same place, but the other way--oh, SisterPaul! Did you never do your hair when you were a girl?"

"That was so long ago, " answered the nun meekly. "Let me try again. "

The result was passably satisfactory at last, and assuredly not wantingin the element of novelty. 

"Are you not afraid to go alone?" asked Sister Paul with evidentpreoccupation, as Beatrice put a few more touches to her toilet. 

But the young girl only laughed and made the more haste. Sister Paulwalked with her to the head of the stairs, wishing that the rules wouldallow her to accompany Beatrice into the parlour. Then as the latterwent down the nun stood at the top looking after her and audiblyrepeating prayers for her preservation. 

The convent parlour was a large, bare room, lighted by a high and gratedwindow. Plain, straight, modern chairs were ranged against the wallat regular intervals. There was no table, but a square piece of greencarpet lay upon the middle of the stone pavement. A richly ornamentedglazed earthenware stove, in which a fire had just been lighted, occupied one corner, a remnant of former aesthetic taste and strangelyout of place since the old carved furniture was gone. A crucifix ofinferior workmanship and realistically painted hung opposite the door. The place was reserved for the use of ladies in retreat and was situatedoutside the constantly closed door which shut off the cloistered part ofthe convent from the small portion accessible to outsiders. 

Keyork Arabian was standing in the middle of the parlour waiting forBeatrice. When she entered at last he made two steps forward, bowingprofoundly, and then smiled in a deferential manner. 

"My dear lady, " he said, "I am here. I have lost no time. It so happenedthat I received your note just as I was leaving my carriage after amorning drive. I had no idea that you were in Bohemia. "

"Thanks. It was good of you to come so soon. "

She sat down upon one of the stiff chairs and motioned to him to followher example. 

"And your dear father--how is he?" inquired Keyork with suavepoliteness, as he took his seat. 

"My father died a week ago, " said Beatrice gravely. 

Keyork's face assumed all the expression of which it was capable. "Iam deeply grieved, " he said, moderating his huge voice to a soft andpurring sub-bass. "He was an old and valued friend. "

There was a moment's silence. Keyork, who knew many things, was wellaware that a silent feud, of which he also knew the cause, had existedbetween father and daughter when he had last been with them, and herightly judged from his knowledge of their obstinate characters thatit had lasted to the end. He thought therefore that his expression ofsympathy had been sufficient and could pass muster. 

"I asked you to come, " said Beatrice at last, "because I wanted yourhelp in a matter of importance to myself. I understand that you know aperson who calls herself Unorna, and who lives here. "

Keyork's bright blue eyes scrutinized her face. He wondered how much sheknew. 

"Very well indeed, " he answered, as though not at all surprised. 

"You know something of her life, then. I suppose you see her very often, do you not?"

"Daily, I can almost say. "

"Have you any objection to answering one question about her?"

"Twenty if you ask them, and if I know the answers, " said Keyork, wondering what form the question would take, and preparing to meet asurprise with indifference. 

"But will you answer me truly?"

"My dear lady, I pledge you my sacred word of honour, " Keyork answeredwith immense gravity, meeting her eyes and laying his hand upon hisheart. 

"Does she love that man--or not?" Beatrice asked, suddenly showing himthe little miniature of the Wanderer, which she had taken from its caseand had hitherto concealed in her hand. 

She watched every line of his face for she knew something of him, andin reality put very little more faith in his word of honour than he didhimself, which was not saying much. But she had counted upon surprisinghim, and she succeeded, to a certain extent. His answer did not come asglibly as he could have wished, though his plan was soon formed. 

"Who is it! Ah, dear me! My old friend. We call him the Wanderer. Well, Unorna certainly knew him when he was here. "

"Then he is gone?"

"Indeed, I am not quite sure, " said Keyork, regaining all hisself-possession. "Of course I can find out for you, if you wish to know. But as regards Unorna, I can tell you nothing. They were a good dealtogether at one time. I fancy he was consulting her. You have heard thatshe is a clairvoyant, I daresay. "

He made the last remark quite carelessly, as though he attached noimportance to the fact. 

"Then you do not know whether she loves him?"

Keyork indulged himself with a little discreet laughter, deep andmusical. 

"Love is a very vague word, " he said presently. 

"Is it?" Beatrice asked, with some coldness. 

"To me, at least, " Keyork hastened to say, as though somewhat confused. "But, of course, I can know very little about it in myself, and nothingabout it in others. "

Not knowing how matters might turn out, he was willing to leave Beatricewith a suspicion of the truth, while denying all knowledge of it. 

"You know him yourself, of course, " Beatrice suggested. 

"I have known him for years--oh, yes, for him, I can answer. He was notin the least in love. "

"I did not ask that question, " said Beatrice rather haughtily. "I knewhe was not. "

"Of course, of course. I beg your pardon!"

Keyork was learning more from her than she from him. It was true thatshe took no trouble to conceal her interest in the Wanderer and hisdoings. 

"Are you sure that he has left the city?" Beatrice asked. 

"No, I am not positive. I could not say with certainty. "

"When did you see him last?"

"Within the week, I am quite sure, " Keyork answered with alacrity. 

"Do you know where he was staying?"

"I have not the least idea, " the little man replied, without theslightest hesitation. "We met at first by chance in the Teyn Kirche, oneafternoon--it was a Sunday, I remember, about a month ago. "

"A month ago--on a Sunday, " Beatrice repeated thoughtfully. 

"Yes--I think it was New Year's Day, too. "

"Strange, " she said. "I was in the church that very morning, with mymaid. I had been ill for several days--I remember how cold it was. Strange--the same day. "

"Yes, " said Keyork, noting the words, but appearing to take no notice ofthem. "I was looking at Tycho Brahe's monument. You know how it annoysme to forget anything--there was a word in the inscription which I couldnot recall. I turned round and saw him sitting just at the end of thepew nearest to the monument. "

"The old red slab with a figure on it, by the last pillar?" Beatriceasked eagerly. 

"Exactly. I daresay you know the church very well. You remember thatthe pew runs very near to the monument so that there is hardly room topass. "

"I know--yes. "

She was thinking that it could hardly have been a mere accident whichhad led the Wanderer to take the very seat she had occupied on themorning of that day. He must have seen her during the Mass, but shecould not imagine how he could have missed her. They had been very nearthen. And now, a whole month had passed, and Keyork Arabian professednot to know whether the Wanderer was still in the city or not. 

