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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Witch of Prague by F. Marion Crawford
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+Title: The Witch of Prague
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+Author:  F. Marion Crawford
+
+Release Date: March, 2003  [Etext #3816]
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+Language: English
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Witch of Prague by F. Marion Crawford
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+Etext prepared by Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com 
+and John Bickers, jbickers@ihug.co.nz
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE WITCH OF PRAGUE
+A FANTASTIC TALE
+
+BY
+
+F. MARION CRAWFORD
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+A great multitude of people filled the church, crowded together in the
+old black pews, standing closely thronged in the nave and aisles,
+pressing shoulder to shoulder even in the two chapels on the right and
+left of the apse, a vast gathering of pale men and women whose eyes
+were sad and in whose faces was written the history of their nation.
+The mighty shafts and pilasters of the Gothic edifice rose like the
+stems of giant trees in a primeval forest from a dusky undergrowth,
+spreading out and uniting their stony branches far above in the upper
+gloom. From the clerestory windows of the nave an uncertain light
+descended halfway to the depths and seemed to float upon the darkness
+below as oil upon the water of a well. Over the western entrance the
+huge fantastic organ bristled with blackened pipes and dusty gilded
+ornaments of colossal size, like some enormous kingly crown long
+forgotten in the lumber room of the universe, tarnished and overlaid
+with the dust of ages. Eastwards, before the rail which separated the
+high altar from the people, wax torches, so thick that a man might not
+span one of them with both his hands, were set up at irregular
+intervals, some taller, some shorter, burning with steady, golden
+flames, each one surrounded with heavy funeral wreaths, and each
+having a tablet below it, whereon were set forth in the Bohemian
+idiom, the names, titles, and qualities of him or her in whose memory
+it was lighted. Innumerable lamps and tapers before the side altars
+and under the strange canopied shrines at the bases of the pillars,
+struggled ineffectually with the gloom, shedding but a few sickly
+yellow rays upon the pallid faces of the persons nearest to their
+light.
+
+Suddenly the heavy vibration of a single pedal note burst from the
+organ 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 the
+blare of trumpets and the simultaneous crash of mixtures, fifteenths
+and coupled pedals to a deafening peal, then subsiding quickly again
+and terminating in one long sustained common chord. And now, as the
+celebrant bowed at the lowest step before the high altar, the voices
+of the innumerable congregation joined the harmony of the organ,
+ringing up to the groined roof in an ancient Slavonic melody,
+melancholy and beautiful, and rendered yet more unlike all other music
+by the undefinable character of the Bohemian language, in which tones
+softer than those of the softest southern tongue alternate so oddly
+with rough gutturals and strident sibilants.
+
+The Wanderer stood in the midst of the throng, erect, taller than the
+men near him, holding his head high, so that a little of the light
+from the memorial torches reached his thoughtful, manly face, making
+the noble and passionate features to stand out clearly, while losing
+its power of illumination in the dark beard and among the shadows of
+his hair. His was a face such as Rembrandt would have painted, seen
+under the light that Rembrandt loved best; for the expression seemed
+to overcome the surrounding gloom by its own luminous quality, while
+the deep gray eyes were made almost black by the wide expansion of the
+pupils; the dusky brows clearly defined the boundary in the face
+between passion and thought, and the pale forehead, by its slight
+recession into the shade from its middle prominence, proclaimed the
+man of heart, the man of faith, the man of devotion, as well as the
+intuitive nature of the delicately sensitive mind and the quick,
+elastic qualities of the man's finely organized, but nervous bodily
+constitution. The long white fingers of one hand stirred restlessly,
+twitching at the fur of his broad lapel which was turned back across
+his chest, and from time to time he drew a deep breath and sighed, not
+painfully, but wearily and hopelessly, as a man sighs who knows that
+his happiness is long past and that his liberation from the burden of
+life is yet far off in the future.
+
+The celebrant reached the reading of the Gospel and the men and women
+in the pews rose to their feet. Still the singing of the long-drawn-
+out stanzas of the hymn continued with unflagging devotion, and still
+the deep accompaniment of the ancient organ sustained the mighty
+chorus of voices. The Gospel over, the people sank into their seats
+again, not standing, as is the custom in some countries, until the
+Creed had been said. Here and there, indeed, a woman, perhaps a
+stranger in the country, remained upon her feet, noticeable among the
+many figures seated in the pews. The Wanderer, familiar with many
+lands and many varying 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 convulsively grasped the yielding sable on which they
+lay.
+
+She was there, the woman he had sought so long, whose face he had not
+found in the cities and dwellings of the living, neither her grave in
+the silent communities of the dead. There, before the uncouth monument
+of dark red marble beneath which Tycho Brahe rests in peace, there she
+stood; not as he had seen her last on that day when his senses had
+left him in the delirium of his sickness, not in the freshness of her
+bloom and of her dark loveliness, but changed as he had dreamed in
+evil dreams that death would have power to change her. The warm olive
+of her cheek was turned to the hue of wax, the soft shadows beneath
+her velvet eyes were deepened and hardened, her expression, once
+yielding and changing under the breath of thought and feeling as a
+field of flowers when the west wind blows, was now set, as though for
+ever, in a death-like fixity. The delicate features were drawn and
+pinched, the nostrils contracted, the colourless lips straightened out
+of the lines of beauty into the mould of a lifeless mask. It was the
+face of a dead woman, but it was her face still, and the Wanderer knew
+it well; in the kingdom of his soul the whole resistless commonwealth
+of the emotions revolted together to dethrone death's regent--sorrow,
+while the thrice-tempered springs of passion, bent but not broken,
+stirred suddenly in the palace of his body and shook the strong
+foundations of his being.
+
+During the seconds that followed, his eyes were riveted upon the
+beloved head. Then, as the Creed ended, the vision sank down and was
+lost to his sight. She was seated now, and the broad sea of humanity
+hid her from him, though he raised himself the full height of his
+stature in the effort to distinguish even the least part of her head-
+dress. To move from his place was all but impossible, though the
+fierce longing to be near her bade him trample even upon the shoulders
+of the throng to reach her, as men have done more than once to save
+themselves from death by fire in crowded places. Still the singing of
+the hymn continued, and would continue, as he knew, until the moment
+of the Elevation. He strained his hearing to catch the sounds that
+came from the quarter where she sat. In a chorus of a thousand singers
+he fancied that he could have distinguished the tender, heart-stirring
+vibration of her tones. Never woman sang, never could woman sing
+again, as she had once sung, though her voice had been as soft as it
+had been sweet, and tuned to vibrate in the heart rather than in the
+ear. As the strains rose and 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 to his heart, unless indeed his heart
+itself were making music for his ears to hear. The impression reached
+him fitfully, often interrupted and lost, but as often renewing itself
+and reawakening in the listener the certainty of recognition which he
+had felt at the sight of the singer's face.
+
+He who loves with his whole soul has a knowledge and a learning which
+surpass the wisdom of those who spend their lives in the study of
+things living or long dead, or never animate. They, indeed, can
+construct the figure of a flower from the dried web of a single leaf,
+or by the examination of a dusty seed, and they can set up the scheme
+of life of a shadowy mammoth out of a fragment of its skeleton, or
+tell the story of hill and valley from the contemplation of a handful
+of earth or of a broken pebble. Often they are right, sometimes they
+are driven deeper and deeper into error by the complicated
+imperfections of their own science. But he who loves greatly possesses
+in his intuition the capacities of all instruments of observation
+which man has invented and applied to his use. The lenses of his eyes
+can magnify the infinitesimal detail to the dimensions of common
+things, and bring objects to his vision from immeasurable distances;
+the labyrinth of his ear can choose and distinguish amidst the
+harmonies and the discords of the world, muffling in its tortuous
+passages the reverberation of ordinary sounds while multiplying a
+hundredfold the faint tones of the one beloved voice. His whole body
+and his whole intelligence form together an instrument of exquisite
+sensibility whereby the perceptions of his inmost soul are hourly
+tortured, delighted, caught up into ecstasy, torn and crushed by
+jealousy and fear, or plunged into the frigid waters of despair.
+
+The melancholy hymn resounded through the vast church, but though the
+Wanderer stretched the faculty of hearing to the utmost, he could no
+longer find the note he sought amongst the vibrations of the dank and
+heavy air. Then an irresistible longing came upon him to turn and
+force his way through the dense throng of men and women, to reach the
+aisle and press past the huge pillar till he could slip between the
+tombstone of the astronomer and the row of back wooden seats. Once
+there, he should see her face to face.
+
+He turned, indeed, as he stood, and he tried to move a few steps. On
+all sides curious looks were directed upon him, but no one offered to
+make way, and still the monotonous singing continued until he felt
+himself deafened, as he faced the great congregation.
+
+"I am ill," he said in a low voice to those nearest to him. "Pray let
+me pass!"
+
+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
+trying to draw back, gently shook his head. A pale woman, whose sickly
+features were half veiled in the folds of a torn black shawl, moved as
+far as she could, shrinking as the very poor and miserable shrink when
+they are expected to make way before the rich and the strong. A lad of
+fifteen stood upon tiptoe to make himself even slighter than he was
+and thus to widen the way, and the Wanderer found himself, after
+repeated efforts, as much as two steps distant from his former
+position. He was still trying to divide the crowd when the music
+suddenly ceased, and the tones of the organ died away far up under the
+western window. It was the moment of the Elevation, and the first
+silvery tinkling of the bell, the people swayed a little, all those
+who were able kneeling, and those whose movements were impeded by the
+press of worshippers bending towards the altar as a field of grain
+before the gale. The Wanderer turned again and bowed himself with the
+rest, devoutly and humbly, with half-closed eyes, as he strove to
+collect and control his thoughts in the presence of the chief mystery
+of his Faith. Three times the tiny bell was rung, a pause followed,
+and thrice again the clear jingle of the metal broke the solemn
+stillness. Then once more the people stirred, and the soft sound of
+their simultaneous motion was like a mighty sigh breathed up from the
+secret vaults and the deep foundations of the ancient church; again
+the pedal note of the organ boomed through the nave and aisles, and
+again the thousands of human voices took up the strain of song.
+
+The Wanderer glanced about him, measuring the distance he must
+traverse to reach the monument of the Danish astronomer and
+confronting it with the short time which now remained before the end
+of the Mass. He saw that in such a throng he would have no chance of
+gaining the position he wished to occupy in less than half an hour,
+and he had not but a scant ten minutes at his disposal. He gave up the
+attempt therefore, determining that when the celebration should be
+over he would move forward with the crowd, trusting to his superior
+stature and energy to keep him within sight of the woman he sought,
+until both he and she could meet, either just within or just without
+the narrow entrance of the church.
+
+Very soon the moment of action came. The singing died away, the
+benediction was given, the second Gospel was read, the priest and the
+people repeated the Bohemian prayers, and all was over. The countless
+heads began to move onward, the shuffling of innumerable feet sent
+heavy, tuneless echoes through vaulted space, broken every moment by
+the sharp, painful cough of a suffering child whom no one could see in
+the multitude, or by the dull thud of some heavy foot striking against
+the wooden seats in the press. The Wanderer moved forward with the
+rest. Reaching the entrance of the pew where she had sat he was kept
+back during a few seconds by the half dozen men and women who were
+forcing their way out of it before him. But at the farthest end, a
+figure clothed in black was still kneeling. A moment more and he might
+enter the pew and be at her side. One of the other women dropped
+something before she was out of the narrow space, and stooped,
+fumbling and searching in the darkness. At the minute, the slight,
+girlish figure rose swiftly and passed like a shadow before the heavy
+marble monument. The Wanderer saw that the pew was open at the other
+end, and without heeding 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 in the aisle in a moment. Many persons had already
+left the church and the space was comparatively free.
+
+She was before him, gliding quickly toward the door. Ere he could
+reach her, he saw her touch the thick ice which filled the marble
+basin, cross herself hurriedly and pass out. But he had seen her face
+again, and he knew that he was not mistaken. The thin, waxen features
+were as those of the dead, but they were hers, nevertheless. In an
+instant he could be by her side. But again his progress was
+momentarily impeded by a number of persons who were entering the
+building hastily to attend the next Mass. Scarcely ten seconds later
+he was out in the narrow and dismal passage which winds between the
+north side of the Teyn Kirche and the buildings behind the Kinsky
+Palace. The vast buttresses and towers cast deep shadows below them,
+and the blackened houses opposite absorb what remains of the uncertain
+winter's daylight. To the left of the church a low arch spans the
+lane, affording a covered communication between the north aisle and
+the sacristy. To the right the open space is somewhat broader, and
+three dark archways give access to as many passages, leading in
+radiating directions and under the old houses to the streets beyond.
+
+The Wanderer stood upon the steps, beneath the rich stone carvings
+which set forth the Crucifixion over the door of the church, and his
+quick eyes scanned everything within sight. To the left, no figure
+resembling the one he sought was to be seen, but on the right, he
+fancied that among a score of persons now rapidly dispersing he could
+distinguish just within one of the archways a moving shadow, black
+against the blackness. In an instant he had crossed the way and was
+hurrying through the gloom. Already far before him, but visible and,
+as he believed, unmistakable, the shade was speeding onward, light as
+mist, noiseless as thought, but yet clearly to be seen and followed.
+He cried aloud, as he ran,
+
+"Beatrice! Beatrice!"
+
+His strong voice echoed along the dank walls and out into the court
+beyond. It was intensely cold, and the still air carried the sound
+clearly to the distance. She must have heard him, she must have known
+his voice, but as she crossed the open place, and the gray light fell
+upon her, he could see that she did not raise her bent head nor
+slacken her 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 a
+headlong pace. But in the narrow tunnel, when he reached it, she was
+not, though at the farther end he imagined that the fold of a black
+garment was just disappearing. He emerged into the street, in which he
+could 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 all
+barred and fastened, and every door within the range of his vision was
+closed. He stood still in surprise and listened. There was no sound to
+be heard, not the grating of a lock, nor the tinkling of a bell, nor
+the fall of a footstep.
+
+He did not pause long, for he made up his mind as to what he should do
+in the flash of a moment's intuition. It was physically impossible
+that she should have disappeared into any one of the houses which had
+their entrances within the dark tunnel he had just traversed. Apart
+from the presumptive impossibility of her being lodged in such a
+quarter, there was the self-evident fact that he must have heard the
+door opened and closed. Secondly, she could not have turned to the
+right, for in that direction the street was straight and without any
+lateral exit, so that he must have seen her. Therefore she must have
+gone to the left, since on that side there was a narrow alley leading
+out of the lane, at some distance from the point where he was now
+standing--too far, indeed, for her to have reached it unnoticed,
+unless, as was possible, he had been greatly deceived in the distance
+which had lately separated her from him.
+
+Without further hesitation, he turned to the left. He found no one in
+the way, for it was not yet noon, and at that hour the people were
+either at their prayers or at their Sunday morning's potations, and
+the place was as deserted as a disused cemetery. Still he hastened
+onward, never pausing for breath, till he found himself all at once in
+the great Ring. He knew the city well, but in his race he had bestowed
+no attention upon the familiar windings and turnings, thinking only of
+overtaking the fleeting vision, no matter how, no matter where. Now,
+on a sudden, the great, irregular square opened before him, flanked on
+the one side by the fantastic spires of the Teyn Church, and the
+blackened front of the huge Kinsky Palace, on the other by the half-
+modern Town Hall with its ancient tower, its beautiful porch, and the
+graceful oriel which forms the apse of the chapel in the second story.
+
+One of the city watchmen, muffled in his military overcoat, and
+conspicuous by the great bunch of dark feathers that drooped from his
+black hat, was standing idly at the corner from which the Wanderer
+emerged. The latter thought of inquiring whether the man had seen a
+lady pass, but the fellow's vacant stare convinced him that no
+questioning would elicit a satisfactory answer. Moreover, as he looked
+across the square he caught sight of a retreating figure dressed in
+black, already at such a distance as to make positive recognition
+impossible. In his haste he found no time to convince himself that no
+living woman could have thus outrun him, and he instantly resumed his
+pursuit, gaining rapidly upon her he was following. But it is not an
+easy matter to overtake even a woman, when she has an advantage of a
+couple of hundred yards, and when the race is a short one. He passed
+the ancient astronomical clock, just as the little bell was striking
+the third quarter after eleven, but he did not raise his head to watch
+the sad-faced apostles as they presented their stiff figures in
+succession at the two square windows. When the blackened cock under
+the small Gothic arch above flapped his wooden wings and uttered his
+melancholy crow, the Wanderer was already at the corner of the little
+Ring, and he could see the object of his pursuit disappearing before
+him into the Karlsgasse. He noticed uneasily that the resemblance
+between the woman he was following and the object of his loving search
+seemed now to diminish, as in a bad dream, as the distance between
+himself and her decreased. But he held resolutely on, nearing her at
+every step, round a sharp corner to the right, then to the left, to
+the right again, and once more in the opposite direction, always, as
+he knew, approaching the old stone bridge. He was not a dozen paces
+behind her as she turned quickly a third time to the right, round the
+wall of the ancient house which faces the little square over against
+the enormous buildings comprising the Clementine Jesuit monastery and
+the astronomical observatory. As he sprang past the corner he saw the
+heavy door just closing and heard the sharp resounding clang of its
+iron fastening. The lady had disappeared, and he felt sure that she
+had gone through that entrance.
+
+He knew the house well, for it is distinguished from all others in
+Prague, both by its shape and its oddly ornamented, unnaturally narrow
+front. It is built in the figure of an irregular triangle, the blunt
+apex of one angle facing the little square, the sides being erected on
+the one hand along the Karlsgasse and on the other upon a narrow alley
+which leads away towards the Jews' quarter. Overhanging passages are
+built out over this dim lane, as though to facilitate the interior
+communications of the dwelling, and in the shadow beneath them there
+is a small door studded with iron nails which is invariably shut. The
+main entrance takes in all the scant breadth of the truncated angle
+which looks towards the monastery. Immediately over it is a great
+window, above that another, and, highest of all, under the pointed
+gable, a round and unglazed aperture, within which there is inky
+darkness. The windows of the first and second stories are flanked by
+huge figures of saints, standing forth in strangely contorted
+attitudes, black with the dust of ages, black as all old Prague is
+black, with the smoke of the brown 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 also this
+house. Many a time had he paused before it by day and by night,
+wondering who lived within its massive, irregular walls, behind those
+uncouth, barbarously sculptured saints who kept their interminable
+watch high up by the lozenged windows. He would know now. Since she
+whom he sought had entered, he would enter too; and in some corner of
+that dwelling which had long possessed a mysterious attraction for his
+eyes, he would find at last that being who held power over his heart,
+that Beatrice whom he had learned to think of as dead, while still
+believing that somewhere she must be yet alive, that dear lady whom,
+dead or living, he loved beyond all others, with a great love, passing
+words.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+The Wanderer stood still before the door. In the freezing air, his
+quick-drawn breath made fantastic wreaths of mist, white and full of
+odd shapes as he watched the tiny clouds curling quickly into each
+other before the blackened oak. Then he laid his hand boldly upon the
+chain of the bell. He expected to hear the harsh jingling of cracked
+metal, but he was surprised by the silvery clearness and musical
+quality of the ringing tones which reached his ear. He was pleased,
+and unconsciously took the pleasant infusion for a favourable omen.
+The heavy door swung back almost immediately, and he was confronted by
+a tall porter in dark green cloth and gold lacings, whose imposing
+appearance was made still more striking by the magnificent fair beard
+which flowed down almost to his waist. The man lifted his heavy cocked
+hat and held it low at his side as he drew back to let the visitor
+enter. The latter had not expected to be admitted thus without
+question, and paused under the bright light which illuminated the
+arched entrance, intending to make some inquiry of the porter. But the
+latter seemed to expect nothing of the sort. He carefully closed the
+door, and then, bearing his hat in one hand and his gold-headed staff
+in the other, he proceeded gravely to the other end of the vaulted
+porch, opened a great glazed door and held it back for the visitor to
+pass.
+
+The Wanderer recognized that the farther he was allowed to penetrate
+unhindered into the interior of the house, the nearer he should be to
+the object of his search. He did not know where he was, nor what he
+might find. For all that he knew, he might be in a club, in a great
+banking-house, or in some semi-public institution of the nature of a
+library, an academy or a conservatory of music. There are many such
+establishments in Prague, though he was not acquainted with any in
+which the internal arrangements so closely resembled those of a
+luxurious private residence. But there was no time for hesitation, and
+he ascended the broad staircase with a firm step, glancing at the rich
+tapestries which covered the walls, at the polished surface of the
+marble steps on either side of the heavy carpet, and at the elaborate
+and beautiful iron-work of the hand-rail. As he mounted higher, he
+heard the quick rapping of an electric signal above him, and he
+understood that the porter had announced his coming. Reaching the
+landing, he was met by a servant in black, as correct at all points as
+the porter himself, and who bowed low as he held back the thick
+curtain which hung before the entrance. Without a word the man
+followed the visitor into a high room of irregular shape, which served
+as a vestibule, and stood waiting to receive the guest's furs, should
+it please him to lay them aside. To pause now, and to enter into an
+explanation with a servant, would have been to reject an opportunity
+which might never return. In such an establishment, he was sure of
+finding himself before long in the presence of some more or less
+intelligent person of his own class, of whom he could make such
+inquiries as might enlighten him, and to whom he could present such
+excuses for his intrusion as might seem most fitting in so difficult a
+case. He let his sables fall into the hands of the servant and
+followed the latter along a short passage.