"Then you wish to be informed of our friend's movements, as I understandit?" said Keyork going back to the main point. 

"Yes--what happened on that day?" Beatrice asked, for she wished to hearmore. 

"Oh, on that day? Yes. Well, nothing happened worth mentioning. Wetalked a little and went out of the church and walked a little waytogether. I forget when we met next, but I have seen him at least adozen times since then, I am sure. "

Beatrice began to understand that Keyork had no intention of giving herany further information. She reflected that she had learned much inthis interview. The Wanderer had been, and perhaps still was, in Prague. Unorna loved him and they had been frequently together. He had been inthe Teyn Kirche on the day she had last been there herself, and in allprobability he had seen her, since he had chosen the very seat in whichshe had sat. Further, she gathered that Keyork had some interest innot speaking more frankly. She gave up the idea of examining him anyfurther. He was a man not easily surprised, and it was only by meansof a surprise that he could be induced to betray even by a passingexpression what he meant to conceal. Her means of attack were exhaustedfor the present. She determined at least to repeat her request clearlybefore dismissing him, in the hope that it might suit his plans tofulfil it, but without the least trust in his sincerity. 

"Will you be so kind as to make some inquiry, and let me know the resultto-day?" she asked. 

"I will do everything to give you an early answer, " said Keyork. "AndI shall be the more anxious to obtain one without delay in order thatI may have the very great pleasure of visiting you again. There is muchthat I would like to ask you, if you would allow me. For old friends, as I trust I may say that we are, you must admit that we have exchangedfew--very few--confidences this morning. May I come again to-day? Itwould be an immense privilege to talk of old times with you, of ourfriends in Egypt and of our many journeys. For you have no doubttravelled much since then. Your dear father, " he lowered his voicereverentially, "was a great traveller, as well as a very learned man. Ah, well, my dear lady--we must all make up our minds to undertakethat great journey one of these days. But I pain you. I was very muchattached to your dear father. Command all my service. I will come againin the course of the day. "

With many sympathetic smiles and half-comic inclinations of his short, broad body, the little man bowed himself out. 

CHAPTER XXVI

Unorna drew one deep breath when she first heard her name fall with aloving accent from the Wanderer's lips. Surely the bitterness of despairwas past since she was loved and not called Beatrice. The sigh that camethen was of relief already felt, the forerunner, as she fancied, too, of a happiness no longer dimmed by shadows of fear and mists of risingremorse. Gazing into his eyes, she seemed to be watching in theirreflection a magic change. She had been Beatrice to him, Unorna toherself, but now the transformation was at hand--now it was to come. Forhim she loved, and who loved her, she was Unorna even to the name, inher own thoughts she had taken the dark woman's face. She had risked allupon the chances of one throw and she had won. So long as he had calledher by another's name the bitterness had been as gall mingled in thewine of love. But now that too was gone. She felt that it was completeat last. Her golden head sank peacefully upon his shoulder in themorning light. 

"You have been long in coming, love, " she said, only half consciously, "but you have come as I dreamed--it is perfect now. There is nothingwanting any more. "

"It is all full, all real, all perfect, " he answered, softly. 

"And there is to be no more parting, now----"

"Neither here, nor afterwards, beloved. "

"Then this is afterwards. Heaven has nothing more to give. What isHeaven? The meeting of those who love--as we have met. I have forgottenwhat it was to live before you came----"

"For me, there is nothing to remember between that day and this. "

"That day when you fell ill, " Unorna said, "the loneliness, the fear foryou----"

Unorna scarcely knew that it had not been she who had parted from him solong ago. Yet she was playing a part, and in the semi-consciousness ofher deep self-illusion it all seemed as real as a vision in a dream sooften dreamed that it has become part of the dreamer's life. Thosewho fall by slow degrees under the power of the all-destroying opiumremember yesterday as being very far, very long past, and recall faintmemories of last year as though a century had lived and perished sincethen, seeing confusedly in their own lives the lives of others, andother existences in their own, until identity is almost gone in theendless transmigration of their souls from the shadow in one dream-taleto the wraith of themselves that dreams the next. So, in that hour, Unorna drifted through the changing scenes that a word had power to callup, scarce able, and wholly unwilling, to distinguish between her realand her imaginary self. What matter how? What matter where? The veryquestions which at first she had asked herself came now but faintly asout of an immeasurable distance, and always more faintly still. Theydied away in her ears, as when, after long waiting, and false starts, and turnings back and anxious words exchanged, the great race is at lastbegun, the swift long limbs are gathered and stretched and strainedand gathered again, the thunder of flying hoofs is in the air, and therider, with low hands, and head inclined and eyes bent forward, hearsthe last anxious word of parting counsel tremble and die in the rush ofthe wind behind. 

She had really loved him throughout all those years; she had reallysought him and mourned for him and longed for a sight of his face;they had really parted and had really found each other but a short hoursince; there was no Beatrice but Unorna and no Unorna but Beatrice, forthey were one and indivisible and interchangeable as the glance ofa man's two eyes that look on one fair sight; each sees alone, thesame--but seeing together, the sight grows doubly fair. 

"And all the sadness, where is it now?" she asked. "And all theemptiness of that long time? It never was, my love--it was yesterdaywe met. We parted yesterday, to meet to-day. Say it was yesterday--thelittle word can undo seven years. "

"It seems like yesterday, " he answered. 

"Indeed, I can almost think so, now, for it was all night between. But not quite dark, as night is sometimes. It was a night full ofstars--each star was a thought of you, that burned softly and showed mewhere heaven was. And darkest night, they say, means coming morning--sowhen the stars went out I knew the sun must rise. "

The words fell from her lips naturally. To her it seemed true that shehad indeed waited long and hoped and thought of him. And it was not allfalse. Ever since her childhood she had been told to wait, for her lovewould come and would come only once. And so it was true, and the dreamgrew sweeter and the illusion of the enchantment more enchanting still. For it was an enchantment and a spell that bound them together there, among the flowers, the drooping palms, the graceful tropic plants andthe shadowy leaves. And still the day rose higher, but still the lampsburned on, fed by the silent, mysterious current that never tires, blending a real light with an unreal one, an emblem of Unorna's self, mixing and blending, too, with a self not hers. 

"And the sun is risen, indeed, " she added presently. 

"Am I the sun, dear?" he asked, foretasting the delight of listening toher simple answer. 

"You are the sun, beloved, and when you shine, my eyes can see nothingelse in heaven. "

"And what are you yourself--Beatrice--no, Unorna--is that the name youchose? It is so hard to remember anything when I look at you. "

"Beatrice--Unorna--anything, " came the answer, softly murmuring. "Anything, dear, any name, any face, any voice, if only I am I, and youare you, and we two love! Both, neither, anything--do the blessed soulsin Paradise know their own names?"

"You are right--what does it matter? Why should you need a name at all, since I have you with me always? It was well once--it served me when Iprayed for you--and it served to tell me that my heart was gold whileyou were there, as the goldsmith's mark upon his jewel stamps the puremetal, that all men may know it. "

"You need no sign like that to show me what you are, " said she, with along glance. 

"Nor I to tell me you are in my heart, " he answered. "It was a foolishspeech. Would you have me wise now?"

"If wisdom is love--yes. If not----" She laughed softly. 

"Then folly?"

"Then folly, madness, anything--so that this last, as last it must, or Ishall die!"

"And why should it not last? Is there any reason, in earth or Heaven, why we two should part? If there is--I will make that reason itselffolly, and madness, and unreason. Dear, do not speak of this notlasting. Die, you say? Worse, far worse; as much as eternal death isworse than bodily dying. Last? Does any one know what for ever means, if we do not? Die, we must, in these dying bodies of ours, but part--no. Love has burned the cruel sense out of that word, and bleached itsblackness white. We wounded the devil, parting, with one kiss, we killedhim with the next--this buries him--ah, love, how sweet----"

There was neither resistance nor the thought of resisting. Their lipsmet and were withdrawn only that their eyes might drink again thedraught the lips had tasted, long draughts of sweetness and liquid lightand love unfathomable. And in the interval of speech half false, the truth of what was all true welled up from the clear depths andoverflowed the falseness, till it grew falser and more fleetingstill--as a thing lying deep in a bright water casts up a distortedimage on refracted rays. 

Glance and kiss, when two love, are as body and soul, supremely humanand transcendently divine. The look alone, when the lips cannot meet, is but the disembodied spirit, beautiful even in its sorrow, sad, despairing, saying "ever, " and yet sighing "never, " tasting and knowingall the bitterness of both. The kiss without the glance? The bodywithout the soul? The mortal thing without the undying thought? Drawdown the thick veil and hide the sight, lest devils sicken at it, andlest man should loathe himself for what man can be. 

Truth or untruth, their love was real, hers as much as his. Sheremembered only what her heart had been without it. What her goal mightbe, now that it had come, she guessed even then, but she would not ask. Was there never a martyr in old times, more human than the rest, whoturned back, for love perhaps, if not for fear, and said that for love'ssake life still was sweet, and brought a milk-white dove to Aphrodite'saltar, or dropped a rose before Demeter's feet? There must have been, for man is man, and woman, woman. And if in the next month, or even thenext year, or after many years, that youth or maid took heart to bear aChristian's death, was there then no forgiveness, no sign of holycross upon the sandstone in the deep labyrinth of graves, no crown, nosainthood, and no reverent memory of his name or hers among those of menand women worthier, perhaps, but not more suffering?

No one can kill Self. No one can be altogether another, save in thepassing passion of a moment's acting. I--in that syllable lies the wholehistory of each human life; in that history lives the individuality; inthe clear and true conception of that individuality dwells such jointforeknowledge of the future as we can have, such vague solution as tous is possible of that vast equation in which all quantities are unknownsave that alone, that I which we know as we can know nothing else. 

"Bury it!" she said. "Bury that parting--the thing, the word, and thethought--bury it with all others of its kind, with change, and old age, and stealing indifference, and growing coldness, and all that cankerslove--bury them all, together, in one wide deep grave--then build on itthe house of what we are--"

"Change? Indifference? I do not know those words, " the Wanderer said. "Have they been in your dreams, love? They have never been in mine. "

He spoke tenderly, but with the faintest echo of sadness in his voice. The mere suggestion that such thoughts could have been near her wasenough to pain him. She was silent, and again her head lay upon hisshoulder. She found there still the rest and the peace. Knowing her ownlife, the immensity of his faith and trust in that other woman were madeclear by the simple, heartfelt words. If she had been indeed Beatrice, would he have loved her so? If it had all been true, the parting, theseven years' separation, the utter loneliness, the hopelessness, thedespair, could she have been as true as he? In the stillness thatfollowed she asked herself the question which was so near a greater anda deadlier one. But the answer came quickly. That, at least, she couldhave done. She could have been true to him, even to death. It must be soeasy to be faithful when life was but one faith. In that chord at leastno note rang false. 

"Change in love--indifference to you!" she cried, all at once, hidingher lovely face in his breast and twining her arms about his neck. "No, no! I never meant that such things could be--they are but empty words, words one hears spoken lightly by lips that never spoke the truth, bymen and women who never had such truth to speak as you and I. "

"And as for old age, " he said, dwelling upon her speech, "what is thatto us? Let it come, since come it must. It is good to be young and fairand strong, but would not you or I give up all that for love's sake, each of us of our own free will, rather than lose the other's love?"

"Indeed, indeed I would!" Unorna answered. 

"Then what of age? What is it after all? A few gray hairs, a wrinklehere and there, a slower step, perhaps a dimmer glance. That is allit is--the quiet, sunny channel between the sea of earthly joy and theocean of heavenly happiness. The breeze of love still fills the sails, wafting us softly onward through the narrows, never failing, though itbe softer and softer, till we glide out, scarce knowing it, upon thebroader water and are borne swiftly away from the lost land by the firstbreath of heaven. "

His words brought peace and the mirage of a far-off rest, that soothedagain the little half-born doubt. 