+
+The man introduced him into a spacious hall and closed the door,
+leaving him to his own reflections. The place was very wide and high
+and without windows, but the broad daylight descended abundantly from
+above through the glazed roof and illuminated every corner. He would
+have taken the room for a conservatory, for it contained a forest of
+tropical trees and plants, and whole gardens of rare southern flowers.
+Tall letonias, date palms, mimosas and rubber trees of many varieties
+stretched their fantastic spikes and heavy leaves half-way up to the
+crystal ceiling; giant ferns swept the polished marble floor with
+their soft embroideries and dark green laces; Indian creepers, full of
+bright blossoms, made screens and curtains of their intertwining
+foliage; orchids of every hue and of every exotic species bloomed in
+thick banks along the walls. Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of
+the valley, closely set and luxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss
+around the roots of the larger plants and in many open spaces. The air
+was very soft and warm, moist and full of heavy odours as the still
+atmosphere of an island in southern seas, and the silence was broken
+only by the light plash of softly-falling water.
+
+Having advanced a few steps from the door, the Wanderer stood still
+and waited, supposing that the owner of the dwelling would be made
+aware of a visitor's presence and would soon appear. But no one came.
+Then a gentle voice spoke from amidst the verdure, apparently from no
+great distance.
+
+"I am here," it said.
+
+He moved forward amidst the ferns and the tall plants, until he found
+himself on the farther side of a thick network of creepers. Then he
+paused, for he was in the presence of a woman, of her who dwelt among
+the flowers. She was sitting before him, motionless and upright in a
+high, carved chair, and so placed that the pointed leaves of the palm
+which rose above her cast sharp, star-shaped shadows over the broad
+folds of her white dress. One hand, as white, as cold, as heavily
+perfect as the sculpture of a Praxiteles or a Phidias, rested with
+drooping fingers on the arm of the chair. The other pressed the pages
+of a great book which lay open on the lady's knee. Her face was turned
+toward the visitor, and her eyes examined his face; calmly and with no
+surprise in them, but not without a look of interest. Their expression
+was at once so unusual, so disquieting, and yet so inexplicably
+attractive as to fascinate the Wanderer's gaze. He did not remember
+that he had ever seen a pair of eyes of distinctly different colours,
+the one of a clear, cold gray, the other of a deep, warm brown, so
+dark as to seem almost black, and he would not have believed that
+nature could so far transgress the canons of her own art and yet
+preserve the appearance of beauty. For the lady was beautiful, from
+the diadem of her red gold hair to the proud curve of her fresh young
+lips; from her broad, pale forehead, prominent and boldly modelled at
+the angles of the brows, to the strong mouldings of the well-balanced
+chin, which gave evidence of strength and resolution wherewith to
+carry out the promise of the high aquiline features and of the wide
+and sensitive nostrils.
+
+"Madame," said the Wanderer, bending his head courteously and
+advancing another step, "I can neither frame excuses for having
+entered your house unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my
+intrusion, unless you are willing in the first place to hear my short
+story. May I expect so much kindness?"
+
+He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously. Without
+taking her eyes from his face, and without speaking, she closed the
+book she had held on her knee, and laid it beside her upon a low
+table. The Wanderer did not avoid her gaze, for he had nothing to
+conceal, nor any sense of timidity. He was an intruder upon the
+privacy of one whom he did not know, but he was ready to explain his
+presence and to make such amends 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; he
+fancied that a gentle breath of perfumed air was blowing softly over
+his hair and face out of the motionless palms, and the faint plashing
+of the hidden fountain was like an exquisite melody in his ears. It
+was good to be in such a place, to look on such a woman, to breathe
+such odours, and to hear such tuneful music. A dreamlike, half-
+mysterious satisfaction of the senses dulled the keen self-knowledge
+of body and soul for one short moment. In the stormy play of his
+troubled life there was a brief interlude of peace. He tasted the
+fruit of the lotus, his lips were moistened in the sweet waters of
+forgetfulness.
+
+The lady spoke at last, and the spell left him, not broken, as by a
+sudden shock, but losing its strong power by quick degrees until it
+was wholly gone.
+
+"I will answer your question by another," said the lady. "Let your
+reply be 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, in
+the 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 being
+believed, "that I have never, to my knowledge, heard of your
+existence, that I am ignorant even of your name--forgive my ignorance
+--and that I entered this house, not knowing whose it might be,
+seeking and following after one for whom I have searched the world,
+one dearly loved, long lost, long sought."
+
+"It is enough. Be seated. I am Unorna."
+
+"Unorna?" repeated the Wanderer, with an unconscious question in his
+voice, as though the name recalled some half-forgotten association.
+
+"Unorna--yes. I have another name," she added, with a shade of
+bitterness, "but it is hardly mine. Tell me your story. You loved--you
+lost--you seek--so much I know. What else?"
+
+The Wanderer sighed.
+
+"You have told in those few words the story of my life--the unfinished
+story. A wanderer I was born, a wanderer I am, a wanderer I must ever
+be, 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, and I loved her. She loved me, too, and that against her father's
+will. He would not have his daughter wed with one not of her race; for
+he himself had taken a wife among strangers, and while she was yet
+alive he had repented of what he had done. But I would have overcome
+his reasons and his arguments--she and I could have overcome them
+together, for he did not hate me, he bore me no ill-will. We were
+almost friends when I last took his hand. Then the hour of destiny
+came upon me. The air of that city was treacherous and deadly. I had
+left her with her father, and my heart was full of many things, and of
+words both spoken and unuttered. I lingered upon an ancient bridge
+that spanned the river, and the sun went down. Then the evil fever of
+the south laid hold upon me and poisoned the blood in my veins, and
+stole the consciousness from my understanding. Weeks passed away, and
+memory returned, with the strength to speak. I learned that she I
+loved and her father were gone, and none knew whither. I rose and left
+the accursed city, being at that time scarce able to stand upright
+upon my feet. Finding no trace of those I sought, I journeyed to their
+own country, for I knew where her father held his lands. I had been
+ill many weeks and much time had passed, from the 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 been lately sold, and that
+others now dwelt within the walls. I inquired of those new owners of
+the land, but neither they or any of all those whom I questioned could
+tell me whither I should direct my search. The father was a strange
+man, loving travel and change and movement, restless and unsatisfied
+with the world, rich and free to make his own caprice his guide
+through life; reticent he was, moreover, and thoughtful, not given to
+speaking out his intentions. Those who administered his affairs in his
+absence were honourable men, bound by his especial injunction not to
+reveal his ever-varying plans. Many times, in my ceaseless search, I
+met persons who had lately seen him and his daughter and spoken with
+them. I was ever on their track, from hemisphere to hemisphere, from
+continent to continent, from country to country, from city to city,
+often believing myself close upon them, often learning suddenly that
+an ocean lay between them and me. Was he eluding me, purposely,
+resolutely, or was he unconscious of my desperate pursuit, being
+served by chance alone and by his own restless temper? I do not know.
+At last, some one told me that 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 on hearsay 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 have heard others say that she is not
+dead, that they have heard in their turn from others that she yet
+lives. An hour ago, I knew not what to think. To-day, I saw her in a
+crowded church. I heard her voice, though I could not reach her in the
+throng, struggle how I would. I followed her in haste, I lost her at
+one turning, I saw her before me at the next. At last a figure,
+clothed as she had been clothed, entered your house. Whether it was
+she I know not certainly, but I do know that in the church I saw her.
+She cannot be within your dwelling without your knowledge; 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 have been mistaken, I
+entreat you to let me set eyes on that other whom I mistook for her,
+to forgive then my mannerless intrusion and to let me go."
+
+Unorna had listened with half-closed eyes, but with unfaltering
+attention, watching the speaker's face from beneath her drooping lids,
+making no effort to read his thoughts, but weighing his words and
+impressing every detail of his story upon her mind. When he had done
+there was silence for a time, broken only by the plash and ripple of
+the falling 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 is very 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
+ivory key in the silver ball which lay beside her, attached to a thick
+cord of white silk. "Ask Sletchna Axenia to come to me," she said to
+the servant who opened the door in the distance, out of sight behind
+the forest of plants.
+
+Amid less unusual surroundings the Wanderer would have rejected with
+contempt the last remnants of his belief in the identity of Unorna's
+companion, with Beatrice. But, being where he was, he felt unable to
+decide between the possible and the impossible, between what he might
+reasonably expect and what lay beyond the bounds of reason itself. The
+air he breathed was so loaded with rich exotic perfumes, the woman
+before him was so little like other women, her strangely mismatched
+eyes had for his own such a disquieting attraction, all that he saw
+and felt and heard was so far removed from the commonplaces of daily
+life as to make him feel that he himself was becoming a part of some
+other person's existence, that he was being gradually drawn away from
+his identity, and was losing the power of thinking his own thoughts.
+He reasoned as the shadows reason in dreamland, the boundaries of
+common probability receded to an immeasurable distance, and he almost
+ceased to know where reality ended and where imagination took up the
+sequence of events.
+
+Who was this woman, who called herself Unorna? He tried to consider
+the question, and to bring his intelligence to bear upon it. Was she a
+great lady of Prague, rich, capricious, creating a mysterious
+existence for herself, merely for her own good pleasure? Her language,
+her voice, her evident refinement gave colour to the idea, which was
+in itself attractive to a man who had long ceased to expect novelty in
+this working-day world. He glanced at her face, musing and wondering,
+inhaling the sweet, intoxicating odours of the flowers and listening
+to the tinkling of the hidden fountain. Her eyes were gazing into his,
+and again, as if by magic, the curtain of life's stage was drawn
+together in misty folds, shutting out the past, the present, and the
+future, the fact, 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 movement of surprise he himself looked towards the new comer. A
+young girl was standing under the shadow of a great letonia at a short
+distance from him. She was very pale indeed, but not with that death-
+like, waxen pallor which had chilled him when he had looked upon that
+other face. There was a faint resemblance in the small, aquiline
+features, the dress was black, and the figure of the girl before him
+was assuredly neither much 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 utterly mistaken.
+
+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
+who entered the house just now?"
+
+"Yes. I was misled by a mere resemblance. Forgive me for my
+importunity--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
+her eyes were upon him, and he raised his own to meet the look
+frankly, as was his wont. For the first time since he had entered her
+presence he felt that there was more than a mere disquieting
+attraction in her steady gaze; there was a strong, resistless
+fascination, from which he had no power to withdraw himself. Almost
+unconsciously he resumed his seat, still looking at her, while telling
+himself with a severe effort that he would look but one instant longer
+and then turn away. Ten seconds passed, twenty, half a minute, in
+total silence. He was confused, disturbed, and yet wholly unable to
+shut out her penetrating glance. His fast ebbing consciousness barely
+allowed him to wonder whether he was weakened by the strong emotions
+he had felt in the church, 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 though an irresistible force were drawing him into
+the depths of a fathomless whirlpool, down, down, by its endless giddy
+spirals, robbing him of a portion of his consciousness at every
+gyration, so that he left behind him at every instant something of his
+individuality, something of the central faculty of self-recognition.
+He felt no pain, but he did not feel that inexpressible delight of
+peace which already twice had descended 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 subside when the gates are
+opened, leaving emptiness in their place.
+
+Unorna's eyes turned from him, and she raised her hand a moment,
+letting it fall again upon her knee. Instantly the strong man was
+restored to himself; his weakness vanished, his sight was clear, his
+intelligence was awake. Instantly the certainty flashed upon him that
+Unorna possessed the power of imposing the hypnotic sleep and had
+exercised that gift upon him, unexpectedly and against his will. He
+would have more willingly supposed that he had been the victim of a
+momentary physical faintness, for the idea of having been thus
+subjected to the influence of a woman, and of a woman whom he hardly
+knew, was repugnant to him, and had in it something humiliating to his
+pride, or at least to his vanity. But he could not escape the
+conviction forced upon him by the circumstances.
+
+"Do not go far, for I may yet help you," said Unorna, quietly. "Let us
+talk of this matter and consult what is best to be done. Will you
+accept a woman's help?"
+
+"Readily. But I cannot accept her will as mine, nor resign my
+consciousness 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 still
+unsteadied by what he had experienced. But he was able to reason, and
+he asked of his judgment what he should do, wondering what manner of
+woman Unorna might prove to be, and whether she was anything more than
+one of those who live and even enrich themselves by the exercise of
+the unusual faculties of powers nature has given them. He had seen
+many of that class, and he considered most of them to be but half
+fanatics, half charlatans, worshipping in themselves as something
+almost divine that which was but a physical power, or weakness, beyond
+their own limited comprehension. Though a whole school of wise and
+thoughtful men had already produced remarkable results and elicited
+astounding facts by sifting 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 phenomena of 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 desecration of his love's sanctity, a frivolous
+invasion of love's holiest ground. But, on the other hand, he was
+stimulated to catch at the veriest shadows of possibility by the
+certainty that he was at last within the same city with her he loved,
+and he knew that hypnotic subjects are sometimes able to determine the
+abode of persons whom no one else can find. To-morrow it might be too
+late. Even before to-day's sun had set Beatrice might be once more
+taken from him, snatched away to the ends of the earth by her father's
+ever-changing caprice. To lose a moment now might be to lose all.
+
+He was tempted to yield, to resign his will into Unorna's hands, and
+his sight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and see the truth.
+But then, with a sudden reaction of his individuality, he realized
+that he had another course, surer, simpler, more dignified. Beatrice
+was in Prague. It was little probable that she was permanently
+established in the city, and in all likelihood she and her father were
+lodged in one of the two or three great hotels. To be driven from the
+one to the other of these would be but an affair of minutes. Failing
+information from this source, there remained the registers of the
+Austrian police, whose vigilance takes note of every stranger's name
+and dwelling-place.
+
+"I thank you," he said. "If all my inquiries fail, and if you will let
+me 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 the
+names of those he sought upon the ordinary registers which chronicle
+the arrival and departure of travellers. He lost no time, he spared no
+effort, driving from place to place as fast as two sturdy Hungarian
+horses could take him, hurrying from one office to another, and again
+and again searching endless pages and columns which seemed full of all
+the names of earth, but in which he never found the one of all others
+which he longed to read. The gloom in the narrow streets was already
+deepening, though it was scarcely two hours after mid-day, and the
+heavy air had begun to thicken with a cold gray haze, even in the
+broad, straight Przikopy, the wide thoroughfare which has taken the
+place and name of the moat before the ancient fortifications, so that
+distant objects and figures lost the distinctness of their outlines.
+Winter in Prague is but one long, melancholy dream, broken sometimes
+at noon by an hour of sunshine, by an intermittent visitation of
+reality, by the shock and 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 ever afternoon, gray, soft, misty, sad, save when the
+sun, being at his meridian height, pierces the dim streets and sweeps
+the open places with low, slanting waves of pale brightness. And yet
+these same dusky streets are thronged with a moving multitude, are
+traversed ever by ceaseless streams 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 the hearing save the dull thread of many
+thousand feet and the rough rattle of an occasional carriage. Rarely,
+the harsh tones of a peasant, or the clear voices of a knot of
+strangers, unused to such oppressive silence, 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 are
+concentrated the hottest, if not the brightest, rays from the fire of
+regeneration 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 ancient
+Powder Tower. Haste had no further object now, since he had made every
+inquiry within his power, and it was a relief to feel the pavement
+beneath his feet and to breathe the misty frozen air after having been
+so long in the closeness of his carriage. He hesitated as to what he
+should do, unwilling to return to Unorna and acknowledge himself
+vanquished, yet finding it hard to resist his desire to try every
+means, no matter how little reasonable, how evidently useless, how
+puerile and revolting to his sounder sense. The street behind him led
+directly towards 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 to the house of which he was thinking, he yielded to the
+temptation. Having reached this stage of resolution, his mind began to
+recapitulate the events of the day, and he suddenly felt a strong wish
+to revisit the church, to stand in the place where Beatrice had stood,
+to touch in the marble basin beside the door the thick ice which her
+fingers had touched so lately, to traverse again the dark passages
+through which he had pursued her. To accomplish his purpose he need
+only turn aside a few steps from the path he was now following. He
+left the street almost immediately, passing under a low arched way
+that opened on the right-hand side, and a moment later he was within
+the walls of the Teyn Kirche.
+
+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 been
+extinguished, as well as most of the lights upon the high altar, there
+were not a dozen persons in the church, and high up beneath the roof
+broad shafts of softened sunshine, floating above the mists of the
+city without, streamed through the narrow lancet windows and were
+diffused in the great gloom below. The Wanderer went to the monument
+of Brahe and sat down in the corner of the blackened pew. His hands
+trembled a little as he clasped them upon his knee, and his head sank
+slowly towards his breast.
+
+He thought of all that might have been if he had risked everything
+that morning. He could have used his strength to force a way for
+himself through the press, he could have thrust the multitude to the
+right and left, 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 of faces, the thick, black mass of humanity, and he knew the
+tremendous power that lay in the inert, passive resistance of a vast
+gathering such as had been present. Had it been anywhere else, in a
+street, in a theatre, anywhere except in a church, all would have been
+well. It had not been his fault, for he knew, when he thought of it
+calmly, that the strength of his body would have been but as a breath
+of air against the silent, 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 up
+and saw a very short, gray-bearded man engaged in a minute examination
+of the dark red marble face on the astronomer's tomb. The man's head,
+covered with closely-cropped gray hair, was half buried between his
+high, broad shoulders, in an immense collar of fur, but the shape of
+the skull was so singular as to distinguish its possessor, when
+hatless, from all other men. The cranium was abnormally shaped,
+reaching a great elevation at the summit, then sinking suddenly, then
+spreading forward to an enormous development at the temple just
+visible as he was then standing, and at the same time forming unusual
+protuberances behind the large 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 recognised him at once.
+
+As though he were conscious of being watched, the little man turned
+sharply, exhibiting his wrinkled forehead, broad at the brows, narrow
+and high in the middle, showing, too, a Socratic nose half buried in
+the midst 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 of grayish wool. Indeed all that was visible of the face above
+the beard might have been carved out of old ivory, so far as the hue
+and quality of the surface were concerned; and if it had been
+necessary to sculpture a portrait of the man, no material could have
+been chosen more fitted to reproduce faithfully the deep cutting of
+the features, to render the close network of the wrinkles which
+covered them like the shadings of a line engraving, and at the same
+time to give the whole that appearance of hardness and smoothness
+which was peculiar to the clear, tough skin. The only positive colour
+which relieved the half tints of the face lay in the sharp bright eyes
+which gleamed beneath the busy eyebrows like tiny patches of vivid
+blue sky seen through little rifts in a curtain of cloud. All
+expression, all mobility, all life were concentrated in those two
+points.
+
+The Wanderer rose to his feet.
+
+"Keyork Arabian!" he exclaimed, extending his hand. The little man
+immediately gripped it in his small fingers, which, soft and
+delicately made as they were, possessed a strength hardly to have been
+expected either from their shape, or from the small proportions of him
+to whom they belonged.
+
+"Still wandering?" asked the little man, with a slightly sarcastic
+intonation. He spoke in a deep, caressing bass, not loud, but rich in
+quality and free from that jarring harshness which often belongs to
+very manly voices. A musician would have discovered that the pitch was
+that of those Russian choristers whose deep throats yield organ tones,
+a full octave below the compass of ordinary singers in other lands.
+
+"You must have wandered, too, since we last met," replied the taller
+man.
+
+"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 not
+wandering. Moreover, I have no thought of removing myself or my goods
+from Prague. I live here. It is a city for old men. It is saturnine.
+The foundations of its houses rest on the silurian formation, which is
+more than 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 blind
+but intelligent destiny for preserving me from such a calamity!--I
+would say to him, 'Spend thy youth among flowers in the land where
+they are brightest and sweetest; pass thy manhood in all lands where
+man strives with man, thought for thought, blow for blow; choose for
+thine old age that spot in which, all things being old, thou mayest
+for the longest time consider thyself young in comparison with thy
+surroundings.' A man can never feel old if he contemplates and
+meditates upon those things only which are immeasurably older than
+himself. Moreover the imperishable 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 connected
+with one of my inventions. Did you ever embalm a body? No? I could
+tell you 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 now
+understood, means substituting one thing for another. Very good. I am
+trying to purge from my mind its old circulating medium; the new
+thoughts 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 strange
+little man with some impatience.
+
+"Do you know a lady of Prague who calls herself Unorna?" the Wanderer
+asked, 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 the
+twenty-ninth day of February, the year of her birth being bisextile.
+Unor means February, Unorna, derivative adjective, 'belonging to
+February.' 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.
+"I do not know what she is, or what to call her--a sensitive, an
+hysterical subject, a medium, a witch--a fool, if you like, or a
+charlatan if you prefer the term. Beautiful she is, at least, whatever
+else she may not be."
+
+"Yes, she is beautiful."
+
+"So you have seen her, have you?" The little man again looked sharply
+up at his tall companion. "You have had a consultation----"
+
+"Does she give consultations? Is she a professional seer?" The
+Wanderer asked the question in a tone of surprise. "Do you mean that
+she maintains an establishment upon such a scale out of the proceeds
+of fortune-telling?"
+
+"I do not mean anything of the sort. Fortune-telling is excellent!
+Very good!" Keyork's bright eyes flashed with amusement. "What are you
+doing here--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 your
+own 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. I
+shall turn into dirty old red marble like Tycho's effigy there, an
+awful warning to future philosophers, and an example for the
+edification of the faithful who worship here."
+
+They walked towards the door, and the contrast between the appearance
+of the two brought the ghost of a smile to the thin lips of the pale
+sacristan, who was occupied in renewing the tapers upon one of the
+side altars. Keyork Arabian might have stood for the portrait of the
+gnome-king. His high and pointed head, his immense beard, his stunted
+but powerful and thickset limbs, his short, sturdy strides, the fiery,
+half-humorous, half-threatening twinkle of his bright eyes gave him
+all the appearance of a fantastic figure from a fairy tale, and the
+diminutive height of his compact frame set off the noble stature and
+graceful motion of his companion.
+
+"So you were pursuing an idea," said the little man as they emerged
+into the narrow street. "Now ideas may be divided variously into
+classes, as, for instance, ideas which are good, bad, or indifferent.
+Or you may contrast the idea of Plato with ideas anything but platonic
+--take it as you please. Then there is my idea, which is in itself,
+good, interesting, and worthy of the embalming process; and there is
+your idea, 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 assert that it was never yours at all, but mine from the
+beginning, by the prerogatives of greater age, wider experience, and
+immeasurably superior wisdom. If you have an idea upon any subject, I
+will utterly annihilate it to my own most profound satisfaction; if
+you have none concerning any special point, I will force you to accept
+mine, as mine, or to die the intellectual 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
+would know that a theory is not a demonstration, but an explanation.
+But, by the 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 which the showman, Nature, projects in fast fading colours the
+unsubstantial images 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 is
+constructed on the same principle as the human brain, full of winding
+ways, dark lanes, and gloomy arches, all of which may lead somewhere,
+or may not. Its topography continually misleads its inhabitants as the
+convolutions of the brain mislead the thoughts that dwell there,
+sometimes bringing them out at last, after a patient search for
+daylight, upon a fine broad street where the newest fashions in
+thought are exposed for sale in brightly illuminated shop windows and
+showcases; conducting them sometimes to the dark, unsavoury court
+where the miserable self drags out its unhealthy existence in the
+single room of its hired earthly lodging."
+
+"The self which you propose to preserve from corruption," observed the
+tall man, who was carefully examining every foot of the walls between
+which he was passing with his companion, "since you think so poorly of
+the lodger and the lodging, I wonder that you should be anxious to
+prolong 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
+a reason."
+
+"Not a reason! Is the most abject poverty a reason for throwing away
+the daily crust? My self is all I have. Shall I let it perish when an
+effort may preserve it from destruction? On the one side of the line
+stands Keyork Arabian, on the other floats the shadow of an
+annihilation, which threatens to swallow up Keyork's self, while
+leaving all that he has borrowed of life to be enjoyed, or wasted by
+others. Could Keyork be expected to hesitate, so long as he may hope
+to remain in possession of that inestimable treasure, his own
+individuality, which is his only means for enjoying all that is not
+his, but borrowed?"
+
+"So soon as you speak of enjoyment, argument ceases," answered the
+Wanderer.
+
+"You are wrong, as usual," returned the other. "It is the other way.
+Enjoyment is the universal solvent of all arguments. No reason can
+resist its mordant action. It will dissolve any philosophy not founded
+upon it and modelled out of its substance, as Aqua Regia will dissolve
+all metals, even to gold itself. Enjoyment? Enjoyment is the protest
+of reality against the tyranny of fiction."
+
+The little man stopped short in his walk, striking his heavy stick
+sharply upon the pavement and looking up at his companion, very much
+as a 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 and
+rich, broke from his sturdy breast and rolled long echoes through the
+dismal lane, musical as a hunting-song heard among great trees in
+winter. But his ivory features were not discomposed, though his white
+beard trembled and waved softly like a snowy veil blown about by the
+wind.
+
+"If wisdom can teach how to prolong the lease, what study can be
+compared with that of which the results may beautify the dwelling?
+What more can any man do for himself than make himself happy? The very
+question is absurd. What are you trying to do for yourself at the
+present moment? Is it for the sake of improving the physical condition
+or of promoting the moral case of mankind at large that you are
+dragging me through the slums and byways and alleys of the gloomiest
+city on this side of eternal perdition? It is certainly not for my
+welfare that you are sacrificing yourself. You admit that you are
+pursuing an idea. Perhaps you are in search of some new and curious
+form of mildew, and when you have found it--or something else--you
+will name your discovery /Fungus Pragensis/, or /Cryptogamus minor
+Errantis/--'the Wanderer's toadstool.' But I know you of old, my good
+friend. The idea you pursue is not an idea at all, but that specimen
+of the /genus homo/ known as '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 that of
+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 quickly
+to his friend's side and laid one hand upon his arm. The Wanderer
+paused and again looked down.
+
+"Is it of any use to be offended with my speeches? Am I an
+acquaintance of yesterday? Do you imagine that it could ever be my
+intention to annoy you?" the questions were asked rapidly in tones of
+genuine anxiety.
+
+"Indeed, I hardly know how I could suppose that. You have always been
+friendly--but I confess--your names for things are not--always----"
+
+The Wanderer did not complete the sentence, but looked gravely at
+Keyork as though wishing to convey very clearly again what he had
+before expressed 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 I
+can help you. You may know Prague well, but I know it better. Will you
+allow 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 have
+circumstances 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 own
+power 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
+back to 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? Does
+the wise man trust himself? Never. Then how can he dare trust any one
+else?"
+
+"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
+the great Panegoist, the would-be Conservator of Self, the inspired
+prophet of the Universal I. I--I--I! My creed has but one word, and
+that word but one letter, that letter represents Unity, and Unity is
+Strength. I am I, one, indivisible, central! O I! Hail and live for
+ever!"
+
+Again the little man's rich bass voice rang out in mellow laughter. A
+very faint smile appeared upon his companion's sad face.
+
+"You are happy, Keyork," he said. "You must be, since you can laugh at
+yourself so honestly."
+
+"At myself? Vain man! I am laughing at you, and at every one else, at
+everything except myself. Will you go to Unorna? You need not trust
+her any 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 to
+accept it in the first instance. You may not find her in the same
+humour again."
+
+"I had supposed from what you said of her that she made a profession
+of clairvoyance, or hypnotism, or mesmerism--whatever may be the right
+term nowadays."
+
+"It matters very little," answered Keyork, gravely. "I used to wonder
+at Adam's ingenuity in naming all living things, but I think he would
+have made but a poor figure in a tournament of modern terminologists.
+No. Unorna does not accept remuneration for her help when she
+vouchsafes to give 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 pleases to answer."
+
+"That is to say, inquiries for which she is already prepared with a
+reply," suggested the Wanderer.
+
+"See for yourself. At all events, she is a very interesting specimen.
+I have never known any one like her."
+
+Keyork Arabian was silent, as though he were reflecting upon Unorna's
+character and peculiar gifts, before describing them to his friend.
+His ivory features softened almost imperceptibly, and his sharp blue
+eyes suddenly lost their light, as though they no longer saw the outer
+world. But the Wanderer cared for none of these things, and bestowed
+no attention upon his companion's face. He preferred the little man's
+silence to his wild talk, but he was determined, if possible, to
+extract some further information concerning Unorna, and before many
+seconds had elapsed he interrupted Keyork's meditations with a
+question.
+
+"You tell me to see for myself," he said. "I would like to know what I
+am 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 were a
+common somnambulist, and if she deigns to place her powers at my
+disposal what sort of assistance shall I most probably get?"
+
+They had been walking slowly forward, and Keyork again stopped,
+rapping the pavement with his iron-shod stick, and looking up from
+under his bushy, overhanging eyebrows.
+
+"Of two things, one will happen," he answered. "Either she will
+herself fall into the abnormal state and will answer correctly any
+questions you put to her, or she will hypnotise you, and you will
+yourself see--what you wish to see."
+
+"I myself?"
+
+"You yourself. The peculiarity of the woman is her duality, her double
+power. She can, by an act of volition, become hypnotic, clairvoyant--
+whatever you choose to call it. Or, if her visitor is at all
+sensitive, she can reverse the situation and play the part of the
+hypnotiser. I never heard of a like case."
+
+"After all, I do not see why it should not be so," said the Wanderer
+thoughtfully. "At all events, whatever she can do, is evidently done
+by hypnotism, 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
+her secret may be, she keeps it, even when speaking in sleep. This I
+can tell you. I suspect that there is some other being, or person, in
+that queer old house of hers whom she consults on grave occasions. At
+a loss for an answer to a difficult scientific question, I have known
+her to leave the room and to come back in the course of a few minutes
+with a reply 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
+one time or at another, and my memory is surprisingly good. I have
+excellent reasons for believing that her information is not got from
+anything that was ever written or printed."
+
+"May I ask of what general nature your questions were?" inquired the
+other, 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
+their dead 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
+that is all, I have little faith in Unorna's mysterious counsellor."
+
+"The faith which removes mountains is generally gained by experience
+when it is gained at all, and the craving for explanation takes the
+place, in some minds, of a willingness to learn. It is not my business
+to find explanations, nor to raise my little self to your higher
+level, by standing upon this curbstone, in order to deliver a lecture
+in the popular form, upon matters that interest me. It is enough that
+I have found what I wanted. Go and do likewise. See for yourself. You
+have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You are unhappy, and
+unhappiness is dangerous, in rare cases fatal. If you tell me
+to-morrow that Unorna is a charlatan, you will be in no worse plight
+than to-day, nor will your opinion of her influence mine. If she helps
+you to find what you want--so much the better for you--how much the
+better, and how great the risk 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
+to my lodging. Do you know the house of the Black Mother of God?"
+
+"Yes--there is a legend about a Spanish picture of our Lady once
+preserved there--"
+
+"Exactly, it takes its name from that black picture. It is on the
+corner of the Fruit Market, over against the window at which the
+Princess Windischgratz 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 her hand
+the book she had again taken up, following the printed lines
+mechanically 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.
+She was vaguely aware that she had not understood the sense of the
+words, and she returned to the place at which she had begun, trying to
+concentrate her attention upon the matter, moving her fresh lips to
+form the syllables, and bending her brows in the effort of
+understanding, so that a short, straight furrow appeared, like a sharp
+vertical cut extending from between the eyes to the midst of the broad
+forehead. One, two and three sentences she grasped and comprehended;
+then her thoughts wandered again, and the groups of letters passed
+meaningless before her sight. She was accustomed to directing her
+intelligence without any perceptible effort, and she was annoyed at
+being thus led away from her occupation, against her will and in spite
+of her determination. A third attempt showed her that it was useless
+to force herself any longer, and with a gesture and look of irritation
+she once more laid the volume upon the table at her side.
+
+During a few minutes she sat motionless in her chair, her elbow
+leaning on the carved arm-piece, her chin supported upon the back of
+her half-closed hand, of which the heavy, perfect fingers were turned
+inwards, drooping in classic curves towards the lace about her throat.
+Her strangely mismatched eyes stared vacantly towards an imaginary
+horizon, not bounded by banks of flowers, nor obscured by the
+fantastic foliage 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
+though she had made a resolution and was about to act upon it. She
+made a step forward, and then paused again, while a half-scornful
+smile passed like a 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 turning again, the soft folds of her white gown following
+her across the smooth pavement with a gentle, sweeping sound, such as
+the breeze makes among flowers in spring.
+
+"Is it he?" she asked aloud in a voice ringing with the joy and the
+fear of a passion that has waited long and is at last approaching the
+fulfilment of satisfaction.
+
+No answer came to her from among the thick foliage nor in the scented
+breath of the violets and the lilies. The murmuring song of the little
+fountain alone disturbed the stillness, and the rustle of her own
+garments as she moved.
+
+"Is it he? Is it he? Is it he?" she repeated again and again, in
+varying tones, chiming the changes of hope and fear, of certainty and
+vacillation, of sadness and of gladness, of eager passion and of
+chilling doubt.
+
+She stood still, staring at the pavement, her fingers clasped
+together, the palms of her hands turned downward, her arms relaxed.
+She did not see the dark red squares of marble, alternating with the
+white and the gray, but as she looked a face and a form rose before
+her, in the contemplation of which all her senses and faculties
+concentrated themselves. The pale and noble head grew very distinct in
+her inner sight, the dark gray eyes gazed sadly upon her, the
+passionate features were fixed in the expression of a great sorrow.
+
+"Are you indeed he?" she asked, speaking softly and doubtfully, and
+yet unconsciously projecting her strong will upon the vision, as
+though to force it to give the answer for which she longed.
+
+And the answer came, imposed by the effort of her imagination upon the
+thing imagined. The face suddenly became luminous, as with a radiance
+within itself; the shadows of grief melted away, and in their place
+trembled the rising light of a dawning love. The lips moved and the
+voice spoke, not as it had spoken to her lately, but in tones long
+familiar to her in dreams by day and night.
+
+"I am he, I am that love for whom you have waited; you are that dear
+one whom I have long sought throughout the world. The hour of our joy
+has struck, 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 in
+her 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 seen
+upon the mind within, and groping blindly for her chair sank back into
+her seat. But the mechanical effort of will and memory could not
+preserve the image. In spite of all inward concentration of thought,
+its colours faded, its outlines trembled, grew faint and vanished, and
+darkness was in its place. Unorna's hand dropped to her side, and a
+quick throb of pain stabbed her through and through, agonising as the
+wound of a blunt and jagged knife, though it was gone almost before
+she knew where she had felt it. Then her eyes flashed with unlike
+fires, the one dark and passionate as the light of a black diamond,
+the other keen and 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,
+she smiled, her eyelids drooped, the tension of her frame was relaxed,
+and she sank again into the indolent attitude in which the Wanderer
+had found her. A moment later the distant door turned softly upon its
+hinges and a light footfall broke the stillness. There was no need for
+Unorna to speak in order that the sound of her voice might guide the
+new comer to her retreat. The footsteps approached swiftly and surely.
+A young man of singular beauty came out of the green shadows and stood
+beside the chair 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
+noblest type of the Jewish race. It was impossible to see him without
+thinking of a young eagle of the mountains, eager, swift, sure,
+instinct with elasticity, far-sighted and untiring, strong to grasp
+and to hold, beautiful with the glossy and unruffled beauty of a
+plumage continually smoothed in the sweep and the rush of high, bright
+air.
+
+Israel Kafka stood still, gazing down upon the woman he loved, and
+drawing his breath hard between his parted lips. His piercing eyes
+devoured every detail of the sight before him, while the dark blood
+rose in his lean olive cheek, and the veins of his temples swelled
+with the beating of his quickened pulse.
+
+"Well?"
+
+The single indifferent word received the value of a longer speech from
+the tone in which it was uttered, and from the look and gesture which
+accompanied it. Unorna's voice was gentle, soft, half-indolent, half-
+caressing, half-expectant, and half-careless. There was something
+almost insolent in its assumption of superiority, which was borne out
+by the little defiant tapping of two long white fingers upon the arm
+of the carved chair. And yet, with the rising inflection of the
+monosyllable there went a raising of the brows, a sidelong glance of
+the eyes, a slowly wreathing smile that curved the fresh lips just
+enough to unmask two perfect teeth, all of which lent to the voice a
+meaning, a familiarity, a pliant possibility of favourable
+interpretation, fit rather to flatter a hope than to chill a passion.
+
+The blood beat more fiercely in the young man's veins, his black eyes
+gleamed yet more brightly, his pale, high-curved nostrils quivered at
+every breath he drew. The throbbings of his heart unseated his
+thoughts and strongly took possession of the government of his body.
+Under an irresistible impulse he fell upon his knees beside Unorna,
+covering her marble hand with all his lean, dark fingers and pressing
+his forehead upon them, as though he had found and grasped all that
+could be dear to him 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 to
+an expression of pain and regret. As though collecting her thoughts
+she closed her eyes, as she tried to draw back her hand; then as he
+held it still, 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, now
+bloodless and transparent, was raised to hers, and a look of such fear
+as 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
+is not 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 in
+the intonation. "Do you think I am jesting with you, or with myself?"
+
+Neither of the two stirred during the silence which followed. Unorna
+sat quite still, staring fixedly into the green shadows of the
+foliage, as though not daring to meet the gaze she felt upon her.
+Israel Kafka still knelt beside her, motionless and hardly breathing,
+like a dangerous wild animal startled by an unexpected enemy, and
+momentarily paralysed in the very act of springing, whether backward
+in flight, or forward in the teeth 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 most
+beautiful 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
+kneel before you. You sigh, and I speak words of love. You lift your
+hand and I 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 not
+weigh your words."
+
+"Angry! What have I to do with so common a madness as anger? I am more
+than angry. Do you think that because I have submitted to the veering
+gusts of your good and evil humours these many months, I have lost all
+consciousness of myself? Do you think that you can blow upon me as
+upon a feather, from east and west, from north and south, hotly or
+coldly, as your unstable nature moves you? Have you promised me
+nothing? Have you given 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 slippery memory, no word of yours have meaning for
+those who hear it?"
+
+"I never gave you either pledge or promise," answered Unorna in a
+harder tone. "The only hope I have ever extended to you was this, that
+I would one day answer you plainly. I have done so. You are not
+satisfied. Is there anything more to be said? I do not bid you leave
+my house for ever, any more than I mean to drive you from my
+friendship."
+
+"From your friendship! Ah, I thank you, Unorna; I most humbly thank
+you! For the mercy you extend in allowing me to linger near you, I am
+grateful! Your friend, you say? Ay, truly, your friend and servant,
+your servant and your slave, your slave and your dog. Is the friend
+impatient and dissatisfied with his lot? A soft word shall turn away
+his anger. Is the servant over-presumptuous? Your scorn will soon
+teach him his duty. Is the slave disobedient? Blows will cure him of
+his faults. Does your dog fawn upon you too familiarly? Thrust him
+from you with your foot and he will cringe and cower till you smile
+again. Your friendship--I have no words for thanks!"
+
+"Take it, or take it not--as you will." Unorna glanced at his angry
+face and quickly looked away.
+
+"Take it? Yes, and more too, whether you will give it or not,"
+answered Israel Kafka, moving nearer to her. "Yes. Whether you will,
+or whether you will not, I have all, your friendship, your love, your
+life, your breath, your soul--all, or nothing!"
+
+"You are wise to suggest the latter alternative as a possibility,"
+said Unorna coldly and not heeding his approach.
+
+The young man stood still, and folded his arms. The colour had
+returned to 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 shall
+not have all, but nothing? Do you still dare to mean that, after all
+that 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 his
+features did not relax; he neither drew back nor bent his head. Unorna
+seemed to be exerting all the strength of her will in the attempt to
+dominate him, but without result. In the effort she made to
+concentrate her determination her face grew pale and her lips
+trembled. Kafka faced her resolutely, his eyes on fire, the rich
+colour mantling in his cheeks.
+
+"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 a
+little as he looked down upon her. Unorna leaned far back, withdrawing
+her face from his as far as she could, but still trying to impose her
+will 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.
+A hundred times the brave man has held the tiger spell-bound and
+crouching under his cold, fearless gaze. The beast, ever docile and
+submissive, has cringed at his feet, fawned to his touch, and licked
+the hand that snatched away the half-devoured morsel. Obedient to
+voice and eye, the giant strength and sinewy grace have been debased
+to make the sport of multitudes; the noble, pliant frame has contorted
+itself to execute the mean antics of the low-comedy ape--to
+counterfeit death like a poodle dog; to leap through gaudily-painted
+rings at the word of command; to fetch and carry like a spaniel. A
+hundred times the changing crowd has paid its paltry fee to watch the
+little play that is daily acted behind the stout iron bars by the man
+and the beast. The man, the nobler, braver creature, is arrayed in a
+wretched flimsy finery of tights and spangles, parading his physical
+weakness and inferiority in the toggery of a mountebank. The tiger,
+vast, sleepy-eyed, mysterious, lies motionless in the front of his
+cage, the gorgeous stripes of his velvet coat following each curve of
+his body, from the cushions of his great fore paws to the arch of his
+gathered haunches. The watchfulness and flexible activity of the
+serpent and the strength that knows no master are clothed in the
+magnificent robes of the native-born sovereign. Time and times again
+the beautiful giant has gone through the slavish round of his
+mechanical tricks, obedient to the fragile creature of intelligence,
+to the little dwarf, man, whose power is in his eyes and heart only.