"Yes, " she said. "It is better to think so. Then we need think of noother change. "

"There is no other possible, " he answered, gently pressing the shoulderupon which his hand was resting. "We have not waited and believed, andtrusted and loved, for seven years, to wake at last--face to face aswe are to-day--and to find that we have trusted vainly and loved twoshadows, I yours, and you mine, to find at the great moment of all thatwe are not ourselves, the selves we knew, but others of like passionsbut of less endurance. Have we, beloved? And if we could love, andtrust, and believe without each other, each alone, is it not all themore sure that we shall be unchanging together? It must be so. The wholeis greater than its parts, two loves together are greater and strongerthan each could be of itself. The strength of two strands close twinedtogether is more than twice the strength of each. "

She said nothing. By merest chance he had said words that had wakedthe doubt again, so that it grew a little and took a firmer hold in herunwilling heart. To love a shadow, he had said, to wake and find selfnot self at all. That was what might come, would come, must come, sooner or later, said the doubt. What matter where, or when, or how? Thequestion came again, vaguely, faintly as a mere memory, but confidentlyas though knowing its own answer. Had she not rested in his arms, andfelt his kisses and heard his voice? What matter how, indeed? It mattersgreatly, said the growing doubt, rearing its head and finding speech atlast. It matters greatly, it said, for love lies not alone in voice, and kiss, and gentle touch, but in things more enduring, which to enduremust be sound and whole and not cankered to the core by a living lie. Then came the old reckless reasoning again: Am I not I? Is he not he? DoI not love him with my whole strength? Does he not love this very selfof mine, here as it is, my head upon his shoulder, my hand within hishand? And if he once loved another, have I not her place, to have andhold, that I may be loved in her stead? Go, said the doubt, growingblack and strong; go, for you are nothing to him but a figure in hisdream, disguised in the lines of one he really loved and loves; goquickly, before it is too late, before that real Beatrice comes andwakes him and drives you out of the kingdom you usurp. 

But she knew it was only a doubt, and had it been the truth, and hadBeatrice's foot been on the threshold, she would not have been drivenaway by fear. But the fight had begun. 

"Speak to me, dear, " she said. "I must hear your voice--it makes me knowthat it is all real. "

"How the minutes fly!" he exclaimed, smoothing her hair with his hand. "It seems to me that I was but just speaking when you spoke. "

"It seems so long--" She checked herself, wondering whether an hour hadpassed or but a second. 

Though love be swifter than the fleeting hours, doubt can outrun alifetime in one beating of the heart. 

"Then how divinely long it all may seem, " he answered. "But can we notbegin to think, and to make plans for to-morrow, and the next day, andfor the years before us? That will make more time for us, for with thepresent we shall have the future, too. No--that is foolish again. Andyet it is so hard to say which I would have. Shall the moment lingerbecause it is so sweet? Or shall it be gone quickly, because the next isto be sweeter still? Love, where is your father?"

Unorna started. The question was suggested, perhaps, by his inclinationto speak of what was to be done, but it fell suddenly upon her ears, asa peal of thunder when the sky has no clouds. Must she lie now, or breakthe spell? One word, at least, she could yet speak with truth. 

"Dead. "

"Dead!" the Wanderer repeated, thoughtfully and with a faint surprise. "Is it long ago, beloved?" he asked presently, in a subdued tone asthough fearing to wake some painful memory. 

"Yes, " she answered. The great doubt was taking her heart in its stronghands now and tearing it, and twisting it. 

"And whose house is this in which I have found you, darling? Was ithis?"

"It is mine, " Unorna said. 

How long would he ask questions to which she could find true answers?What question would come next? There were so many he might ask and fewto which she could reply so truthfully even in that narrow sense oftruth which found its only meaning in a whim of chance. But for a momenthe asked nothing more. 

"Not mine, " she said. "It is yours. You cannot take me and yet callanything mine. "

"Ours, then, beloved. What does it matter? So he died long ago--poorman! And yet, it seems but a little while since some one told me--butthat was a mistake, of course. He did not know. How many years may itbe, dear one? I see you still wear mourning for him. "

"No--that was but a fancy--to-day. He died--he died more than two yearsago. "

She bent her head. It was but a poor attempt at truth, a miserable lyingtruth to deceive herself with, but it seemed better than to lie thewhole truth outright, and say that her father--Beatrice's father--hadbeen dead but just a week. The blood burned in her face. Brave natures, good and bad alike, hate falsehood, not for its wickedness, perhaps, butfor its cowardice. She could do things as bad, far worse. She could layher hand upon the forehead of a sleeping man and inspire in him a deep, unchangeable belief in something utterly untrue; but now, as it was, shewas ashamed and hid her face. 

"It is strange, " he said, "how little men know of each other's livesor deaths. They told me he was alive last year. But it has hurt you tospeak of it. Forgive me, dear, it was thoughtless of me. "

He tried to lift her head, but she held it obstinately down. 

"Have I pained you, Beatrice?" he asked, forgetting to call her by theother name that was so new to him. 

"No--oh, no!" she exclaimed without looking up. 

"What is it then?"

"Nothing--it is nothing--no, I will not look at you--I am ashamed. " Thatat least was true. 

"Ashamed, dear heart! Of what?"

He had seen her face in spite of herself. Lie, or lose all, said a voicewithin. 

"Ashamed of being glad that--that I am free, " she stammered, strugglingon the very verge of the precipice. 

"You may be glad of that, and yet be very sorry he is dead, " theWanderer said, stroking her hair. 

It was true, and seemed quite simple. She wondered that she had notthought of that. Yet she felt that the man she loved, in all hisnobility and honesty, was playing the tempter to her, though he couldnot know it. Deeper and deeper she sank, yet ever more conscious thatshe was sinking. Before him she felt no longer as loving woman to lovingman--she was beginning to feel as a guilty prisoner before his judge. 

He thought to turn the subject to a lighter strain. By chance he glancedat his own hand. 

"Do you know this ring?" he asked, holding it before her, with a smile. 

"Indeed, I know it, " she answered, trembling again. 

"You gave it to me, love, do you remember? And I gave you a likeness ofmyself, because you asked for it, though I would rather have given yousomething better. Have you it still?"

She was silent. Something was rising in her throat. Then she choked itdown. 

"I had it in my hand last night, " she said in a breaking voice. True, once more. 

"What is it, darling? Are you crying? This is no day for tears. "

"I little thought that I should have yourself to-day, " she tried to say. 

Then the tears came, tears of shame, big, hot, slow. They fell upon hishand. She was weeping for joy, he thought. What else could any man thinkin such a case? He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with his handas her head nestled on his shoulder. 

"When you put this ring on my finger, dear--so long ago----"

She sobbed aloud. 

"No, darling--no, dear heart, " he said, comforting her, "you must notcry--that long ago is over now and gone for ever. Do you remember thatday, sweetheart, in the broad spring sun upon the terrace among thelemon trees. No, dear--your tears hurt me always, even when they areshed in happiness--no, dear, no. Rest there, let me dry your deareyes--so and so. Again? For ever, if you will. While you have tears, I have kisses to dry them--it was so then, on that very day. I canremember. I can see it all--and you. You have not changed, love, in allthose years, more than a blossom changes in one hour of a summer's day!You took this ring and put it on my finger. Do you remember what I said?I know the very words. I promised you--it needed no promise either--thatit should never leave its place until you took it back--and you--howwell I remember your face--you said that you would take it from my handsome day, when all was well, when you should be free to give me anotherin its stead, and to take one in return. I have kept my word, beloved. Keep yours--I have brought you back the ring. Take it, sweetheart. Itis heavy with the burden of lonely years. Take it and give me that otherwhich I claim. "

She did not speak, for she was fighting down the choking sobs, struggling to keep back the burning drops that scalded her cheeks, striving to gather strength for the weight of a greater shame. Lie, orlose all, the voice said. 

Very slowly she raised her head. She knew that his hand was close tohers, held there that she might fulfil Beatrice's promise. Was she notfree? Could she not give him what he asked? No matter how--she tried tosay it to herself and could not. She felt his breath upon her hair. Hewas waiting. If she did not act soon or speak he would wonder what heldher back--wonder--suspicion next and then? She put out her hand to touchhis fingers, half blinded, groping as though she could not see. He madeit easy for her. He fancied she was trembling, as she was weeping, withthe joy of it all. 

She felt the ring, though she dared not look at it. She drew it a littleand felt that it would come off easily. She felt the fingers she lovedso well, straight, strong and nervous, and she touched them lovingly. The ring was not tight, it would pass easily over the joint that alonekept it in its place. 

"Take it, beloved, " he said. "It has waited long enough. "

He was beginning to wonder at her hesitation as she knew he would. Afterwonder would come suspicion--and then? Very slowly--it was just upon thejoint of his finger now. Should she do it? What would happen? He wouldhave broken his vow--unwittingly. How quickly and gladly Beatrice wouldhave taken it. What would she say, if they lived and met--why shouldthey not meet? Would the spell endure that shock--who would Beatrice bethen? The woman who had given him this ring? Or another, whom he wouldno longer know? But she must be quick. He was waiting and Beatrice wouldnot have made him wait. 

Her hand was like stone, numb, motionless, immovable, as though someunseen being had taken it in an iron grasp and held it there, inmid-air, just touching his. Yes--no--yes--she could not move--a handwas clasped upon her wrist, a hand smaller than his, but strong as fate, fixed in its grip as an iron vice. 

Unorna felt a cold breath, that was not his, upon her forehead, and shefelt as though her heavy hair were rising of itself upon her head. Sheknew that horror, for she had been overtaken by it once before. She wasnot afraid, but she knew what it was. There was a shadow, too, and adark woman, tall, queenly, with deep flashing eyes was standing besideher. She knew, before she looked; she looked, and it was there. Her ownface was whiter than that other woman's. 

"Have you come already?" she asked of the shadow, in a low despairingtone. 

"Beatrice--what has happened?" cried the Wanderer. To him, she seemed tobe speaking to the empty air and her white face startled him. 

"Yes, " she said, staring still, in the same hopeless voice. "It isBeatrice. She has come for you. "

"Beatrice--beloved--do not speak like that! For God's sake--what do yousee? There is nothing there. "

"Beatrice is there. I am Unorna. "

"Unorna, Beatrice--have we not said it should be all the same!Sweetheart--look at me! Rest here--shut those dear eyes of yours. It isgone now whatever it was--you are tired, dear--you must rest. "

Her eyes closed and her head sank. It was gone, as he said, and sheknew what it had been--a mere vision called up by her own over-torturedbrain. Keyork Arabian had a name for it. 

Frightened by your own nerves, laughed the voice, when, if you had notbeen a coward, you might have faced it down and lied again, and allwould have been well. But you shall have another chance, and lying isvery easy, even when the nerves are over-wrought. You will do better thenext time. 

The voice was like Keyork Arabian's. Unstrung, almost forgetting all, she wondered vaguely at the sound, for it was a real sound and a realvoice to her. Was her soul his, indeed, and was he drawing it on slowly, surely to the end? Had he been behind her last night? Had he left anhour's liberty only to come back again and take at last what was his?

There is time yet, you have not lost him, for he thinks you mad. Thevoice spoke once more. 

And at the same moment the strong dear arms were again around her, againher head was on that restful shoulder of his, again her pale face wasturned up to his, and kisses were raining on her tired eyes, whilebroken words of love and tenderness made music through the tempest. 

Again the vast temptation rose. How could he ever know? Who was toundeceive him, if he was not yet undeceived? Who should ever make himunderstand the truth so long as the spell lasted? Why not then take whatwas given her, and when the end came, if it came, then tell all boldly?Even then, he would not understand. Had he understood last night, whenshe had confessed all that she had done before? He had not believed oneword of it, except that she loved him. Could she make him believe itnow, when he was clasping her so fiercely to his breast, half mad withlove for her himself?

So easy, too. She had but to forget that passing vision, to put her armsabout his neck, to give kiss for kiss, and loving word for loving word. Not even that. She had but to lie there, passive, silent if she couldnot speak, and it would be still the same. No power on earth could undowhat she had done, unless she willed it. Neither man nor woman couldmake his clasping hands let go of her and give her up. 

Be still and wait, whispered the voice, you have lost nothing yet. 

But Unorna would not. She had spoken and acted her last lie. It wasover. 

CHAPTER XXVII

Unorna struggled for a moment. The Wanderer did not understand, butloosed his arms, so that she was free. She rose to her feet and stoodbefore him. 