+He is accustomed to the lights, to the spectators, to the laughter, to
+the applause, to the frightened scream of the hysterical women in the
+audience, to the close air and to the narrow stage behind the bars.
+The tamer in his tights and tinsel has grown used to his tiger, to his
+emotions, to his hourly danger. He even finds at last that his mind
+wanders during the performance, and that at the very instant when he
+is holding the ring for the leap, or thrusting his head into the
+beast's fearful jaws, he is thinking of his wife, of his little child,
+of his domestic happiness or household troubles, rather than of what
+he is doing. Many times, perhaps many hundreds of times, all passes
+off quietly and successfully. Then, inevitably, comes the struggle.
+Who can tell the causes? The tiger is growing old, or is ill fed, or
+is not well, or is merely in one of those evil humours to which
+animals are subject as well as their masters. One day he refuses to go
+through with the performance. First one trick fails, and then another.
+The public grows impatient, the man in spangles grows nervous, raises
+his voice, stamps loudly with his foot, and strikes his terrible slave
+with his light switch. A low, deep sound breaks from the enormous
+throat, the spectators hold their breath, the huge, flexible limbs are
+gathered for the leap, and in the gaslight and the dead silence man
+and beast are face 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 are
+furrowed. Even then, in the instant that still separates him from
+triumph or destruction, the thought of his sleeping child or of his
+watching wife darts through his brain. But the struggle has begun and
+there is no escape. One of two things must happen: he must overcome or
+he must die. To draw back, to let his glance waver, to show so much as
+the least sign of fear, is death. The moment is supreme, and he knows
+it.
+
+Unorna grasped the arms of her chair as though seeking for physical
+support in her extremity. She could not yield. Before her eyes arose a
+vision 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
+man who was trying to conquer her resistance with a glance. Between
+her and her mistake the image of what should be stood out, bright,
+vivid, and strong. A new conviction had taken the place of the old, a
+real passion was flaming upon the altar whereon she had fed with
+dreams the semblance of a sacred fire.
+
+"You do not really love me," she said softly.
+
+Israel Kafka started, as a man who is struck unawares. The monstrous
+untruth which filled the words broke down his guard, sudden tears
+veiled the 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.
+But her name, when he spoke it, sounded as the death moan of a young
+wild animal 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 forehead
+pressed his fingers. He could not bear to look upon her hair, still
+less upon her face. Even his hands were white and bloodless. Unorna
+could hear his quick breathing just above her shoulder. She sat quite
+still, and her lips were smiling, though her brow was thoughtful and
+almost sad. She knew that the struggle was over and that she had
+gained the mastery, though the price of victory might be a broken
+heart.
+
+"You thought I was jesting," she said in a low voice, looking before
+her into the deep foliage, but knowing that her softest whisper would
+reach him. "But there was no jest in what I said--nor any unkindness
+in what I meant, though it is all my fault. But that is true--you
+never loved me as I would be loved."
+
+"Unorna----"
+
+"No, I am not unkind. Your love is young, fierce, inconstant; half
+terrible, half boyish, aflame to-day, asleep to-morrow, ready to turn
+into 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 not
+less love because you are weary of it, and of me."
+
+"Weary, you say? No, not weary--and very truly not of you. You will
+believe that to-day, to-morrow, you will still try to force life into
+your belief--and then it will be dead and gone like all thoughts which
+have never entered into the shapes of reality. We have not loved each
+other. We have but fancied that it would be sweet to love, and the
+knife of truth has parted the web of our dreams, keenly, in the midst,
+so that we see before us what is, though the ghost of what might have
+been is yet lingering near."
+
+"Who wove that web, Unorna? You, or I?" He lifted his heavy eyes and
+gazed at her coiled hair.
+
+"What matters it whether it was your doing or mine? But we wove it
+together--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 and
+lees of the wine of life! Friendship! The sour drainings of the
+heart's cup, left to moisten the lips of the damned when the blessed
+have drunk their fill! I hate the word, as I hate the thought!"
+
+Unorna sighed, partly, perhaps, that he might hear the sigh, and put
+upon it an interpretation soothing to his vanity, but partly, too,
+from a sincere regret that he should need to suffer as he was
+evidently suffering. She had half believed that she loved him, and she
+owed him pity. 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 would hardly have cost her a pang, and yet she was sorry for
+him. Diana, the huntress, shot her arrows with unfailing aim; Diana,
+the goddess, may have sighed and shed one bright immortal tear, as she
+looked into the fast-glazing eyes of the dying stag--may not Diana,
+the maiden, have felt a touch of human sympathy and pain as she
+listened to the deep note of her hounds baying on poor Actaeon's
+track! No one is all bad, or all good. 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 have two
+faces and two hearts, two minds, two souls; it is enough, my
+understanding need go no farther. You sighed before you spoke. It was
+not for me; it was for yourself. You never felt pain or sorrow for
+another."
+
+He was trying hard to grow cold and to find cold words to say, which
+might lead her to believe him stronger than he was and able to master
+his grief. But he was too young, too hot, too changeable for such a
+part. 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. If I
+sighed, it was indeed for you. See--I confess that I have done you
+wrong, not in deeds, but in letting you hope. Truly, I myself have
+hoped also. I have thought that the star of love was trembling just
+below the east, 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 only woman in this world who has been mistaken? Can you not
+forgive? If I had promised, if I had said one word--and yet, you are
+right, too, for I have let you think in earnest what has been but a
+passing dream of my own thoughts. It was all wrong; it was all my
+fault. There, lay your hand 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
+though seeking for his. But he would not take it.
+
+"Is it so hard?" she asked softly. "Is it even harder for you to give
+than for me to ask? Shall we part like this--not to meet again--each
+bearing 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, slowly
+turning her head until, without catching sight of his face, she could
+just see where his fingers were resting on her chair. Then, over her
+shoulder, she touched them, and drew them to her cheek. He made no
+resistance.
+
+"Shall we part without one kind thought?" Her voice was softer still
+and so low and sweet that it seemed as though the words were spoken in
+the ripple 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 beside
+her, 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 me now
+--I see it in your eyes. Is it not true?"
+
+He was at her feet, passive at last under the superior power which he
+had never been able to resist. Unorna's fascination was upon him, and
+he could only echo her words, as he would have executed her slightest
+command, without consciousness of free will or individual thought. It
+was enough that for one moment his anger should cease to give life to
+his resistance; it was sufficient that Unorna should touch him thus,
+and speak softly, his eyelids quivered and his look became fixed, his
+strength was absorbed in hers and incapable of acting except under her
+direction. 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
+to hear. A moment earlier it would have wounded Israel Kafka to the
+quick and 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 that
+you ever loved me."
+
+This time the man was silent. There was a contraction of pain in his
+face, 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.
+"Say it. 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 grew
+grave. Israel Kafka sat motionless in his chair, staring at her with
+unwinking eyes. But his gaze did not disturb her. There was no more
+meaning in it than in the expression of a marble statue, far less than
+in that of a painted portrait. Yet the man was alive and in the full
+strength of his magnificent youth, supple, active, fierce by nature,
+able to have killed her with his hands in the struggle of a moment.
+Yet she knew that without a word from her he could neither turn his
+head nor move in his seat.
+
+For a long time Unorna was absorbed in her meditations. Again and
+again the vision of a newer happiness took shape and colour before
+her, so clearly and vividly that she could have clasped it and held it
+and believed in its reality, as she had done before Israel Kafka had
+entered. But there was a doubt now, which constantly arose between her
+and it, the dark and shapeless shadow of a reasoning she hated and yet
+knew 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
+own words.
+
+"Whom shall I ask?" she inquired contemptuously, as she rose to her
+feet.
+
+The dull, glassy eyes sought hers in painful perplexity, following her
+face 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's
+breathing became heavy and regular. Unorna's full lips curled as she
+looked 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
+balcony covered in with arches and closed with windows against the
+outer air. At the farther end three steps descended to a dark door,
+through the thickness of a massive wall, showing that at this point
+Unorna's house had at some former time been joined with another
+building beyond, with which it thus formed one habitation. Unorna
+paused, holding the key as though hesitating whether she should put it
+into the lock. It was evident that much depended upon her decision,
+for her face expressed the anxiety she felt. Once she turned away, as
+though to abandon her intention, hesitated, and then, with an
+impatient frown, opened the door and went in. She passed through a
+small, well-lighted vestibule and entered the room beyond.
+
+The apartment was furnished with luxury, but a stranger would have
+received an oddly disquieting impression of the whole at a first
+glance. There was everything in the place which is considered
+necessary for a bedroom, and everything was perfect of its kind,
+spotless and dustless, and carefully arranged in order. But almost
+everything was of an unusual and unfamiliar shape, as though designed
+for some especial reason to remain in equilibrium in any possible
+position, and to be moved from place to place with the smallest
+imaginable physical effort. The carved bedstead was fitted with wheels
+which did not touch the ground, and levers so placed as to be within
+the reach of a person lying in it. The tables were each supported at
+one end only by one strong column, fixed to a heavy base set on broad
+rollers, so that the board could be run across a bed or a lounge with
+the greatest ease. There was but one chair made like ordinary chairs;
+the rest were so constructed that the least motion of the occupant
+must be accompanied by a corresponding change of position of the back
+and arms, and some of them bore a curious resemblance to a surgeon's
+operating table, having attachments of silver-plated metal at many
+points, of which the object was not immediately evident. Before a
+closed door a sort of wheeled conveyance, partaking of the nature of a
+chair and of a perambulator, stood upon polished rails, which
+disappeared under the door itself, showing that the thing was intended
+to be moved from one room to another in a certain way and in a fixed
+line. The rails, had the door been opened, would have been seen to
+descend upon the other side by a gentle inclined plane into the centre
+of a huge marble basin, and the contrivance thus made it possible to
+wheel a person into a bath and out again without necessitating the
+slightest effort or change of position in the body. In the bedroom the
+windows were arranged so that the light and air could be regulated to
+a nicety. The walls were covered with fine basket work, apparently
+adapted in panels; but these panels were in reality movable trays, as
+it were, forming shallow boxes fitted with closely-woven wicker
+covers, and filled with charcoal and other porous substances intended
+to absorb the impurities of the air, and thus easily changed and
+renewed from time to time. Immediately beneath the ceiling were placed
+delicate glass globes of various soft colours, with silken shades,
+movable from below by means of brass rods and handles. In the ceiling
+itself there were large ventilators, easily regulated as might be
+required, and there was a curious arrangement of rails and wheels from
+which depended a sort of swing, apparently adapted for moving a person
+or a weight to different parts of the room without touching the floor.
+In one of the lounges, not far from the window, lay a colossal old
+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 his
+age from his face and his hands, the only parts visible as he lay at
+rest, the vast body and limbs lying motionless under his garment, as
+beneath a heavy white pall. He could not be less than a hundred years
+old, but how much older than that he might really be, it was
+impossible to say. What might be called the waxen period had set in,
+and the high colourless features seemed to be modelled in that soft,
+semi-transparent material. The time had come when the stern furrows of
+age had broken up into countless minutely-traced lines, so close and
+fine as to seem a part of the texture of the skin, mere shadings,
+evenly distributed throughout, and no longer affecting the expression
+of the face as the deep wrinkles had done in former days; at
+threescore and ten, at fourscore, and even at ninety years. The
+century that had passed had taken with it its marks and scars, leaving
+the great features in their original purity of design, lean, smooth,
+and clearly defined. That last change in living man is rare enough,
+but when once seen is not to be forgotten. There is something in the
+faces of the very, very old which hardly suggests age at all, but
+rather the vague possibility of a returning prime. Only the hands tell
+the tale, with their huge, shining, fleshless joints, their shadowy
+hollows, and their unnatural yellow nails.
+
+The old man lay quite still, breathing softly through his snowy beard.
+Unorna came to his side. There was something of wonder and admiration
+in her own eyes as she stood there gazing upon the face which other
+generations 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
+entered that room, and on the very verge of solution. The wisdom
+hardly gained in many lands was striving with all its concentrated
+power to preserve that life; the rare and subtle gifts which she
+herself possessed were daily exercised to their full in the suggestion
+of vitality; the most elaborate inventions of skilled mechanicians
+were employed in reducing the labour of living to the lowest
+conceivable degree of effort. The great experiment was being tried.
+What Keyork Arabian described as the embalming of a man still alive
+was being attempted. And he lived. For years they had watched him and
+tended him, and looked critically for the least signs of a diminution
+or an augmentation in his strength. They knew that he was now in his
+one hundred and seventh year, and yet he lived and was no weaker. Was
+there a limit; or was there not, since the destruction of the tissues
+was arrested beyond doubt, so far as the most minute tests could show?
+Might there not be, in the slow oscillations of nature, a degree of
+decay, on this side of death, from which a return should be possible,
+provided that the critical moment were passed in a state of sleep and
+under perfect conditions? How do we know that all men must die? We
+suppose the statement to be true by induction, from the undoubted fact
+that men have hitherto died within a certain limit of age. By
+induction, too, our fathers, our grandfathers, knew that it was
+impossible for man to traverse the earth faster than at the full speed
+of a galloping horse. After several thousand years of experience that
+piece of knowledge, which seemed to be singularly certain, was
+suddenly proved to be the grossest ignorance by a man who had been in
+the habit of playing with a tea-kettle when a boy. We ourselves, not
+very long ago, knew positively, as all men had known since the
+beginning of the world, that it was quite impossible to converse with
+a friend at a distance beyond the carrying power of a speaking
+trumpet. To-day, a boy who does not know that one may talk very
+agreeably with a friend a thousand miles away is an ignoramus; and
+experimenters whisper among themselves 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 same distance, as well as talk with him.
+Ten years ago we were quite sure that it was beyond the bounds of
+natural possibility to produce a bad burn upon the human body by
+touching the flesh with a bit of cardboard or a common lead pencil.
+Now we know with equal certainty that if upon one arm of a hypnotised
+patient we impress a letter of the alphabet cut out of wood, telling
+him that it is red-hot iron, the shape of the letter will on the
+following day be found on a raw and painful wound not only in the
+place we selected but on the other arm, in the exactly corresponding
+spot, and reversed as though seen in a looking-glass; and we very
+justly consider that a physician who does not know this and similar
+facts is dangerously behind the times, since the knowledge is open to
+all. The inductive reasoning of many thousands of years has been
+knocked to pieces in the last century by a few dozen men who have
+reasoned little but attempted much. It would be rash to assert that
+bodily death may not some day, and under certain conditions, be
+altogether escaped. It is nonsense to pretend that human life may not
+possibly, and before long, be enormously prolonged, and that by some
+shorter cut to longevity than temperance and sanitation. No man can
+say that it will, but no man of average intelligence can now deny that
+it may.
+
+Unorna had hesitated at the door, and she hesitated now. It was in her
+power, and in hers only, to wake the hoary giant, or at least to
+modify his perpetual sleep so far as to obtain from him answers to her
+questions. 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 other
+hand, to disturb his slumber was to interfere with the continuity of
+the great experiment, to break through a rule lately made, to incur
+the risk of an accident, if not of death itself.
+
+She drew back at the thought, as though fearing to startle him, and
+then she smiled at her own nervousness. To wake him she must exercise
+her will. There was no danger of his ever being roused by any sound or
+touch not proceeding from herself. The crash of thunder had no
+reverberation for his ears, the explosion of a cannon would not have
+penetrated into his lethargy. She might touch him, move him, even
+speak to him, but unless she laid her hand upon his waxen forehead and
+bid him feel and hear, he would be as unconscious as the dead. She
+returned to his side and gazed into his placid face. Strange faculties
+were asleep in that ancient brain, and strange wisdom was stored
+there, gathered from many sources long ago, and treasured
+unconsciously by the memory to be recalled at her command.
+
+The man had been a failure in his day, a scholar, a student, a
+searcher after great secrets, a wanderer in the labyrinths of higher
+thought. He had been a failure and had starved, as failures must, in
+order that vulgar success may fatten and grow healthy. He had outlived
+the few that had been dear to him, he had outlived the power to feed
+on thought, he had outlived generations of men, and cycles of changes,
+and yet there had 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 begged his bread. In his hundredth year he had leaned for
+rest against Unorna's door, and she had taken him in and cared for
+him, and since that time she had preserved his life. For his history
+was known in the ancient city, 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 the spark 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 once had the mastery of the old man's
+free will he must obey her fatally and unresistingly. Then she
+conceived the idea of embalming, as it were, the living being, in a
+perpetual hypnotic lethargy, from whence she recalled him from time to
+time to an intermediate state, in which she caused him to do
+mechanically all those things which she judged necessary to prolong
+life.
+
+Seeing her success from the first, she had begun to fancy that the
+present condition of things might be made to continue indefinitely.
+Since death was to-day no nearer than it had been seven years ago,
+there was no reason why it might not be guarded against during seven
+years more, and if during seven, why not during ten, twenty, fifty?
+She had for a helper a physician of consummate practical skill--a man
+whose interest in the result of the trial was, if anything, more keen
+than her own; a friend, above all, whom she believed she might trust,
+and who appeared to trust her.
+
+But in the course of their great experiment they had together made
+rules by which they had mutually agreed to be bound. They had of late
+determined that the old man must not be disturbed in his profound rest
+by any question tending to cause a state of mental activity. The test
+of a very fine instrument had proved that the shortest interval of
+positive lucidity was followed by a slight but distinctly perceptible
+rise of temperature in the body, and this could mean only a waste of
+the precious tissues they were so carefully preserving. They hoped and
+believed that the grand crisis was at hand, and that, if the body did
+not now lose strength and vitality for a considerable time, both would
+slowly though surely increase, in consequence of the means they were
+using 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 to run a risk of which the whole extent could only be
+realised by Unorna and her companion.
+
+She hesitated therefore, well knowing that her ally would oppose her
+intention 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 the
+other hand, she had a motive which the physician could not have, and
+which, as she was aware, he would have despised and condemned. She had
+a question to ask, which she considered of vital importance to
+herself, to which she firmly believed that the true answer would be
+given, and which, in her womanly impetuosity and impatience, she could
+not bear to leave unasked until the morrow, much less until months
+should have passed away. Two very powerful incentives were at work,
+two of the very strongest which have influence with mankind, love and
+a superstitious belief in an especial destiny of happiness, at the
+present moment on the very verge of realisation.
+
+She believed profoundly in herself and in the suggestions of her own
+imagination. So fixed and unalterable was that belief that it amounted
+to positive knowledge, so far as it constituted a motive of action. In
+her strange youth wild dreams had possessed her, and some of them,
+often dreamed 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 are alternately scoffed at as impostures, or accepted as
+facts, but which are never understood either by their possessor or by
+those who witness the results. She had from childhood the power to
+charm with eye and hand all living things, the fascination which takes
+hold of the consciousness through sight and touch and word, and lulls
+it to sleep. It was witchery, and she was called a witch. In earlier
+centuries her hideous fate would have been sealed from the first day
+when, under her childish gaze, a wolf that had been taken alive in the
+Bohemian forest crawled fawning to her feet, at the full length of its
+chain, and laid its savage head under her hand, and closed its
+bloodshot eyes and slept before her. Those who had seen had taken her
+and taught her how to use what she possessed according to their own
+shadowy beliefs and dim traditions of the half-forgotten magic in a
+distant land. They had filled her heart with longings and her brain
+with dreams, and she had grown up to believe that one day love would
+come suddenly upon her and bear her away through the enchanted gates
+of the earthly paradise; once only that love would come, and the
+supreme danger of her life would be that she should not know it when
+it was at hand.
+
+And now she knew that she loved, for the place of her fondness for the
+one man had been taken by her passion for the other, and she felt
+without reasoning, where, before, she had tried to reason herself into
+feeling. The moment had come. She had seen the man in whom her
+happiness was to be, the time was short, the danger great if she
+should not grasp what her destiny would offer her but once. Had the
+Wanderer been by her side, she would have needed to ask no question,
+she would have known and been satisfied. But hours must pass before
+she could see him again, and every minute spent without him grew more
+full of anxiety and disturbing passion than the last. The wild love-
+blossom that springs into existence in a single moment has elements
+which do not enter into the gentler being of that other love which is
+sown in indifference, and which grows up in slowly increasing
+interest, tended and refreshed in the pleasant intercourse of close
+acquaintance, to bud and bloom at last as a mild-scented garden
+flower. Love at first sight is impatient, passionate, ruthless, cruel,
+as the year would be, if from the calendar of the season the months of
+slow transition were struck out; if the raging heat of August followed
+in one day upon the wild tempests of the winter; if the fruit of the
+vine but yesterday in leaf grew rich and black to-day, to be churned
+to foam to-morrow under the feet of the laughing wine treaders.