"You have dreamed all this, " she said. "I am not Beatrice. "

"Dreamed? Not Beatrice?" she heard him cry in his bewilderment. 

Something more he said, but she could not catch the words. She wasalready gone, through the labyrinth of the many plants, to the doorthrough which twelve hours earlier she had fled from Israel Kafka. Sheran the faster as she left him behind. She passed the entrance and thepassage and the vestibule beyond, not thinking whither she was going, ornot caring. She found herself in that large, well-lighted room in whichthe ancient sleeper lay alone. Perhaps her instinct led her there as toa retreat safer even than her own chamber. She knew that if she wouldthere was something there which she could use. 

She sank into a chair and covered her face, trembling from head to foot. For many minutes after that she could neither see nor hear--she wouldhardly have felt a wound or a blow. And yet she knew that she meant toend her life, since all that made it life was ended. 

After a time, her hands fell in a despairing gesture upon her knees andshe stared about the room. Her eyes rested on the sleeper, then uponhis couch, lying as a prophet in state, the massive head raised upon asilken pillow, the vast limbs just outlined beneath the snow-white robe, the hoary beard flowing down over the great breast that slowly rose andfell. 

To her there was a dreadful irony in that useless life, prolonged insleep beyond the limits of human age. Yet she had thought it worth thelabour and care and endless watchfulness it had cost for years. And nowher own, strong, young and fresh, seemed not only useless but fit onlyto be cut off and cast away, as an existence that offended God and manand most of all herself. 

But if she died then, there, in that secret chamber where she and hercompanion had sought the secret of life for years, if she died now--howwould all end? Was it an expiation--or a flight? Would one short momentof half-conscious suffering pay half her debt?

She stared at the old man's face with wide, despairing eyes. Many atime, unknown to Keyork and once to his knowledge, she had roused thesleeper to speak, and on the whole he had spoken truly, wisely, andwell. She lacked neither the less courage to die, nor the greaterto live. She longed but to hear one honest word, not of hope, but ofencouragement, but one word in contrast to those hideous whisperedpromptings that had come to her in Keyork Arabian's voice. How could shetrust herself alone? Her evil deeds were many--so many, that, althoughshe had turned at last against them, she could not tell where to strike. 

"If you would only tell me!" she cried leaning over the unconscioushead. "If you would only help me. You are so old that you must be wise, and if so very wise, then you are good! Wake, but this once, and tell mewhat is right!"

The deep eyes opened and looked up to hers. The great limbs stirred, thebony hands unclasped. There was something awe-inspiring in the ancientstrength renewed and filled with a new life. 

"Who calls me?" asked the clear, deep voice. 

"I, Unorna----"

"What do you ask of me?"

He had risen from his couch and stood before her, towering far above herhead. Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature besidethis man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now stood erectand filled with a mysterious youth. 

"Tell me what I should do----"

"Tell me what you have done. "

Then in one great confession, with bowed head and folded hands, shepoured out the story of her life. 

"And I am lost!" she cried at last. "One holds my soul, and one myheart! May not my body die? Oh, say that it is right--that I may die!"

"Die? Die--when you may yet undo?"

"Undo?"

"Undo and do. Undo the wrong and do the right. "

"I cannot. The wrong is past undoing--and I am past doing right. "

"Do not blaspheme--go! Do it. "

"What?"

"Call her--that other woman--Beatrice. Bring her to him, and him toher. "

"And see them meet!"

She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped herlips. 

"May I not die?" she cried despairingly. "May I not die--for him--forher, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would theynot then be free?"

"Do you love him still?"

"With all my broken heart----"

"Then do not leave his happiness to chance alone, but go at once. Thereis one little act of Heaven's work still in your power. Make it allyours. "

His great hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes looked down tohers. 

"Is it so bitter to do right?" he asked. 

"It is very bitter, " she answered. 

Very slowly she turned, and as she moved he went beside her, gentlyurging her and seeming to support her. Slowly, through vestibuleand passage, they went on and entered together the great hall of theflowers. The Wanderer was there alone. 

He uttered a short cry and sprang to meet her, but stepped back in aweof the great white-robed figure that towered by her side. 

"Beatrice!" he cried, as they passed. 

"I am not Beatrice, " she answered, her downcast eyes not raised to lookat him, moving still forward under the gentle guidance of the giant'shand. 

"Not Beatrice--no--you are not she--you are Unorna! Have I dreamed allthis?"

She had passed him now, and still she would not turn her head. But hervoice came back to him as she walked on. 

"You have dreamed what will very soon be true, " she said. "Wait here, and Beatrice will soon be with you. "

"I know that I am mad, " the Wanderer cried, making one step to followher, then stopping short. Unorna was already at the door. The ancientsleeper laid one hand upon her head. 

"You will do it now, " he said. 

"I will do it--to the end, " she answered. "Thank God that I have madeyou live to tell me how. "

So she went out, alone, to undo what she had done so evilly well. 

The old man turned and went towards the Wanderer, who stood still in themiddle of the hall, confused, not knowing whether he had dreamed or wasreally mad. 

"What man are you?" he asked, as the white-robed figure approached. 

"A man, as you are, for I was once young--not as you are, for I am veryold, and yet like you, for I am young again. "

"You speak in riddles. What are you doing here, and where have you sentUnorna?"

"When I was old, in that long time between, she took me in, and I haveslept beneath her roof these many years. She came to me to-day. She toldme all her story and all yours, waking me from my sleep, and asking mewhat she should do. And she is gone to do that thing of which I toldher. Wait and you will see. She loves you well. "

"And you would help her to get my love, as she had tried to get itbefore?" the Wanderer asked with rising anger. "What am I to you, or youto me, that you would meddle in my life?"

"You to me? Nothing. A man. "

"Therefore an enemy--and you would help Unorna--let me go! This home iscursed. I will not stay in it. " The hoary giant took his arm, and theWanderer started at the weight and strength of the touch. 

"You shall bless this house before you leave it. In this place, herewhere you stand, you shall find the happiness you have sought throughall the years. "

"In Unorna?" the question was asked scornfully. 

"By Unorna. "

"I do not believe you. You are mad, as I am. Would you play theprophet?"

The door opened in the distance, and from behind the screen of plantsKeyork Arabian came forward into the hall, his small eyes bright, hisivory face set and expressionless, his long beard waving in the swing ofhis walk. The Wanderer saw him first and called to him. 