+
+Unorna felt that the day would be intolerable if she could not hear
+from other lips the promise of a predestined happiness. She was not
+really in doubt, but she was under the imperious impulse of a passion
+which must needs find some response, even in the useless confirmation
+of its reality uttered by an indifferent person--the spirit of a
+mighty cry seeking 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 her
+questions, regardless of the matter inquired into. She believed that
+in the mysterious condition between sleep and waking which she could
+command, the knowledge of things to be was with him as certainly as
+the memory of what had been and of what was even now passing in the
+outer world. To her, the one direction of the faculty seemed no less
+possible than the others, though she had not yet attained alone to the
+vision of the future. Hitherto the old man's utterances had been
+fulfilled to the letter. More than once, as Keyork Arabian had hinted,
+she had consulted his second sight in preference to her own, and she
+had not been deceived. His greater learning and his vast experience
+lent to his sayings something divine in her eyes; she looked upon him
+as the Pythoness of Delphi looked upon the divinity of her
+inspiration.
+
+The irresistible longing to hear the passionate pleadings of her own
+heart solemnly confirmed by the voice in which she trusted overcame at
+last every obstacle. Unorna bent over the sleeper, looking earnestly
+into his face, and she laid one hand upon his brow.
+
+"You hear me," she said, slowly and distinctly. "You are conscious of
+thought, and you see into the future."
+
+The massive head stirred, the long limbs moved uneasily under the
+white robe, the enormous, bony hands contracted, and in the cavernous
+eyes the great lids were slowly lifted. A dull stare met her look.
+
+"Is it he?" she asked, speaking more quickly in spite of herself. "Is
+it he at last?"
+
+There was no answer. The lips did not part, there was not even the
+attempt to speak. She had been sure that the one word would be spoken
+unhesitatingly, and the silence startled her and brought back the
+doubt which 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 with
+the colossal frame and imposing features.
+
+Unorna's face was clouded, and the ready gleam of anger flashed in her
+eyes 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 see
+him."
+
+"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
+me as other women are not loved?"
+
+The weak voice was still for a moment, and the face seemed covered
+with a 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 obey
+which failed to break down an obstacle. She bent over him eagerly and
+her whole consciousness was centered in the words she desired him to
+speak.
+
+Suddenly the features relaxed into an expression of rest and
+satisfaction. There was something unearthly in the sudden smile that
+flickered over the old waxen face--it was as strange and unnatural as
+though the cold marble effigy upon a sepulchre had laughed aloud in
+the gloom 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 stood
+upright. Then she started violently and grew very pale.
+
+"You have probably killed him and spoiled everything," said a rich
+bass voice at her elbow--the very sub-bass of all possible voices.
+
+Keyork Arabian was beside her. In her intense excitement she had not
+heard him enter the room, and he had surprised her at once in the
+breaking 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 any degree whatsoever, it was in relation to Keyork Arabian, the
+man who during the last few years had been her helper and associate in
+the great experiment. Of all men she had known in her life, he was the
+only one whom she felt to be beyond the influence of her powers, the
+only one whom she felt that she could not charm by word, or touch, or
+look. The odd shape of his head, she fancied, figured the outline and
+proportions of his intelligence, which was, as it were, pyramidal,
+standing upon a base so broad and firm as to place the centre of its
+ponderous gravity far beyond her reach to disturb. There was certainly
+no other being of material reality that could have made Unorna start
+and turn pale by its inopportune appearance.
+
+"The best thing you can do is to put him to sleep at once," said the
+little man. "You can be angry afterwards, and, I thank heaven, so can
+I--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
+blood into your heart. Live, and when I next wake you be younger by as
+many months as there shall pass hours till then. Sleep."
+
+A low sigh trembled in the hoary beard. The eyelids drooped over the
+sunken 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 Job
+and 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
+the sleeper.
+
+She was quite ready to face her companion after the first shock of his
+unexpected appearance. His small blue eyes sparkled angrily.
+
+"I am not versed in the law concerning real estate in human kind in
+the Kingdom of Bohemia," he answered. "You may have property in a
+couple of hundredweight, more or less, of old bones rather the worse
+for the wear and tear of a century, but I certainly have some
+ownership in the life. Without me, you would have been the possessor
+of a remarkably fine skeleton by this time--and of nothing more."
+
+As he spoke, his extraordinary voice ran over half a dozen notes of
+portentous 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
+is done, and I will neither submit to your reproaches nor listen to
+your upbraidings. Is that enough?"
+
+"Of its kind, quite. I will build an altar to Ingratitude, we will
+bury our friend beneath the shrine, and you shall serve in the temple.
+You could deify all the cardinal sins if you would only give your
+attention to the subject, merely by the monstrously imposing
+proportions you would know 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
+me that if he dies you are the only loser. Do fifty years of study
+count for nothing? Look at me. I am an old man, and unless I find the
+secret of life here, in this very room, before many years are over, I
+must die--die, do you understand? Do you know what it means to die?
+How can you comprehend that word--you girl, you child, you thing of
+five and twenty summers!"
+
+"It was to be supposed that your own fears were at the root of your
+anger," observed Unorna, sitting down upon her chair and calmly
+folding her hands as though to wait until the storm should pass over.
+
+"Is there anything at the root of anything except Self? You moth, you
+butterfly, you thread of floating gossamer! How can you understand the
+incalculable value of Self--of that which is all to me and nothing to
+you, or which, being yours, is everything to you and to me nothing?
+You are so young--you still believe in things, and interests, and good
+and evil, and love and hate, truth and falsehood, and a hundred
+notions which 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 this old 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 your own mind, when you were forcing him with
+your words and your eyes to make a reply of some sort, or perish? Ah!
+You see now. You understand now. 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 you tortured him with your will until his
+individuality fell into yours, and spoke your words."
+
+Unorna's head sank a little and she covered her eyes. The truth of
+what he said flashed upon her suddenly and unexpectedly, bringing with
+it the doubt which had left her at the moment when the sleeper had
+spoken. She could not hide her discomfiture and Keyork Arabian saw his
+advantage.
+
+"And for what?" he asked, beginning to pace the broad room. "To know
+whether a man will love you or not! You seem to have forgotten what
+you are. Is not such a poor and foolish thing as love at the command
+of those 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 no power--neither the one nor the other?"
+
+He laughed rather brutally at the thought of her greatest physical
+peculiarity, but then suddenly stopped short. She had lifted her face
+and those same eyes were fastened upon him, the black and the gray, in
+a look so savage and fierce that even he was checked, if not startled.
+
+"They are certainly very remarkable eyes," he said, more calmly, and
+with a certain uneasiness which Unorna did not notice. "I wonder whom
+you have found who is able to look you in the face without losing
+himself. I suppose it can hardly be my fascinating self whom you wish
+to enthrall," he added, conscious after a moment's trial that he was
+proof against her influence.
+
+"Hardly," answered Unorna, with a bitter laugh.
+
+"If I were the happy man you would not need that means of bringing me
+to your feet. It is a pity that you do not want me. We should make a
+very happy couple. But there is much against me. I am an old man,
+Unorna. My figure was never of divine proportions, and as for my face,
+Nature made it against her will. I know all that--and yet, I was young
+once, and eloquent. I could make love then--I believe that I could
+still if it would amuse you."
+
+"Try it," said Unorna, who, like most people, could not long be angry
+with 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 a
+comical fashion as though he were imitating a soldier on parade.
+
+"In the first place," he said, "in order to appreciate my skill, you
+should realise the immense disadvantages under which I labour. I am a
+dwarf, my dear Unorna. In the presence of that kingly wreck of a
+Homeric man"--he pointed to the sleeper beside them--"I am a
+Thersites, if not a pigmy. To have much chance of success I should ask
+you to close your eyes, and to imagine that my stature matches my
+voice. That gift at least, I flatter myself, would have been
+appreciated on the plains of Troy. But in other respects I resemble
+neither the long-haired Greeks nor the trousered Trojans. I am old and
+hideous, and in outward appearance I am as like Socrates as in inward
+disposition I am totally different from him. Admit, since I admit it,
+that I am the ugliest and smallest 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 no
+deception. That is the figure of speech called lying, because there is
+to be nothing but deception from beginning to end. Did you ever
+consider the 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
+ever forgave 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
+there is no reprieve, for I have committed myself, am sentenced, and
+condemned to be made ridiculous in your eyes. Can there be anything
+more contemptible, more laughable, more utterly and hopelessly absurd,
+than an old and ugly man declaring his unrequited passion for a woman
+who might be his granddaughter? Is he not like a hoary old owl, who
+leaves his mousing to perch upon one leg and hoot love ditties at the
+evening star, 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--
+golden Unorna--shall I be cut off from love because my years are many?
+Or rather, shall I not love you the more, because the years that are
+left are few and scantily blessed? May not your dawn blend with my
+sunset and make together one short day?"
+
+"That is very pretty," said Unorna, thoughtfully. He had the power of
+making his speech sound like a deep, soft music.
+
+"For what is love?" he asked. "Is it a garment, a jewel, a fanciful
+ornament which only boys and girls may wear upon a summer's holiday?
+May we take it or leave it, as we please? Wear it, if it shows well
+upon our beauty, or cast it off for others to put on when we limp
+aside out of the 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 the lip or the peach blossom in the cheek, that only the
+young may call it theirs? Is it an outward grace, which can live but
+so long as the other outward graces are its companions, to perish when
+the first gray hair streaks the dark locks? Is it a glass, shivered by
+the first shock of care as a mirror by a sword-stroke? Is it a painted
+mask, washed colourless by the first rain of autumn tears? Is it a
+flower, so tender that it must perish miserably in the frosty rime of
+earliest winter? Is love the accident of youth, the complement of a
+fresh complexion, the corollary of a light step, the physical
+concomitant of swelling pulses and unstrained sinews?"
+
+Keyork Arabian laughed softly. Unorna was grave and looked up into his
+face, resting her chin upon her hand.
+
+"If that is love, if that is the idol of your shrine, the vision of
+your dreams, the familiar genius of your earthly paradise, why then,
+indeed, he who worships by your side, and who would share the
+habitation of your happiness, must wear Absalom's anointed curls and
+walk with Agag's delicate step. What matter if he be but a half-witted
+puppet? He is fair. What matter if he be foolish, faithless,
+forgetful, inconstant, changeable as the tide of the sea? He is young.
+His youth shall cover all his deficiencies and wipe out all his sins!
+Imperial love, monarch and despot of the human soul, is become the
+servant of boys for the wage of a girl's first thoughtless kiss. If
+that is love let it perish out of the world, with the bloom of the
+wood violet in spring, with the flutter of the bright moth in June,
+with the song of the nightingale and the call of the mocking-bird,
+with all things that are fair and lovely and sweet but for a few short
+days. If that is love, why then love never made a wound, nor left a
+scar, nor broke a heart in this easy-going rose-garden of a world. The
+rose blooms, blows, fades and withers and feels nothing. If that is
+love, we may yet all develop into passionless promoters of a flat and
+unprofitable commonwealth; the earth may yet be changed to a sweetmeat
+for us to feed on, and the sea to sugary lemonade for us to drink, as
+the mad philosopher foretold, and we may yet all be happy 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 told
+me what it is."
+
+"Love is the immortal essence of mortal passion, together they are as
+soul and body, one being; separate them, and the body without the soul
+is 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, and talons, and air-cleaving wing-stroke. Love
+is the spirit of life and the angel of death. He speaks, and the
+thorny wilderness of the lonely heart is become a paradise of flowers.
+He is silent, and the garden is but a blackened desert over which a
+destroying flame has passed in the arms of the east wind. Love stands
+at the gateway of each human soul, holding in his hands a rose and a
+drawn sword--the sword is for the many, the rose for the one."
+
+He sighed and was silent. Unorna looked at him curiously.
+
+"Have you ever loved, that you should talk like that?" she asked. He
+turned upon her almost fiercely.
+
+"Loved? Yes, as you can never love; as you, in your woman's heart, can
+never dream of loving--with every thought, with every fibre, with
+every pulse, with every breath; with a love that is burning the old
+oak through and through, root and branch, core and knot, to feathery
+ashes that you may scatter with a sigh--the only sigh you will ever
+breathe for me, Unorna. Have I loved? Can I love? Do I love to-day as
+I loved yesterday 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 my body to death and my soul to darkness for a touch of
+your hand, for as much kindness and gentleness in a word from your
+dear lips as you give the beggars in the street! When I would tear out
+my heart with my hands to feed the very dog that fawns on you--and who
+is more to you than I, because he is yours, and all that is yours I
+love, and worship, and adore!"
+
+Unorna had looked up and smiled at first, believing that it was all
+but a comedy, as he had told her that it should be. But as he spoke,
+and the strong words chased each other in the torrent of his
+passionate speech, she was startled and surprised. There was a force
+in his language, a fiery energy in his look, a ring of half-desperate
+hope in his deep voice, which moved her to strange thoughts. His face,
+too, was changed and ennobled, his gestures larger, even his small
+stature ceased, for once, to seem dwarfish and gnome-like.
+
+"Keyork Arabian, is it possible that you love me?" she cried, in her
+wonder.
+
+"Possible? True? There is neither truth nor possibility in anything
+else for me, in anything, in any one, but you, Unorna. The service of
+my love fills the days and the nights and the years with you--fills
+the world with you only; makes heaven to be on earth, since heaven is
+but the air that is made bright with your breath, as the temple of all
+temples is but the spot whereon your dear feet stand. The light of
+life is where you are, the darkness of death is everywhere where you
+are not. But I am condemned 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 whose last pulse will beat for you; whose last
+word will be your name; whose last look upon your beauty will end the
+dream in which he lived his life. What can it be to you, that I love
+you so? Why should it be anything 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, you will not even remember that I was once
+your companion, still less that I knelt before you, that I kissed the
+ground on which you stood; that I loved you as men love whose hearts
+are breaking, that I touched the hem of your garment and was for one
+moment young--that I besought you to press my hand but once, with one
+thought of kindness, with one last and only word of human pity--"
+
+He broke off suddenly, and there was a tremor in his voice which lent
+intense expression to the words. He was kneeling upon one knee beside
+Unorna, but between her and the light, so that she saw his face
+indistinctly. She could not but pity him. She took his outstretched
+hand in hers.
+
+"Poor Keyork!" she said, very kindly and gently. "How could I have
+ever guessed all this?"
+
+"It would have been exceedingly strange if you had," answered Keyork,
+in a tone that made her start.
+
+Then a magnificent peal of bass laughter rolled through the room, as
+the gnome sprang suddenly to his feet.
+
+"Did I not warn you?" asked Keyork, standing back and contemplating
+Unorna's surprised face with delight. "Did I not tell you that I was
+going to make love to you? That I was old and hideous and had
+everything against me? That it was all a comedy for your amusement?
+That there was to be nothing but deception from beginning to end? That
+I was like a decrepit owl screeching at the moon, and many other
+things to a similar effect?"
+
+Unorna smiled somewhat thoughtfully.
+
+"You are the greatest of great actors, Keyork Arabian. There is
+something diabolical about you. I sometimes almost think that you are
+the devil himself!"
+
+"Perhaps I am," suggested the little man cheerfully.
+
+"Do you know that there is a horror about all this?" Unorna rose to
+her feet. Her smile had vanished and she seemed to feel cold.
+
+As though nothing had happened, Keyork began to make his daily
+examination of his sleeping patient, applying his thermometer to the
+body, feeling the pulse, listening to the beatings of the heart with
+his stethoscope, gently drawing down the lower lid of one of the eyes
+to observe the colour of the membrane, and, in a word, doing all those
+things which he was accustomed to do under the circumstances with a
+promptness and briskness which showed how little he feared that the
+old man would wake under his touch. He noted some of the results of
+his observations in a pocket-book. Unorna stood still and watched him.
+
+"Do you remember ever to have been in the least degree like other
+people?" she asked, speaking after a long silence, as he was returning
+his notes to his pocket.
+
+"I believe not," he answered. "Nature spared me that indignity--or
+denied me that happiness--as you may look at it. I am not like other
+people, as you justly remark. I need not say that it is the other
+people who are the losers."
+
+"The strange thing is, that you should be able to believe so much of
+yourself 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 their
+component parts. A woman must have invented that particular phrase of
+yours 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's
+duty to man has been amply discussed since the days of Menes the
+Thinite--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 of life 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 and
+symmetry. 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
+your disposal at the comparatively small expenditure of one verb, one
+preposition, and two nouns."
+
+"There is little room for love in your system," remarked Unorna, "for
+such love, for instance, as you described to me a few minutes ago."
+
+"There is too much room for it in yours," retorted Keyork. "Your
+system is constantly traversed in all directions by bodies, sometimes
+nebulous and sometimes fiery, which move in unknown orbits at enormous
+rates of speed. In astronomy they call them comets, and astronomers
+would be much happier without them."
+
+"I am not an astronomer."
+
+"Fortunately for the peace of the solar system. You have been sending
+your comets dangerously near to our sick planet," he added, pointing
+to the sleeper. "If you do it again he will break up into asteroids.
+To use that particularly disagreeable and suggestive word invented by
+men, he will die."
+
+"He seems no worse," said Unorna, contemplating the massive, peaceful
+face.
+
+"I do not like the word 'seems,'" answered Keyork. "It is the refuge
+of inaccurate persons, unable to distinguish between facts and
+appearances."
+
+"You object to everything to-day. Are there any words which I may use
+without offending your sense of fitness in language?"
+
+"None which do not express a willing affirmation of all I say. I will
+receive any original speech on your part at the point of the sword.
+You have done enough damage to-day, without being allowed the luxury
+of dismembering common sense. Seems, you say! By all that is unholy!
+By Eblis, Ahriman, and the Three Black Angels! He is worse, and there
+is no seeming. The heat is greater, the pulse is weaker, the heart
+flutters like 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 sorrow
+can be utilized as a simple, or macerated in tears to make a tonic, or
+sublimated to produce a corrosive which will destroy the canker,
+death. But be sorry by all means. It occupies your mind without
+disturbing me, or injuring the patient. Be sure that if I can find an
+active application for your sentiment, I will give you the rare
+satisfaction of being useful."
+
+"You have the art of being the most intolerably disagreeable of living
+men when it pleases you."
+
+"When you displease me, you should say. I warn you that if he dies--
+our friend here--I will make further studies in the art of being
+unbearable to 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
+it is."
+
+She moved and arranged the pillow under the head of the sleeping giant
+and adjusted the folds of his robe. Her touch was tender and skilful
+in spite of her ill-suppressed anger. Then she turned away and went
+towards the door. Keyork Arabian watched her until her hand was upon
+the latch. His sharp eyes twinkled, as though he expected something
+amusing to occur.
+
+"Unorna!" he said, suddenly, in an altered voice. She stopped and
+looked back.
+
+"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--or like a dog? Do you think you can taunt me at one moment, and
+flatter me the next, and find my humour always at your command?"
+
+The gnome-like little man looked down, made a sort of inclination of
+his short body, and laid his hand upon his heart.
+
+"I was never presumptuous, my dear lady. I never had the least
+intention of taunting you, as you express it, and as for your humour--
+can you suppose 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
+not prepared 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 thoughtless
+word 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 you
+should feel!"
+
+"The knowledge of what I can feel is mine alone," answered Keyork,
+with a touch of sadness. "I am not a happy man. The world, for me,
+holds but one 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
+a tone still bitter, but less scornful than before."
+
+"Together, in this room, and both in danger, the one through your
+young haste and impetuosity, the other through my wretched weakness in
+being made 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 without
+curiosity.
+
+"My life--and for your word," he answered, earnestly. He spoke so
+impressively, and in so solemn a tone, that Unorna's face became
+grave. She advanced another step towards him, and laid her hand upon
+the back of the chair in which she previously had sat.
+
+"We must understand each other--to-day or never," she said. "Either we
+must part and abandon the great experiment--for, if we part, it must
+be abandoned--"
+
+"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,
+I suppose. Or has your comedy another act? I can believe well enough
+that your greatest interest in life lies there, upon that couch,
+asleep. I know that you can do nothing without me, as you know it
+yourself. But in your friendship I can never trust--never!--still less
+can I believe that any words of mine can affect your happiness, unless
+they be those you need for the experiment itself. Those, at least, I
+have not refused to pronounce."
+
+While she was speaking, Keyork began to walk up and down the room, in
+evident agitation, twisting his fingers and bending down his head.
+
+"My accursed folly!" he exclaimed, as though speaking to himself. "My
+damnable ingenuity in being odious! It is not to be believed! That a
+man of my age should think one thing and say another--like a tetchy
+girl or a spoilt child! The stupidity of the thing! And then, to have
+the idiotic utterances of the tongue registered and judged as a
+confession of faith--or rather, of faithlessness! But it is only just
+--it is only right--Keyork Arabian's self is ruined again by Keyork
+Arabian's vile speeches, which have no more to do with his self than
+the clouds on earth have with the sun above them! Ruined, ruined--
+lost, this time. Cut off from the only living being he respects--the
+only being whose respect he covets; sent back to die in his
+loneliness, to perish like a friendless beast, as he is, to the
+funereal music of his own irrepressible snarling! To growl himself out
+of the world, like a broken-down old tiger in the jungle, after
+scaring away all possible peace and happiness and help with his
+senseless growls! Ugh! It is perfectly just, it is absolutely right
+and supremely horrible to think of! A fool to the last, Keyork, as you
+always were--and who would make a friend of such a fool?"
+
+Unorna leaned upon the back of the chair watching him, and wondering
+whether, after all, he were not in earnest this time. He jerked out
+his sentences excitedly, striking his hands together and then swinging
+his arms in strange gestures. His tone, as he gave utterance to his
+incoherent self-condemnation, was full of sincere conviction and of
+anger against himself. He seemed not to see Unorna, nor to notice her
+presence in the room. Suddenly, he stopped, looked at her and came
+towards her. His manner became very humble.
+
+"You are right, my dear lady," he said. "I have no claim to your
+forbearance for my outrageous humours. I have offended you, insulted
+you, spoken to you as no man should speak to any woman. I cannot even
+ask you to forgive me, and, if I tell you that I am sorry, you will
+not believe me. Why should you? But you are right. This cannot go on.
+Rather than run the risk of again showing you my abominable temper, I
+will go away."
+
+His voice trembled and his bright eyes seemed to grow dull and misty.
+
+"Let this be our parting," he continued, as though mastering his
+emotion. "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
+my tempers and myself--then, do not think unkindly of Keyork Arabian.
+He would have seemed the friend he is, but for his unruly tongue."
+
+Unorna hesitated a moment. Then she put out her hand, convinced of his
+sincerity in spite of herself.
+
+"Let bygones be bygones, Keyork," she said. "You must not go, for I
+believe you."
+
+At the words, the light returned to his eyes, and a look of ineffable
+beatitude overspread the face which could be so immovably
+expressionless.
+
+"You are as kind as you are good, Unorna, and as good as you are
+beautiful," he said, and with a gesture which would have been courtly
+in a 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
+had produced upon Unorna. She let her hand rest in his a few seconds,
+and then gently withdrew it.
+
+"I must be going," she said.
+
+"So soon?" exclaimed Keyork regretfully. "There were many things I had
+wished 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 mask
+of old ivory, and he spoke in his ordinary way. "This is the question.
+I was 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, I
+met an old acquaintance of mine, a strange fellow whom I have not seen
+for years. The world is very small. He is a great traveller--a
+wanderer through the world."
+
+Unorna looked up quickly, and a very slight colour appeared in her
+cheeks.
+
+"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,
+wears a 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 the point."
+
+He spoke carelessly and scarcely glanced at Unorna while speaking.
+
+"What of him?" she inquired, trying to seem as indifferent as her
+companion.
+
+"He is a little mad, poor man, that is all. It struck me that, if you
+would, you might save him. I know something of his story, though not
+much. He once loved a young girl, now doubtless dead, but whom he
+still believes to be alive, and he spends--or wastes--his life in a
+useless search 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 taken
+her there in the hope of saving her, for she was at death's door
+already, poor child."
+
+"But if you convince him of that."
+
+"There is no convincing him, and if he were really convinced he would
+die himself. I used to take an interest in the man, and I know that
+you could cure him in a simpler and safer way. But of course it lies
+with you."
+
+"If you wish it, I will try," Unorna answered, turning her face from
+the light. "But he will probably not come back to me."
+
+"He will. I advised him very strongly to come back, very strongly
+indeed. I hope I did right. Are you displeased?"
+
+"Not at all!" Unorna laughed a little. "And if he comes, how am I to
+convince him that he is mistaken, and that the girl is dead?"
+
+"That is very simple. You will hypnotise him, he will yield very
+easily, and you will suggest to him very forcibly to forget the girl's
+existence. You can suggest to him to come back to-morrow and the next
+day, or as often as you please, and you can renew the suggestion each
+time. In a week he will have forgotten--as you know people can forget
+--entirely, totally, without hope of recalling what is lost."
+
+"That is true," said Unorna, in a low voice. "Are you sure that the
+effect will be permanent?" she asked with sudden anxiety.
+
+"A case of the kind occurred in Hungary last year. The cure was
+effected in Pesth. I was reading it only a few months ago. The
+oblivion was still complete, as long as six months after the
+treatment, and there seems no reason to suppose that the patient's
+condition will change. I thought it might interest you to try it."
+
+"It will interest me extremely. I am very grateful to you for telling
+me about him."
+
+Unorna had watched her companion narrowly during the conversation,
+expecting him to betray his knowledge of a connection between the
+Wanderer's visit and the strange question she had been asking of the
+sleeper when Keyork had surprised her. She was agreeably disappointed
+in this however. He spoke with a calmness and ease of manner which
+disarmed suspicion.
+
+"I am glad I did right," said he.
+
+He stood at the foot of the couch upon which the sleeper was lying,
+and looked thoughtfully and intently at the calm features.
+
+"We shall never succeed in this way," he said at last. "This condition
+may continue indefinitely, till you are old, and I--until I am older
+than I am by many years. He may not grow weaker, but he cannot grow
+stronger. Theories will not renew tissues."
+
+Unorna looked up.
+
+"That has always been the question," she answered. "At least, you have
+told me so. Will lengthened rest and perfect nourishment alone give a
+new impulse to growth or will they not?"
+
+"They will not. I am sure of it now. We have arrested decay, or made
+it so slow as to be imperceptible. But we have made many attempts to
+renew the old frame, and we are no farther advanced than we were
+nearly four years 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," said
+Unorna.
+
+"It has never been done as I would do it," replied the gnome, shaking
+his head and gathering his great beard in his hand, as he gazed at the
+sleeper.
+
+"What would you do?"
+
+"I would make it constant for a day, or for a week if I could--a
+constant circulation; the young heart and the old should beat
+together; it could be done in the lethargic sleep--an artery and a
+vein--a vein and an artery--I have often thought of it; it could not
+fail. The new young blood would create new tissue, because it would
+itself constantly be renewed in the young body which is able to renew
+it, only expending itself in the old. The old blood would itself
+become young again as it passed to the younger man."
+
+"A man!" exclaimed Unorna.
+
+"Of course. An animal would not do, because you could not produce the
+lethargy 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 very
+strong and full of life. When the result is obtained, an antiseptic
+ligature, suggestion of complete healing during sleep, proper
+nourishment, such as we are giving at present, by recalling the
+patient to the hypnotic state, sleep again, and so on; in eight and
+forty hours your young man would be waked and would never know what
+had happened to him--unless he felt a little older, by nervous
+sympathy," added the sage with 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 no
+doubt 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 we
+have 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 looked
+black, while the aperture of the gray one was contracted to the size
+of a pin's head, so that the effect was almost that of a white and
+sightless ball.
+
+"You seem interested," said the gnome.
+
+"Would such a man--such a man as Israel Kafka answer the purpose?" she
+asked.
+
+"Admirably," replied the other, beginning to understand.
+
+"Keyork Arabian," whispered Unorna, coming close to him and bending
+down to his ear, "Israel Kafka is alone under the palm tree where I
+always sit. He is asleep, and he will not wake."
+
+The gnome looked up and nodded gravely. But she was gone almost before
+she had finished speaking the words.
+
+"As upon an instrument," said the little man, quoting Unorna's angry
+speech. "Truly I can play upon you, but it is a strange music."
+
+Half an hour later Unorna returned to her place among the flowers, but
+Israel Kafka was gone.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+The Wanderer, when Keyork Arabian had left him, had intended to
+revisit Unorna without delay, but he had not proceeded far in the
+direction of her house when he turned out of his way and entered a
+deserted street which led towards the river. He walked slowly, drawing
+his furs closely about him, for it was very cold.
+
+He found himself in one of those moments of life in which the
+presentiment of evil almost paralyses the mind's power of making any
+decision. In general, a presentiment is but the result upon the
+consciousness of conscious or unconscious fear. This fear is very
+often the natural consequence of the reaction which, in melancholy
+natures, comes almost inevitably after a sudden and unexpected
+satisfaction or after a period in which the hopes of the individual
+have been momentarily raised by some unforeseen circumstance. It is by
+no means certain that hope is of itself a good thing. The wise and
+mournful soul prefers the blessedness of that non-expectancy which
+shall not be disappointed, to the exhilarating pleasures of an
+anticipation which may prove empty. In this matter lies one of the
+great differences between the normal moral state of the heathen and
+that of the Christian. The Greek 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 whatsoever in the present. Man, however, is so
+constituted as to find it almost impossible to put faith in either
+bliss alone, without helping his belief by borrowing some little
+refreshment from the hope of the other. The wisest of the Greeks
+believed the soul to be immortal; the sternest of Christians cannot
+forget that once or twice in his life he had been contemptibly happy,
+and condemns himself for secretly wishing that he might be as happy
+again before all is over. Faith is the evidence of things unseen, but
+hope is the unreasoning belief that unseen things may soon become
+evident. The definition of faith puts earthly disappointment out of
+the question; that of hope introduces it into human affairs as a
+constant and imminent probability.
+
+The development of psychologic research in our day has proved beyond a
+doubt that individuals of a certain disposition may be conscious of
+events actually occurring, or which have recently occurred, at a great
+distance; but it has not shown satisfactorily that things yet to
+happen are foreshadowed by that restless condition of the
+sensibilities which we call presentiment. We may, and perhaps must,
+admit that all that is or has been produces a real and perceptible
+impression upon all else that is. But there is as yet no good reason
+for believing that an impression of what shall be can be conveyed by
+anticipation--without reasoning--to the mind of man.
+
+But though the realisation of a presentiment may be as doubtful as any
+event depending upon chance alone, yet the immense influence which a
+mere presentiment may exercise is too well known to be denied. The
+human intelligence has a strong tendency to believe in its own
+reasonings, of which, indeed, the results are often more accurate and
+reliable than those reached by the physical perceptions alone. The
+problems which can be correctly solved by inspection are few indeed
+compared with those which fall within the province of logic. Man
+trusts to his reason, and then often confounds the impressions
+produced by his passions with the results gained by semi-conscious
+deduction. His love, his hate, his anger create fears, and these
+supply him with presentiments which he is inclined to accept as so
+many well-reasoned grounds of action. If he is often deceived, he
+becomes aware of his mistake, and, going to the other extreme,
+considers a presentiment as a sort of warning that the contrary of
+what he expects will take place; if he chances to be often right he
+grows superstitious.
+
+The lonely man who was pacing the icy pavement of the deserted street
+on that bitter winter's day felt the difficulty very keenly. He would
+not yield and he could not advance. His heart was filled with
+forebodings which his wisdom bade him treat with indifference, while
+his passion gave them new weight and new horror with every minute that
+passed.
+
+He had seen with his eyes and heard with his ears. Beatrice had been
+before 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 as though he had been near her in a dream, and the strong
+certainty took hold of him that she was dead and that he had looked
+upon her wraith in the shadowy church.
+
+He was a strong man, not accustomed to distrust his senses, and his
+reason opposed itself instantly to the suggestion of the supernatural.
+He had many times, on entering a new city, felt himself suddenly
+elated by the irresistible belief that his search was at an end, and
+that within a few hours he must inevitably find her whom he had sought
+so long. Often as he passed through the gates of some vast burying-
+place, he had almost hesitated to walk through the silent ways,
+feeling all at once convinced that upon the very first headstone he
+was about to see the name that was ever in his heart. But the
+expectation of final defeat, like the anticipation of final success,
+had been always deceived. Neither living nor dead had he found her.
+
+Two common, reasonable possibilities lay before him, and two only. He
+had either seen Beatrice, or he had not. If she had really been in the
+Teyn Kirche, she was in the city and not far from him. If she had not
+been there, he had been deceived by an accidental but extraordinary
+likeness. Within the logical concatenation of cause and effect there
+was no room for any other supposition, and it followed that his course
+was perfectly clear. He must continue his search until he should find
+the person he had seen, and the result would be conclusive, for he
+would again see the same face and hear the same voice. Reason told him
+that he had in all likelihood been mistaken after all. Reason reminded
+him that the church had been dark, the multitude of worshippers
+closely crowded together, the voices that sang almost innumerable and
+wholly undistinguishable from each other. Reason showed him a throng
+of possibilities, all pointing to an error of his perceptions and all
+in direct contradiction with the one fact which his loving instinct
+held for true.
+
+The fear of evil, the presentiment of death, defied logic and put its
+own construction and interpretation upon the strange event. He neither
+believed, nor desired to believe, in a supernatural visitation, yet
+the inexplicable certainty of having seen a ghostly vision overwhelmed
+reason and all her arguments. Beatrice was dead. Her spirit had passed
+in that solemn hour when the Wanderer had stood in the dusky church;
+he had looked upon her shadowy wraith, and had heard the echo of a
+voice from beyond the stars, whose crystal tones already swelled the
+diviner harmony of an angelic strain.
+
+The impression was so strong at first as to be but one step removed
+from conviction. The shadow of a great mourning fell upon him, of a
+grief too terrible for words, too solemn for tears, too strong to find
+any expression save in death itself. He walked heavily, bending his
+head, his eyes half closed as though in bodily pain, the icy pavement
+rang like iron under his tread, the frozen air pierced through him, as
+his sorrow pierced his heart, the gloom of the fast-sinking winter's
+day deepened as the darkness in his own soul. He, who was always
+alone, knew at last what loneliness could mean. While she had lived
+she had been with him always, a living, breathing woman, visible to
+his inner eyes, speaking to his inward hearing, waking in his
+sleepless love. He had sought her with restless haste and untiring
+strength through the length and breadth of the whole world, but yet
+she had never left him, he had never been separated from her for one
+moment, never, in the years of his wandering, had he entered the
+temple of his heart without finding her in its most holy place. Men
+had told him that she was dead, but he had looked within himself and
+had seen that she was still alive; the dread of reading her sacred
+name carved upon the stone that covered her resting-place, had chilled
+him and made his sight tremble, but he had entered the shrine of his
+soul and had found her again, untouched by death, unchanged by years,
+living, loved, and loving. But now, when he shut out the dismal street
+from view, and went to the sanctuary and kneeled upon the threshold,
+he saw but a dim vision, as of something lying upon an altar in the
+dark, something shrouded in white, something shapely 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 leave
+it, and turned back again, walking still more slowly and heavily than
+before. So far as any outward object or circumstance could be said to
+be in harmony with his mood, the dismal lane, the failing light, the
+bitter air, were at that moment sympathetic to him. The tomb itself is
+not more sepulchral than certain streets and places in Prague on a
+dark winter's afternoon. In the certainty that the last and the
+greatest of misfortunes had befallen him, the Wanderer turned back
+into the gloomy by-way as the pale, wreathing ghosts, fearful of the
+sharp daylight and the distant voices of men, sink back at dawn into
+the graves out of which they have slowly risen to the outer air in the
+silence of the night.
+
+Death, the arch-steward of eternity, walks the bounds of man's
+entailed estate, and the headstones of men's graves are landmarks in
+the great possession committed to his stewardship, enclosing within
+their narrow ring 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 that single field, to plough it and sow it, and
+harrow it and water it, to lay the sickle to the ripe corn if so be
+that their serfdom falls in the years of plenty and the ear is full,
+to eat the bread of tears, if their season of servitude be required of
+them in a time of scarcity and famine. Bondsmen of death, from birth,
+they are sent forth out of the sublime silence of the pathless forest
+which hems in the open glebe land of the present and which is
+eternity, past and to come; bondsmen of 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 of laughter there is also a little
+amongst them; bondsmen of death, to the last, they are taken in the
+end, when they have served their tale of years, many or few, and they
+are led from furrow and grass land, willing or unwilling, mercifully
+or cruelly, to the uttermost boundary, and they are thrust out quickly
+into the darkness whence they came. For their place is already filled,
+and the new husbandmen, their children, have in their turn come into
+the field, to eat of the fruit they sowed, to sow in turn a seed of
+which they themselves shall not see the harvest, whose sheaves others
+shall bind, whose ears others shall thresh, and of whose corn others
+shall make bread after them. With our eyes we may yet see the graves
+of two hundred generations of men, whose tombs serve but to mark that
+boundary more clearly, whose fierce warfare, when they fought against
+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 their inheritance
+as reward for their submission; and of them all, neither man nor woman
+was ever forgotten in the day of reckoning, nor was one suffered to
+linger in the light. Death will bury a thousand generations more, in
+graves as deep, strengthening year by year the strong chain of his
+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 pass away
+in mortal agony, and some shall be dragged unconscious to the other
+side; but all must go. Some shall not see him till he is at hand, and
+some shall dream of him in year-long dreams of horror, to be taken
+unawares 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, or for seconds, for each a stone, or a few green sods laid upon
+a mound beneath the sky, or the ripple on a changing wave when the
+loaded sack has slipped from the smooth plank, and the sound of a dull
+splash has died away in the wind. There be strong men, as well as
+weak, who shudder and grow cold when they think of that yet undated
+day which must close with its black letter their calendar of joy and
+sorrow; there are weaklings, as well as giants, who fear death for
+those they love, but who fear not anything else at all. The master
+treats courage and cowardice alike; Achilles and Thersites must alike
+perish, and none will be so bold as to say that he can tell the dust
+of the misshapen varlet from the ashes of the swift-footed destroyer,
+whose hair was once so bright, 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 one dearly-
+beloved object, but who, when that fear is once roused by a real or an
+imaginary danger, can suffer in one short moment the agony which
+should be distributed through a whole lifetime. The magnitude of his
+passion could lend to the least thought or presentiment connected with
+it 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 an
+imagination both great and sensitive in at least one direction. The
+execution of a rare melody demands as a prime condition an instrument
+of wide compass and delicate construction, and one of even more rich
+and varied capabilities is needed to render those grand harmonies
+which are woven in the modulation of sonorous chords. A skilful hand
+may draw a scale from wooden blocks set upon ropes of straw, but the
+great musician must hold the violin, or must feel the keys of the
+organ under his fingers and the responsive pedals at his feet, before
+he can expect to interpret fittingly the immortal thought of the
+composer. The strings must vibrate in perfect tune, the priceless wood
+must be seasoned and penetrated with the melodies of years, and scores
+of years, the latent music must be already trembling to be free,
+before the hand that draws the bow can command the ears and hearts of
+those who hear. So, too, love, the chief musician of this world, must
+find an instrument worthy of his touch before he can show all his
+power, and make heart and soul ring with the lofty strains of a
+sublime passion. Not every one knows what love means; few indeed know
+all that love can mean. There is no more equality among men than there
+is likeness between them, and no two are alike. The many have little,
+the few have much. To the many is given the faint perception of higher
+things, which is either the vestige, or the promise, of a nobler
+development, past or yet to come. As through a veil they see the line
+of beauty which it is not theirs to trace; as in a dream they hear the
+succession of sweet tones which they can themselves never bring
+together, though their half-grown instinct feels a vague satisfaction
+in the sequence; as from another world, they listen to the poet's
+song, wondering, admiring, but powerless over the great instrument of
+human speech, from whose 15,000 keys their touch can draw but the
+dull, tuneless prose of daily question and answer; as in a mirage of
+things unreal, they see the great deeds that are done in their time
+for love or hate, for race or country, for ambition and for vengeance,
+but though they see the result, and know the motive, the inward
+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, to feel
+can be only for the few. To one is given the transcendent genius that
+turns the very stones along life's road to precious gems of thought;
+whose gift it is to find speech in dumb things and eloquence in the
+ideal half of the living world; to whom sorrow is a melody and joy
+sweet music; to whom the humblest effort of a humble life can furnish
+an immortal lyric, and in whom one thought of the Divine can inspire a
+sublime 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 an unreal image seen in dreams; or, standing before the vast, rough
+block of marble, he sees within the mass the perfection of a faultless
+form--he lays the chisel to the stone, the mallet strikes the steel,
+one by one the shapeless fragments fly from the shapely limbs, the
+matchless curves are uncovered, the breathing mouth smiles through the
+petrifaction of a thousand ages, the shroud of stone falls from the
+godlike brow, and the Hermes of Olympia stands forth in all his
+deathless beauty. Another is born to the heritage of this world's
+power, fore-destined to rule and fated to destroy; the naked sword of
+destiny lies in his cradle; the axe of a king-maker awaits the
+awakening of his strength; the sceptre of supreme empire hangs within
+his reach. Unknown, he dreams and broods over the future; unheeded, he
+begins to move among his fellows; a smile, half of encouragement, half
+of indifference, greets his first effort; he advances a little
+farther, and thoughtful men look grave, another step, and suddenly all
+mankind cries out and faces him and would beat him back; but it is too
+late; one struggle more, and the hush of a great and unknown fear
+falls on the wrangling nations; they are silent, and the world is his.
+He is the man who is already thinking when others have scarcely begun
+to feel; who is creating before the thoughts of his rivals have
+reached any conclusion; who acts suddenly, terribly and irresistibly,
+before their creations have received life. And yet, the greatest and
+the richest inheritance of all is not his, for it has fallen to
+another, to the man of heart, and it is the inheritance of the kingdom
+of love.