"Keyork--come here!" he said. "Who is this man?"

For a moment Keyork seemed speechless with amazement. But it was angerthat choked his words. Then he came on quickly. 

"Who waked him?" he cried in fury. "What is this? Why is he here?"

"Unorna waked me, " answered the ancient sleeper very calmly. 

"Unorna? Again? The curse of The Three Black Angels on her! Mad again?Sleep, go back! It is not ready yet, and you will die, and I shall loseit all--all--all! Oh, she shall pay for this with her soul in hell!"

He threw himself upon the giant, in an insane frenzy, clasping his armsround the huge limbs and trying to force him backwards. 

"Go! go!" he cried frantically. "It may not be too late! You may yetsleep and live! Oh, my Experiment, my great Experiment! All lost----"

"What is this madness?" asked the Wanderer. "You cannot carry him, andhe will not go. Let him alone. "

"Madness?" yelled Keyork, turning on him. "You are the madman, you thefool, who cannot understand! Help me to move him--you are strong andyoung--together we can take him back--he may yet sleep and live--he mustand shall! I say it! Lay your hands on him--you will not help me? Then Iwill curse you till you do----"

"Poor Keyork!" exclaimed the Wanderer, half pitying him. "Your bigthoughts have cracked your little brain at last. "

"Poor Keyork? You call me poor Keyork? You boy! You puppet! You ball, that we have bandied to and fro, half sleeping, half awake! It drives memad to see you standing there, scoffing instead of helping me!"

"You are past my help, I fear. "

"Will you not move? Are you dead already, standing on your feet andstaring at me?"

Again Keyork threw himself upon the huge old man, and stamped andstruggled and tried to move him backwards. He might as well have spenthis strength against a rock. Breathless but furious still, he desistedat last, too much beside himself to see that he whose sudden death hefeared was stronger than he, because the great experiment had succeededfar beyond all hope. 

"Unorna has done this!" he cried, beating his forehead in impotent rage. "Unorna has ruined me, and all, --and everything--so she has paid me formy help! Trust a woman when she loves? Trust angels to curse God, orHell to save a sinner! But she shall pay, too--I have her still. Why doyou stare at me? Wait, fool! You shall be happy now. What are you to methat I should even hate you? You shall have what you want. I will bringyou the woman you love, the Beatrice you have seen in dreams--and thenUnorna's heart will break and she will die, and her soul--her soul----"

Keyork broke into a peal of laughter, deep, rolling, diabolical in itsdespairing, frantic mirth. He was still laughing as he reached the door. 

"Her soul, her soul!" they heard him cry, between one burst and anotheras he went out, and from the echoing vestibule, and from the staircasebeyond, the great laughter rolled back to them when they were leftalone. 

"What is it all? I cannot understand, " the Wanderer said, looking up tothe grand calm face. 

"It is not always given to evil to do good, even for evil's sake, " saidthe old man. "The thing that he would is done already. The wound that hewould make is already bleeding; the heart he is gone to break is broken;the soul that he would torture is beyond all his torments. "

"Is Unorna dead?" the Wanderer asked, turning, he knew now why, with asort of reverence to his companion. 

"She is not dead. "

Unorna waited in the parlour of the convent. Then Beatrice came in, andstood before her. Neither feared the other, and each looked into theother's eyes. 

"I have come to undo what I have done, " Unorna said, not waiting for thecold inquiry which she knew would come if she were silent. 

"That will be hard, indeed, " Beatrice answered. 

"Yes. It is very hard. Make it still harder if you can, I could still doit. "

"And do you think I will believe you, or trust you?" asked the darkwoman. 

"I know that you will when you know how I have loved him. "

"Have you come here to tell me of your love?"

"Yes. And when I have told you, you will forgive me. "

"I am no saint, " said Beatrice, coldly. "I do not find forgiveness insuch abundance as you need. "

"You will find it for me. You are not bad, as I am, but you canunderstand what I have done, nevertheless, for you know what youyourself would do for the sake of him we love. No--do not be angry withme yet--I love him and I tell you so--that you may understand. "

"At that price, I would rather not have the understanding. I do not careto hear you say it. It is not good to hear. "

"Yet, if I did not love him as I do, I should not be here, of my ownfree will, to take you to him. I came for that. "

"I do not believe you, " Beatrice answered in tones like ice. 

"And yet you will, and very soon. Whether you forgive or not--that isanother matter. I cannot ask it. God knows how much easier it would havebeen to die than to come here. But if I were dead you might never havefound him, nor he you, though you are so very near together. Do youthink it is easier for me to come to you, whom he loves, than it is foryou to hear me say I love him, when I come to give him to you? If youhad found it all, not as it is, but otherwise--if you had found that inthese years he had known me and loved me, as he once loved you, if heturned from you coldly and bid you forget him, because he would be happywith me, and because he had utterly forgotten you--would it be easy foryou to give him up?"

"He loved me then--he loves me still, " Beatrice said. "It is anothercase. "

"A much more bitter case. Even then you would have the memory of hislove, which I can never have--in true reality, though I have much toremember, in his dreams of you. "

Beatrice started a little, and her brow grew dark and angry. 

"Then you have tried to get what was not yours by your bad powers!" shecried. "And you have made him sleep--and dream--what?"

"Of you. "

"And he talked of love?"

"Of love for you. "

"To you?"

"To me. "

"And dreamed that you were I? That too?"

"That I was you. "

"Is there more to tell?" Beatrice asked, growing white. "He kissed youin that dream of his--do not tell me he did that--no, tell me--tell meall!"

"He kissed the thing he saw, believing the lips yours. "

"More--more--is it not done yet? Can you sting again? What else?"

"Nothing--save that last night I tried to kill you, body and soul. "

"And why did you not kill me?"

"Because you woke. Then the nun saved you. If she had not come, youwould have slept again, and slept for ever. And I would have let hisdreams last, and made it last--for him, I should have been the onlyBeatrice. "

"You have done all this, and you ask me to forgive you?"

"I ask nothing. If you will not go to him, I will bring him to you--"

Beatrice turned away and walked across the room. 

"Loved her, " she said aloud, "and talked to her of love, and kissed--"She stopped suddenly. Then she came back again with swift steps andgrasped Unorna's arm fiercely. 