+
+In all ages the reason of the world has been at the mercy of brute
+force. The reign of law has never had more than a passing reality, and
+never can have more than that so long as man is human. The individual
+intellect and the aggregate intelligence of nations and races have
+alike perished in the struggles of mankind, to revive again, indeed,
+but as surely to be again put to the edge of the sword. Here and there
+great thoughts and great masterpieces have survived the martyrdom of a
+thinker, the extinction of a school, the death of a poet, the wreck of
+a high civilisation. Socrates is murdered with the creed of
+immortality on his 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 and maimed, indeed, but faultless still, and still
+supreme. The very name of Homer is grown wellnigh as mythic as his
+blindness. There are those to-day who, standing by the grave of
+William Shakespeare, say boldly that he was not the creator of the
+works that bear his name. And still, through the centuries, Achilles
+wanders lonely by the shore of the sounding sea; Paris loves, and
+Helen is false; Ajax raves, and Odysseus steers his sinking ship
+through the raging storm. Still, Hamlet the Avenger swears, hesitates,
+kills at last, and then himself is slain; Romeo sighs in the ivory
+moonlight, and love-bound Juliet hears the triumphant lark carolling
+his ringing hymn high in the cool morning air, and says it is the
+nightingale--Immortals all, the marble god, the Greek, the Dane, the
+love-sick boy, the maiden foredoomed to death. But how short is the
+roll-call of these deathless ones! Through what raging floods of
+destruction have they lived, through what tempests have they been
+tossed, upon what inhospitable shores have they been cast up by the
+changing tides of time! Since they were called to life by the great,
+half-nameless departed, how often has their very existence been
+forgotten by all but a score in tens of millions? Has it been given to
+those embodied thoughts of transcendent genius to ride in the
+whirlwind of men's passions or to direct the stormy warfare of half
+frantic nations? Since they were born in all their bright perfection,
+to live on in unchanging beauty, violence has ruled the world; many a
+time since then the sword has mown down its harvest of thinkers, many
+a time has the iron harrow of war torn up and scarred the face of the
+earth. Athens still stands in broken loveliness, and the Tiber still
+rolls its tawny waters heavily through Rome; but Rome and Athens are
+to-day but places of departed spirits; they are no longer the seats of
+life, their broken hearts are petrified. All men may see the ports
+through which the blood flowed to the throbbing centre, the traces of
+the mighty arteries through which it was driven to the ends of the
+earth. But the blood is dried up, the hearts are broken, and though in
+their stony ruins those dead world-hearts be grander and more enduring
+than any which in our time are whole and beating, yet neither their
+endurance nor their grandeur have saved them from man, the destroyer,
+nor was the beauty of their thoughts or the thoughtfully-devised
+machinery of their civilisation a shield against a few score thousand
+rough-hammered blades, wielded by rough-hewn mortals who recked
+neither of intellect nor of civilisation, nor yet of beauty, being but
+very human men, full of terribly strong and human passions. Look where
+you will, throughout the length and breadth of all that was the world
+five thousand, or five hundred years ago; everywhere passion has swept
+thought before it, and belief, reason. And we, too, with our reason
+and our thoughts, shall be swept 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 ours three millions of men lie down nightly by
+their arms, men trained to handle rifle and sword, taught to destroy
+and to do nothing else; and nearly as many more wait but a summons to
+leave their homes and join the ranks. 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, more than 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 kill civilisation and thought, as both the
+one and the other have been slain before by fewer hands and less
+deadly weapons. Is this reason, or is this law? Passion rules the
+world, and rules alone. And passion is neither of the head, nor of the
+hand, but of the heart. Passion cares nothing for the mind. Love,
+hate, ambition, anger, avarice, either make a slave of intelligence to
+serve their impulses, or break down its impotent opposition with the
+unanswerable argument of brute force, and tear it to pieces with iron
+hands.
+
+Love is the first, the greatest, the gentlest, the most cruel, the
+most irresistible of passions. In his least form he is mighty. A
+little love has destroyed many a great friendship. The merest outward
+semblance of love has made such havoc as no intellect could repair.
+The reality has made heroes and martyrs, traitors and murderers, whose
+names will not be forgotten, for glory or for shame. Helen is not the
+only woman whose smile has kindled the beacon of a ten years' war, nor
+Antony the only man who has lost the world for a caress. It may be
+that the Helen who shall work our destruction is even now twisting and
+braiding her golden hair; it may be that the new Antony, who is to
+lose this same old world again, already stands upon the steps of
+Cleopatra's throne. Love's day is not over yet, nor has man outgrown
+the love of woman.
+
+But the power to love greatly is a gift, differing much in kind,
+though little in degree, from the inspiration of the poet, the genius
+of the artist, 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 move others, and their deadliest enemy when it would move
+themselves. Let the passion and the instrument but meet, being suited
+to each other, and all else must go down before them. Few, indeed, are
+they to whom is given that rich inheritance, and they themselves alone
+know all their wealth, and all their misery, all the boundless
+possibilities of happiness that are 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, of gigantic obstacles, knows what
+love means; he who has lost her, having loved her, alone has measured
+with his own soul the bitterness of earthly sorrow, the depth of total
+loneliness, the breadth of the wilderness of despair. And he who has
+sorrowed long, who has long been alone, but who has watched the small,
+twinkling ray still burning upon the distant border of his desert--the
+faint glimmer of a single star that was still above the horizon of
+despair--he only can tell what utter darkness can be upon the face of
+the earth when that last star has set for ever. With it are gone
+suddenly the very quarters and cardinal points 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 forward or 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, black stillness. Death
+himself is dead, and one living man is forgotten behind, to mourn him
+as a lost friend, to pray that some new destroyer, more sure of hand
+than death himself, may come striding through the awful silence to
+make an end at last of the tormented spirit, to bear it swiftly to the
+place where that last star ceased to shine, and to let it down into
+the restful depths of an unremembering eternity. But into that place,
+which is the soul of man, no destroyer can penetrate; that solitary
+life neither the sword, nor pestilence, nor age, nor eternity can
+extinguish; that immortal memory no night can obscure. There was a
+beginning indeed, but end there can be none.
+
+Such a man was the Wanderer, as he paced the deserted street in the
+cruel, gloomy cold of the late day. Between his sight and the star of
+his own hope an impenetrable shadow had arisen, so that he saw it no
+more. The memory of Beatrice was more than ever distinct to his inner
+sense, but the sudden presentiment of her death, real in its working
+as any certainty, had taken the reality of her from the ground on
+which he stood. For that one link had still been between them.
+Somewhere, near or far, during all these years, she, too, had trodden
+the earth with her light footsteps, the same universal mother earth on
+which they both moved 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 could tell what hidden currents ran in the secret depths, or
+what mysterious interchange of sympathy might not be maintained
+through them? The air itself was hers, since she was somewhere
+breathing it; the stars, for she 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 pale cheek and cooled her dark brow. All
+had been hers, and at the thought that she had passed away, a cry of
+universal mourning broke from the world she had left behind, and
+darkness descended upon all things, as a funeral pall.
+
+Cold and dim and sad the ancient city had seemed before, but it was a
+thousandfold more melancholy now, more black, more saturated with the
+gloom of ages. From time to time the Wanderer raised his heavy lids,
+scarcely seeing what was before him, conscious of nothing but the
+horror which 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, a woman wrapped in rich furs, her features covered by a dark veil
+which could not hide the unequal fire of the unlike eyes so keenly
+fixed on his.
+
+"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 still
+standing 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, as jubilant as his despair was profound ran through her. If
+she had cared to reason with herself and to examine into her own
+sincerity, she would have seen that nothing but genuine passion, good
+or bad, could have lent the assurance of her rival's death such power
+to flood the dark street with 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 shot from her eyes, and then sank again as
+quickly as it had come. She had other impulses than those of love, and
+subtle gifts of perception that condemned her to know the truth, even
+when the delusion was most glorious. He was himself deceived, and she
+knew it. Beatrice might, indeed, have died long ago. She could not
+tell. But as she sought in the recesses of his mind, she saw that he
+had no certainty of it, she saw the black presentiment between him and
+the image, for she could see the image too. She saw the rival she
+already hated, not receiving a vision of the reality, but perceiving
+it through his mind, as it had always appeared to him. For one moment
+she hesitated still, and she knew that her whole life was being
+weighed in the trembling balance of that hesitation. For one moment
+her face became an impenetrable mask, her eyes grew dull as uncut
+jewels, her breathing ceased, her lips were set like cold marble. Then
+the stony mask took life again, the sight grew keen, and a gentle sigh
+stirred the chilly air.
+
+"She is not dead."
+
+"Not dead!" The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she had
+spoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness
+of the shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation.
+
+"She is not dead. You have dreamed it," said Unorna, looking at him
+steadily.
+
+He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as though
+brushing 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 rarest
+music in his ear; in the darkness of his brain a soft light began to
+diffuse itself.
+
+"Is it possible? Have I been mistaken?" he asked in a low voice, as
+though speaking to himself.
+
+"Come!" said Unorna again very gently.
+
+"Whither? With you? How can you bring me to her? What power have you
+to lead the living to the dead?"
+
+"To the living. Come."
+
+"To the living--yes. I have dreamed an evil dream--a dream of death.
+She is not--no, I see it now. She is not dead. She is only very far
+from me, 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's
+presence. She had lifted her veil and her eyes drew his soul into
+their mysterious depths.
+
+"She calls you. Come."
+
+"She? She is not here. What can you know of her? Why do you look at me
+so?"
+
+He felt an unaccountable uneasiness under her gaze, like a warning of
+danger not far off. The memory of his meeting with her on that same
+morning was not clear at that moment, but he had not forgotten the odd
+disturbance of his faculties which had distressed him at the time. He
+was inclined to resist any return of the doubtful state and to oppose
+Unorna's influence. He felt the fascination of her glance, and he
+straightened himself rather proudly and coldly as though to withdraw
+himself from it. It was certain that Unorna, at the surprise of
+meeting her, had momentarily dispelled the gloomy presentiment which
+had given him such terrible pain. And yet, even his disturbed and
+anxious consciousness found it more than strange that she should thus
+press him to go with her, and so boldly promise to bring him to the
+object of his search. He resisted her, and found that resistance was
+not easy.
+
+"And yet," said she, dropping her eyes and seeming to abandon the
+attempt, "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
+have failed for the last time. You would have carried with you the
+conviction of her death to the moment of your own."
+
+"It was a horrible delusion, but since it was a delusion it would have
+passed 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 looked
+up with an expression wholly unlike the one he had seen a few moments
+earlier. Her strong will was suddenly veiled by the most gentle and
+womanly manner, and a little shiver, real or feigned, passed over her
+as she drew the folds of her fur more closely round her. The man
+before her could resist the aggressive manifestation of her power, but
+he was far too 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 walked
+on 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 was
+looking down at the pavement before her, as though picking her way,
+for there were patches of ice upon the stones. She seemed very quiet.
+He could not guess that her heart was beating violently, and that she
+found it hard to say six words in a natural tone.
+
+So far as he himself was concerned he was in no humour for talking. He
+had seen almost everything in the world, and had read or heard almost
+everything that mankind had to say. The streets of Prague had no
+novelty for him, and there was no charm in the chance acquaintance of
+a beautiful woman, to bring words to his lips. Words had long since
+grown useless in the solitude of a life that was spent in searching
+for one face among the millions that passed before his sight. Courtesy
+had bidden him to walk with her, because she had asked it, but
+courtesy did not oblige him to amuse her, he thought, and she had not
+the power that Keyork Arabian had to force him into conversation,
+least of all into conversing upon his own inner life. He regretted the
+few words he had spoken, and would have taken them back, had it been
+possible. He felt no awkwardness in the long silence.
+
+Unorna for the first time in her life felt that she had not full
+control of her faculties. She who was always so calm, so thoroughly
+mistress of her own powers, whose judgment Keyork Arabian could
+deceive, but whose self-possession he could not move, except to anger,
+was at the present moment both weak and unbalanced. Ten minutes
+earlier she had fancied that it would be an easy thing to fix her eyes
+on his and to cast the veil of a half-sleep over his already half-
+dreaming senses. She had fancied 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 visions of the woman whom he loved as she
+wished to be loved by him. She believed that if he were once in that
+state she could destroy the old love for ever, or even turn it to
+hate, at her will. And it had seemed easy. That morning, when he had
+first come to her, she had fastened her glance 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 than instinct, she had
+found him, had read his thoughts, and had felt him yielding to her
+fixed determination. Then, suddenly, her power had left her, and as
+she walked beside him, she knew that if she looked into his face she
+would blush and be confused like a shy girl. She almost wished that he
+would leave her without a word and without an apology.
+
+It was not possible, however, to prolong the silence much longer. A
+vague fear seized her. Had she really lost all her dominating strength
+in 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 to
+sustain a fragmentary conversation, let alone suggesting to his mind
+the turn it should take? She was ashamed of her poverty of spirit in
+the emergency. She felt herself tongue-tied, and the hot blood rose to
+her face. He was not looking at her, but she could not help fancying
+that he knew her secret embarrassment. She hung her head and drew her
+veil down so that it should hide even her mouth.
+
+But her trouble increased with every moment, for each second made it
+harder to break the silence. She sought madly for something to say,
+and she knew that her cheeks were on fire. Anything would do, no
+matter what. The sound of her own voice, uttering the commonest of
+commonplaces, would restore her equanimity. But that simple, almost
+meaningless phrase would not be found. She would stammer, if she tried
+to speak, like a child that has forgotten its lesson and fears the
+schoolmaster as well as the laughter of its schoolmates. It would be
+so easy if he would say something instead of walking quietly by her
+side, suiting his pace to hers, shifting his position so that she
+might step upon the smoothest parts of the ill-paved street, and
+shielding her, as it were, from the passers-by. There was a courteous
+forethought for her convenience and safety in every movement of his, a
+something which a woman always feels when traversing a crowded
+thoroughfare by the side of a man who is a true gentleman in every
+detail of life, whether husband, or friend, or chance acquaintance.
+For the spirit of the man who is really thoughtful for woman, as well
+as sincerely and genuinely respectful in his intercourse with them, is
+manifest in his smallest outward action.
+
+While every step she took increased the violence of the passion which
+had suddenly swept away her strength, every instant added to her
+confusion. She was taken out of the world in which she was accustomed
+to rule, and was suddenly placed in one where men are men, and women
+are women, and in which social conventionalities hold sway. She began
+to be 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 would be nothing to bring him to her. She wondered why he would
+not speak, and her terror increased. She dared not look up, lest she
+should find him looking at her.
+
+Then they emerged from the street and stood by the river, in a lonely
+place. The heavy ice was gray with old snow in some places and black
+in others, where the great blocks had been cut out in long strips. It
+was lighter here. A lingering ray of sunshine, forgotten by the
+departing day, gilded the vast walls and turrets of venerable
+Hradschin, far above them on the opposite bank, and tinted the sharp
+dark spires of the half-built cathedral which crowns the fortress. The
+distant ring of fast-moving skates broke the stillness.
+
+"Are you angry with me?" asked Unorna, almost humbly, and hardly
+knowing what she said. The question had risen to her lips without
+warning, and was 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
+sound of her own words. "We have been walking a long time, and you
+have said nothing. 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 indifference
+that hurt Unorna more than any acknowledgment of his displeasure could
+have done.
+
+"Because I would help you, if you would let me."
+
+He looked at her with sudden keenness. In spite of herself she blushed
+and turned her head away. He hardly noticed the fact, and, if he had,
+would assuredly not have put upon it any interpretation approaching to
+the 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 as the dreams of women who fancy they have the gift of mental
+sight beyond the limit of bodily vision."
+
+"Who fancy they see!" exclaimed Unorna, almost glad to find that she
+was still strong enough to feel annoyance at the slight.
+
+"I beg your pardon. I do not mean to doubt your powers, of which I
+have had 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?
+Would you 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 his
+face, 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 of
+yours--do you understand?"
+
+"He is the wisest of men," said the Wanderer. "And also the maddest,"
+he added thoughtfully.
+
+"And you think it was in his madness, rather than in his wisdom, that
+he advised 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?
+With him there is nothing between knowledge and ignorance."
+
+"And he knows, of course, by experience what you can do and what you
+cannot do?"
+
+"By very long experience, as I know him."
+
+"Neither your gifts nor his knowledge of them can change dreams to
+facts."
+
+Unorna smiled again.
+
+"You can produce a dream--nothing more," continued the Wanderer, drawn
+at last into argument. "I, too, know something of these things. The
+wisdom of the Egyptians is not wholly lost yet. You may possess some
+of it, as well as the undeveloped power which could put all their
+magic within your reach if you knew how to use it. Yet a dream is a
+dream."
+
+"Philosophers have disputed that," answered Unorna. "I am no
+philosopher, but I can overthrow the results of all their
+disputations."
+
+"You can do this. If I resign my will into your keeping you can cause
+me to dream. You can call up vividly before me the remembered and
+unremembered sights of my life. You can make me see clearly the sights
+impressed upon your own memory. You might do that, and yet you could
+be showing me nothing which I do not see now before me--of those
+things which 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
+without fear. 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 the
+place where she is."
+
+The Wanderer started slightly and forgot all the instinct of
+opposition to her which he had felt so strongly before.
+
+"Do you mean that you know--that you can take me to her----" he could
+not find words. A strange, overmastering astonishment took possession
+of him, and with it came wild hope and the wilder longing to reach its
+realisation instantly.
+
+"What else could I have meant? What else did I say?" Her eyes were
+beginning to glitter in the gathering dusk.
+
+The Wanderer no longer avoided their look, but he passed his hand over
+his brow, as though dazed.
+
+"I only asked you to come with me," she repeated softly. "There is
+nothing supernatural about that. When I saw that you did not believe
+me I did not try to lead you then, though she is waiting for you. She
+bade me bring you to her."
+
+"You have seen her? You have talked with her? She sent you? Oh, for
+God's sake, come quickly!--come, come!"
+
+He put out his hand as though to take hers and lead her away. She
+grasped it eagerly. He had not seen that she had drawn off her glove.
+He was lost. Her eyes held him and her fingers touched his bare wrist.
+His lids drooped and his will was hers. In the intolerable anxiety of
+the moment he had forgotten to resist, he had not even thought of
+resisting.
+
+There were great blocks of stone in the desolate place, landed there
+before 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 sheltered spot 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. He
+obeyed.
+
+"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 be
+enough 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 understand
+that?"
+
+"I understand it."
+
+"Promise!"
+
+"I promise," he replied, without perceptible effort.
+
+"You have been dreaming for years. From this moment you must forget
+all your dreams."
+
+His face expressed no understanding of what she said. She hesitated a
+moment and then began to walk slowly up and down before him. His half-
+glazed look followed her as she moved. She came back and laid her hand
+upon his head.
+
+"My will is yours. You have no will of your own. You cannot think
+without me," She spoke in a tone of concentrated determination, and a
+slight shiver passed over him.
+
+"It is of no use to resist, for you have promised never to resist me
+again," she continued. "All that I command must take place in your
+mind instantly, without opposition. Do you understand?"
+
+"Yes," he answered, moving uneasily.
+
+For some seconds she again held her open palm upon his head. She
+seemed to be evoking all her strength for a great effort.
+
+"Listen to me, and let everything I say take possession of your mind
+for ever. My will is yours, you are the image in my eyes, my word is
+your law. You know what I please that you should know. You forget what
+I command you to forget. You have been mad these many years, and I am
+curing you. You must forget your madness. You have now forgotten it. I
+have erased the memory of it with my hand. There is nothing to
+remember any 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 was
+a nervous twitching of the shoulders and limbs. Unorna knew the
+symptom well, but had never seen it return so often, like a protest of
+the body against the enslaving of the intelligence. She was nervous in
+spite of her success. The immediate results of hypnotic suggestion are
+not exactly the same in all cases, even in the first moments; its
+consequences may be widely different with different individuals.
+Unorna, indeed, possessed an extraordinary power, but on the other
+hand she had to deal with an extraordinary organisation. She knew this
+instinctively, and endeavoured to lead the sleeping mind by degrees to
+the condition in which she wished it to remain.
+
+The repeated tremor in the body was the outward sign of a mental
+resistance which it would not be easy to overcome. The wisest course
+was to go over the ground already gained. This she was determined to
+do by means of a sort of catechism.
+
+"Who am I?" she asked.
+
+"Unorna," answered the powerless man promptly, but with a strange air
+of relief.
+
+"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, you
+are 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, whose
+body 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 years
+from a delusion. In pursuit of the fixed idea he had wandered far
+through 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 I
+became 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 the
+sky had cleared and the starlight falling upon the snow in the lonely,
+open place, made it possible to see very well. Unorna seemed as
+unconscious of the bitter cold as her subject, whose body was in a
+state past all outward impressions. So far she had gone through all
+the familiar process of question and answer with success, but this was
+not all. She knew that if, when he awoke, the name he loved still
+remained in his memory, the result would not be accomplished. She must
+produce entire forgetfulness, and to do this, she must wipe out every
+association, one by one. She gathered her strength during a short
+pause. She was greatly encouraged by the fact that the acknowledgment
+of the delusion had been followed by no convulsive reaction in the
+body. She was on the very verge of a complete triumph, and the
+concentration of her will during a few moments longer might win the
+battle.