"Tell me more still--this dream has lasted long--you are man and wife!"

"We might have been. He would still have thought me you, for monthsand years. He would have had me take from his finger that ring you putthere. I tried--I tell you the whole truth--but I could not. I saw youthere beside me and you held my hand. I broke away and left him. "

"Left him of your free will?"

"I could not lie again. It was too much. He would have broken a promiseif I had stayed. I love him--so I left him. "

"Is all this true?"

"Every word. "

"Swear it to me. "

"How can I? By what shall I swear to you? Heaven itself would laugh atany oath of mine. With my life I will answer for every word. With mysoul--no--it is not mine to answer with. Will you have my life? My lastbreath shall tell you that I tell the truth. The dying do not lie. "

"You tell me that you love that man. You tell me that you made him thinkin dreams that he loved you. You tell me that you might be man and wife. And you ask me to believe that you turned back from such happinessas would make an angel sin? If you had done this--but it is notpossible--no woman could! His words in your ear, and yet turn back? Hislips on yours, and leave him? Who could do that?"

"One who loves him. "

"What made you do it?"

"Love. "

"No--fear--nothing else----"

"Fear? And what have I to fear? My body is beyond the fear of death, asmy soul is beyond the hope of life. If it were to be done again I shouldbe weak. I know I should. If you could know half of what the doing cost!But let that alone. I did it, and he is waiting for you. Will you come?"

"If I only knew it to be true----"

"How hard you make it. Yet, it was hard enough. "

Beatrice touched her arm, more gently than before, and gazed into hereyes. 

"If I could believe it all I would not make it hard. I would forgiveyou--and you would deserve better than that, better than anything thatis mine to give. "

"I deserve nothing and ask nothing. If you will come, you will see, and, seeing, you will believe. And if you then forgive--well then, you willhave done far more than I could do. "

"I would forgive you freely----"

"Are you afraid to go with me?"

"No. I am afraid of something worse. You have put something here--ahope----"

"A hope? Then you believe. There is no hope without a little belief init. Will you come?"

"To him?"

"To him. "

"It can but be untrue, " said Beatrice, still hesitating. "I can but go. What of him!" she asked suddenly. "If he were living--would you take meto him? Could you?"

She turned very pale, and her eyes stared madly at Unorna. 

"If he were dead, " Unorna answered, "I should not be here. "

Something in her tone and look moved Beatrice's heart at last. 

"I will go with you, " she said. "And if I find him--and if all is wellwith him--then God in Heaven repay you, for you have been braver thanthe bravest I ever knew. "

"Can love save a soul as well as lose it?" Unorna asked. 

Then they went away together. 

They were scarcely out of sight of the convent gate when anothercarriage drove up. Almost before it had stopped, the door opened andKeyork Arabian's short, heavy form emerged and descended hastily to thepavement. He rang the bell furiously, and the old portress set thegate ajar and looked out cautiously, fearing that the noisy peal meanttrouble or disturbance. 

"The lady Beatrice Varanger--I must see her instantly!" cried the littleman in terrible excitement. 

"She is gone out, " the portress replied. 

"Gone out? Where? Alone?"

"With a lady who was here last night--a lady with unlike eyes--"

"Where? Where? Where are they gone?" asked Keyork hardly able to findbreath. 

"The lady bade the coachman drive her home--but where she lives--"

"Home? To Unorna's home? It is not true! I see it in your eyes. Witch!Hag! Let me in! Let me in, I say! May vampires get your body and theThree Black Angels cast lots upon your soul!"

In the storm of curses that followed, the convent door was violentlyshut in his face. Within, the portress stood shaking with fear, crossingherself again and again, and verily believing that the devil himself hadtried to force an entrance into the sacred place. 

In fearful anger Keyork drew back. He hesitated one moment and thenregained his carriage. 

"To Unorna's house!" he shouted, as he shut the door with a crash. 

"This is my house, and he is here, " Unorna said, as Beatrice passedbefore her, under the deep arch of the entrance. 

Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the smallouter hall to the door of the great conservatory. 

"You will find him there, " she said. "Go on alone. "

But Beatrice took her hand to draw her in. 

"Must I see it all?" Unorna asked, hopelessly. 

Then from among the plants and trees a great white-robed figure cameout and stood between them. Joining their hands he gently pushed themforward to the middle of the hall where the Wanderer stood alone. 

"It is done!" Unorna cried, as her heart broke. 

She saw the scene she had acted so short a time before. She heard thepassionate cry, the rain of kisses, the tempest of tears. The expiationwas complete. Not a sight, not a sound was spared her. The strong armsof the ancient sleeper held her upright on her feet. She could not fall, she could not close her eyes, she could not stop her ears, no mercifulstupor overcame her. 

"Is it so bitter to do right?" the old man asked, bending low andspeaking softly. 

"It is the bitterness of death, " she said. 

"It is well done, " he answered. 

Then came a noise of hurried steps and a loud, deep voice, calling, "Unorna! Unorna!"

Keyork Arabian was there. He glanced at Beatrice and the Wanderer, locked in each other's arms, then turned to Unorna and looked into herface. 

"It has killed her, " he said. "Who did it?"

His low-spoken words echoed like angry thunder. 

"Give her to me, " he said again. "She is mine--body and soul. "

But the great strong arms were around her and would not let her go. 

"Save me!" she cried in failing tones. "Save me from him!"

"You have saved yourself, " said the solemn voice of the old man. 

"Saved?" Keyork laughed. "From me?" He laid his hand upon her arm. Thenhis face changed again, and his laughter died dismally away, and he hungback. 

"Can you forgive her?" asked the other voice. 

The Wanderer stood close to them now, drawing Beatrice to his side. Thequestion was for them. 

"Can you forgive me?" asked Unorna faintly, turning her eyes towardsthem. 

"As we hope to find forgiveness and trust in a life to come, " theyanswered. 

There was a low sound in the air, unearthly, muffled, desperate as ofa strong being groaning in awful agony. When they looked, they saw thatKeyork Arabian was gone. 

The dawn of a coming day rose in Unorna's face as she sank back. 

"It is over, " she sighed, as her eyes closed. 

Her question was answered; her love had saved her.