+
+She could not have chosen a spot better suited for her purpose. Within
+five minutes' walk of streets in which throngs of people were moving
+about, the scene which surrounded her was desolate and almost wild.
+The unfinished building loomed like a ruin behind her; the rough hewn
+blocks lay like boulders in a stony desert; the broad gray ice lay
+like a floor of lustreless iron before her under the uncertain
+starlight. Only afar off, high up in the mighty Hradschin, lamps
+gleamed here and there from the windows, the distant evidences of
+human life. All was still. Even the steely ring of the skates had
+ceased.
+
+"And so," she continued, presently, "this man's whole life has been a
+delusion, ever since he began to fancy in the fever of an illness that
+he 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,
+when she 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 had
+fallen ill in a city of the South where a woman called Beatrice once
+lived and was loved by a great poet. That was the train of self-
+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
+woman whom he afterwards believed he loved?"
+
+"In exactly the same way."
+
+"It was all a curious and very interesting case of auto-hypnotic
+suggestion. It made him very mad. He is now cured of it. Do you see
+that he 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 less
+carried away by the excitement in her own thoughts, or less absorbed
+in the fierce concentration of her will upon its passive subject, she
+would have noticed the silence and would have gone back again over the
+old ground. As it was, she did not pause.
+
+"You understand therefore, my Mind, that this Beatrice was entirely
+the creature of the man's imagination. Beatrice does not exist,
+because she never 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 hand
+upon the unconscious head and bending down to gaze into the sightless
+eyes.
+
+The answer did not come, but a shiver like that of an ague shook the
+long, graceful limbs.
+
+"You are my Mind," she said fiercely. "Obey me! There never was any
+Beatrice, there is no Beatrice now, and there never can be."
+
+The noble brow contracted in a look of agonising pain, and the whole
+frame shook like an aspen leaf in the wind. The mouth moved
+spasmodically.
+
+"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 not
+distinctly, as though wrung from the heart by torture.
+
+Unorna smiled at last, but the smile had not faded from her lips when
+the air was rent by a terrible cry.
+
+"By the Eternal God of Heaven!" cried the ringing voice. "It is a lie!
+--a lie!--a lie!"
+
+She who had never feared anything earthly or unearthly shrank back.
+She felt her heavy hair rising bodily upon her head.
+
+The Wanderer had sprung to his feet. The magnitude and horror of the
+falsehood spoken had stabbed the slumbering soul to sudden and
+terrible wakefulness. The outline of his tall figure was distinct
+against the gray background of ice and snow. He was standing at his
+full height, his arms stretched up to heaven, his face luminously
+pale, his deep eyes on fire and fixed upon her face, forcing back her
+dominating will upon itself. But he was not alone!
+
+"Beatrice!" he cried in long-drawn agony.
+
+Between him and Unorna something passed by, something dark and soft
+and noiseless, that took shape slowly--a woman in black, a veil thrown
+back from her forehead, her white face turned towards the Wanderer,
+her white hands hanging by her side. She stood still, and the face
+turned, and the eyes met Unorna's, and Unorna knew that it was
+Beatrice.
+
+There she stood, between them, motionless as a statue, impalpable as
+air, but real as life itself. The vision, if it was a vision, lasted
+fully a minute. Never, to the day of her death, was Unorna to forget
+that face, with its deathlike purity of outline, with its unspeakable
+nobility of feature.
+
+It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. A low broken sound of pain
+escaped from the Wanderer's lips, and with his arms extended he fell
+forwards. The strong woman caught him and he sank to the ground
+gently, in her arms, his head supported upon her shoulder, as she
+kneeled under the heavy weight.
+
+There was a sound of quick footsteps on the frozen snow. A Bohemian
+watchman, 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. You
+must 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 way
+characteristic of the man. In the extraordinary confusion which at
+first disturbed a visitor's judgment, some time was needed to discover
+the architectural bounds of the place. The vaulted roof was indeed
+apparent, as well as small portions of the wooden flooring. Several
+windows, which might have been large had they filled the arched
+embrasures in which they were set, admitted the daylight when there
+was enough of it in Prague to serve the purpose of illumination. So
+far as could be seen from the street, they were commonplace windows
+without shutters and with double casements against the cold, but from
+within it was apparent that the tall arches in the thick walls had
+been filled in with a thinner masonry in which the modern frames were
+set. So far as it was possible to see, the room had but two doors; the
+one, masked by a heavy curtain made of a Persian carpet, opened
+directly upon the staircase of the house; the other, exactly opposite,
+gave access to the inner apartments. On account of its convenient
+size, however, the sage had selected for his principal abiding place
+this first chamber, which was almost large enough to be called a hall,
+and here he had deposited the extraordinary and heterogeneous
+collection of objects, or, more property speaking, of remains, 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 all
+that could be called furniture. The tables were massive, dark, and
+old-fashioned; the feet at each end consisted of thick flat boards
+sawn into a design of simple curves, and connected by strong
+crosspieces keyed to them with large wooden bolts. The chairs were
+ancient folding stools, with movable backs and well-worn cushions of
+faded velvet. The divan differed in no respect from ordinary oriental
+divans in appearance, and was covered with a stout dark Bokhara carpet
+of no great value; but so far as its use was concerned, the disorderly
+heaps of books and papers that lay upon it showed that Keyork was more
+inclined to make a book-case of it than a couch.
+
+The room received its distinctive character however neither from its
+vaulted roof, nor from the deep embrasures of its windows, nor from
+its scanty furniture, but from the peculiar nature of the many curious
+objects, large and small, which hid the walls and filled almost all
+the available space on the floor. It was clear that every one of the
+specimens illustrated some point in the great question of life and
+death which formed the chief study of Keyork Arabian's latter years;
+for by far the greater number of the preparations were dead bodies, of
+men, of women, of children, of animals, to all of which the old man
+had endeavoured to impart the appearance of life, and in treating some
+of which he had attained results of a startling nature. The osteology
+of man and beast was indeed represented, for a huge case, covering one
+whole wall, was filled to the top with a collection of many hundred
+skulls of all races of mankind, and where real specimens were missing,
+their place was supplied by admirable casts of craniums; but this
+reredos, so to call it, of bony heads, formed but a vast, grinning
+background for the bodies which stood and sat and lay in half-raised
+coffins and sarcophagi before them, in every condition produced by
+various 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 of
+human beings, the bones of giant orang-outangs, of creatures large and
+small down to the flimsy little framework of a common bull frog,
+strung on wires as fine as hairs, which squatted comfortably upon an
+old book near the edge of a table, as though it had just skipped to
+that point in pursuit 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 an angle 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 his secret processes, their stiffened
+joints so limbered by his art that their arms had taken natural
+positions again, lying over the edges of the sarcophagi in which they
+had rested motionless and immovable through thirty centuries. For the
+man had pursued his idea in every shape and with every experiment,
+testing, as it were, the potential imperishability of the animal frame
+by the degree of life-like plumpness and softness and flexibility
+which it could be made to take after a mummification of three thousand
+years. And he had reached the conclusion that, in the nature of
+things, the human body might vie, in resisting the mere action of
+time, with the granite of the pyramids. Those had been his earliest
+trials. The results of many others filled the room. Here a group of
+South Americans, found dried in the hollow of an ancient tree, had
+been restored almost to the likeness of life, and were apparently
+engaged in a lively dispute over the remains of a meal--as cold as
+themselves and as human. There, towered the standing body of an
+African, leaning upon a knotted club, fierce, grinning, lacking only
+sight in the sunken eyes to be terrible. There again, surmounting a
+lay figure wrapped in rich stuffs, smiled the calm and gentle face of
+a Malayan lady--decapitated for her sins, so marvellously preserved
+that the soft dark eyes still looked out from beneath the heavy, half-
+drooping lids, and the full lips, still richly coloured, parted a
+little to show the ivory teeth. Other sights there were, more ghastly
+still, triumphs of preservation, if not of semi-resuscitation, over
+decay, won on its own most special ground. Triumphs all, yet almost
+failures in the eyes of the old student, they represented the mad
+efforts of an almost supernatural skill and superhuman science to
+revive, if but for one second, the very smallest function of the
+living body. Strange and wild were the trials he had made; many and
+great the sacrifices and blood offerings lavished on his dead in the
+hope of seeing that one spasm which would show that death might yet be
+conquered; many the engines, the machines, the artificial hearts, the
+applications of electricity that he had invented; many the powerful
+reactives he had distilled wherewith to excite the long dead nerves,
+or those which but two days had ceased to feel. The hidden essence was
+still undiscovered, the meaning of vitality eluded his profoundest
+study, his keenest pursuit. The body died, and yet the nerves could
+still be made to act as though alive for the space of a few hours--in
+rare cases for a day. With his eyes he had seen a dead man spring half
+across 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
+grin under the electric current--provided it had not been too late.
+But that "too late" had baffled him, and from his first belief that
+life might be restored when once gone, he had descended to what seemed
+the simpler proposition of the two, to the problem of maintaining life
+indefinitely so long as its magic essence lingered in the flesh and
+blood. And now he believed that he was very near the truth; how
+terribly near he had yet to learn.
+
+On that evening when the Wanderer fell to the earth before the shadow
+of Beatrice, Keyork Arabian sat alone in his charnel-house. The
+brilliant light of two powerful lamps illuminated everything in the
+place, for Keyork loved light, like all those who are intensely
+attached to life for its own sake. The yellow rays flooded the life-
+like faces of his dead companions, and streamed upwards to the
+heterogeneous objects that filled the shelves almost to the spring of
+the vault--objects which all reminded him of the conditions of lives
+long ago extinct, endless heaps of barbarous weapons, of garments of
+leather and of fish skin, Amurian, Siberian, Gothic, Mexican, and
+Peruvian; African and Red Indian masks, models of boats and canoes,
+sacred drums, Liberian idols, Runic calendars, fiddles made of human
+skulls, strange and barbaric ornaments, all producing together an
+amazing richness of colour--all things in which the man himself had
+taken but a passing interest, the result of his central study--life in
+all its shapes.
+
+He sat alone. The African giant looked down at his dwarf-like form as
+though in contempt of such half-grown humanity; the Malayan lady's
+bodiless head turned its smiling face towards him; scores of dead
+beings seemed to contemplate half in pity, half in scorn, their would-
+be reviver. Keyork Arabian was used to their company and to their
+silence. Far beyond the common human horror of dead humanity, if one
+of them had all at once nodded to him and spoken to him he would have
+started with delight and listened with rapture. But they were all
+still dead, and they neither spoke or moved a finger. A thought that
+had more hope in it than any which had passed through his brain for
+many years now occupied and absorbed him. A heavy book lay open on the
+table by his side, and from 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 bring him back to contemplation of it. Those two
+words were "Immortality" and "Soul." He began to speak aloud to
+himself, being by nature fond of speech.
+
+"Yes. The soul is immortal. I am quite willing to grant that. But it
+does not in any way follow that it is the source of life, or the seat
+of intelligence. The Buddhists distinguished it even from the
+individuality. And yet life holds it, and when life ends it takes its
+departure. 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 is
+artificially prolonged in a state of unconsciousness--by hypnotism,
+for instance? Is it more closely bound up with animal life, or with
+intelligence? If with either, has it a definite abiding place in the
+heart, or in the brain? Since its presence depends directly on life,
+so far as I know, it belongs to the body rather than to the brain. I
+once made a rabbit live an hour without its head. With a man that
+experiment would need careful manipulation--I would like to try it. Or
+is it all a question of that phantom, Vitality? Then the presence of
+the soul depends upon the potential excitability of the nerves, and,
+as far as we know, it must leave the body not more than twenty-four
+hours after death, 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 the hypnotic state? Unorna hypnotises our old friend there
+--and our young one, 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 can cut them with knives, burn them, turn the life-
+blood of the one into the arteries of the other--they feel nothing. If
+the soul is of the nerves--or of the vitality, then they have souls
+for Unorna, and none for me. That is absurd. Where is that old man's
+soul? He has slept for years. Has not his soul been somewhere else in
+the meanwhile? If we could keep him asleep for centuries, or for
+scores of centuries, like that frog found alive in a rock, would his
+soul--able by the hypothesis to pass through rocks or universes--stay
+by him? Could an ingenious sinner escape damnation for a few thousand
+years by being hypnotised? Verily the soul is a very unaccountable
+thing, and what is still more unaccountable is that I believe in it.
+Suppose the case of the ingenious sinner. Suppose that he could not
+escape by his clever trick. Then his soul must inevitably taste the
+condition of the damned while he is asleep. But when he is waked at
+last, and found to be alive, his soul must come back to him, glowing
+from the eternal flames. Unpleasant thought! 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 inclined to believe that the
+presence of the soul is in some way a condition requisite for life,
+rather than depending upon it. I wish I could buy a soul. It is quite
+certain that life is not a mere mechanical or chemical process. I have
+gone too far to believe that. Take man at the very moment of death--
+have everything ready, do what you will--my artificial heart is a very
+perfect instrument, mechanically speaking--and how long does it take
+to start the artificial circulation through the carotid artery? Not a
+hundredth part so long a time as drowned people often lie before being
+brought back, without a pulsation, without a breath. Yet I never
+succeeded, though I have made the artificial heart work on a
+narcotised rabbit, and the rabbit died instantly when I stopped the
+machine, 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 on
+indefinitely, grow fat and flourish so long as the glass heart worked.
+Where would his soul be then? In the glass heart, which would have
+become the seat of life? Everything, sensible or absurd, which I can
+put into words makes the soul seem an impossibility--and yet there is
+something which I cannot put into words, but which proves the soul's
+existence beyond all doubt. I wish I could buy somebody's soul and
+experiment with it."
+
+He ceased and sat staring at his specimens, going over in his memory
+the fruitless experiments of a lifetime. A loud knocking roused him
+from his reverie. He hastened to open the door and was confronted by
+Unorna. She was paler than usual, and he saw from her expression that
+there was something wrong.
+
+"What is the matter?" he asked, almost roughly.
+
+"He is in a carriage downstairs," she answered quickly. "Something has
+happened to him. I cannot wake him, you must take him in--"
+
+"To die on my hands? Not I!" laughed Keyork in his deepest voice. "My
+collection 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 her
+life. Keyork laughed again, and tried to shake himself free of her
+grip.
+
+"You seem a little nervous," he observed calmly. "What do you want of
+me?"
+
+"Your help, man, and quickly! Call your people! Have him carried
+upstairs! 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 do
+not know what I fear----"
+
+She let him go and leaned against the doorway, covering her face with
+her hands. Keyork stared at her. He had never seen her show so much
+emotion before. Then he made up his mind. He drew her into his room
+and left her standing and staring at him while he thrust a few objects
+into his 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 his
+going.
+
+The door had already closed. She tried to open it, in order to follow
+him, but she could not. The lock was of an unusual kind, and either
+intentionally or accidentally Keyork had shut her in. For a few
+moments she tried to force the springs, shaking the heavy wood work a
+very little 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 any
+unpleasant fear of the dead company as Keyork himself. To her, as to
+him, they were but specimens, each having a peculiar interest, as a
+thing, but all destitute of that individuality, of that grim, latent
+malice, of that weird, soulless, physical power to harm, with which
+timid 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 trying to think connectedly of what had just happened. She knew
+well enough how the Wanderer had lain upon the frozen ground, his head
+supported on her knee, while the watchman had gone to call a carriage.
+She remembered how she had summoned all her strength and had helped to
+lift him in, as few women could have done. She remembered every detail
+of the place, and everything she had done, even to the fact that she
+had picked up his hat and 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. She could still feel the pressure of his
+shoulder as he had leaned heavily against her; she could see the pale
+face by the fitful light of the lanterns as they passed, and of the
+lamps that flashed in front of the carriage with each jolting of the
+wheels over the rough paving-stones. She remembered exactly what she
+had done, her efforts to wake him, at first regular and made with the
+certainty of success, then more and more mad as she realised that
+something had put him beyond the sphere of her powers for the moment,
+if not for ever; his deathly pallor, his chilled hands, his unnatural
+stillness--she remembered it all, as one remembers circumstances in
+real life a moment after they have taken place. But there remained
+also the recollection of a single moment during which her whole being
+had been at the mercy of an impression so vivid that it seemed to
+stand alone divested of any outward sensations by which to measure its
+duration. She, who could call up visions in the minds of others, who
+possessed the faculty of closing her bodily eyes in order to see
+distant places and persons in the state of trance, she, who expected
+no surprises in her own act, had seen something very vividly, which
+she could not believe had been a reality, and which she yet could not
+account for as a revelation of second sight. That dark, mysterious
+presence that had come bodily, yet without a body, between her and the
+man she loved was neither a real woman, nor the creation of her own
+brain, nor a dream seen in hypnotic state. She had not the least idea
+how long it had stood there; it seemed an hour, and it seemed but a
+second. But that incorporeal thing had a life and a power of its own.
+Never before had she felt that unearthly chill run through her, nor
+that strange sensation in her hair. It was a thing of evil omen, and
+the presage was already about to be fulfilled. The spirit of the dark
+woman had arisen at the sound of the words in which he denied her; she
+had risen and had come to claim her own, to rob Unorna of what seemed
+most worth coveting on earth--and she could take him, surely, to the
+place whence she came. How could Unorna tell that he was not already
+gone, that his spirit had not passed already, even when she was
+lifting his weight from the ground?
+
+At the despairing thought she started and looked up. She had almost
+expected to see that shadow beside her again. But there was nothing.
+The lifeless bodies stood motionless in their mimicry of life under
+the bright light. The swarthy negro frowned, the face of the Malayan
+woman wore still its calm and gentle expression. Far in the background
+the rows of gleaming skulls grinned, as though at the memory of their
+four hundred lives; the skeleton of the orang-outang stretched out its
+long bony arms before it; the dead savages still squatted round the
+remains of their meal. The stillness was oppressive.
+
+Unorna rose to her feet in sudden anxiety. She did not know how long
+she had been alone. She listened anxiously at the door for the sound
+of footsteps on the stairs, but all was silent. Surely, Keyork had not
+taken him elsewhere, to his lodgings, where he would not be cared for.
+That was impossible. She must have heard the sound of the wheels as
+the carriage drove away. She glanced at the windows and saw that the
+casements were covered with small, thick curtains which would muzzle
+the sound. She went to the nearest, thrust the curtain aside, opened
+the inner and the second glass and looked out. Though the street below
+was dim, 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 saw nothing. At last she shut the window and went
+back to the door. They must be on the stairs, or still below, perhaps,
+waiting for help to carry him up. The cold might kill him in his
+present state, a cold that would kill most things exposed to it.
+Furiously she shook the door. It was useless. She looked about for an
+instrument to help her strength. She could see nothing--no--yes--there
+was the iron-wood club of the black giant. She went and took it from
+his hand. The dead thing trembled all over, and rocked as though it
+would fall, and wagged its great head at her, but she was not afraid.
+She raised the heavy club and struck upon the door, upon the lock,
+upon the panels with all her might. The terrible blows sent echoes
+down the staircase, but the door did not yield, nor the lock either.
+Was the door of iron and the lock of granite? she asked herself. Then
+she heard a strange, sudden noise behind her. She turned and looked.
+The dead negro had fallen bodily from his 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. Then her arms grew numb and she
+dropped the club. It was all in vain. Keyork had locked her in and had
+taken the Wanderer away.
+
+She went back to her seat and fell into an attitude of despair. The
+reaction from the great physical efforts she had made overcame her. It
+seemed to her that Keyork's only reason for taking him away must be
+that he was dead. Her head throbbed and her eyes began to burn. The
+great passion had its will of her and stabbed her through and through
+with such pain as she had never dreamed of. The horror of it all was
+too deep for 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 backwards and forwards. There was no reason left in her. To her
+there was no reason left in anything if he were gone. And if Keyork
+Arabian could not cure 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 the chief danger of her life lay in a mistake on that
+decisive day. Love had indeed come upon her like a whirlwind, he had
+flashed upon her like the lightning, she had tried to grasp him and
+keep him, and he was gone again--for ever. Gone through her own fault,
+through her senseless folly in trying to do by art what love would
+have done for himself. Blind, insensate, mad! She cursed herself with
+unholy curses, and her beautiful face was strained and distorted. With
+unconscious fingers she tore at her heavy hair until it fell about her
+like a curtain. In the raging thirst of a great grief for tears that
+would not flow she beat her bosom, she beat her face, she struck with
+her white forehead the heavy table before her, she grasped her own
+throat, as though she would tear the life out of herself. Then again
+her head fell forward and her body swayed regularly to and fro, and
+low words broke fiercely from her trembling lips now and then, bitter
+words of a wild, strong language in which it is easier to curse than
+to bless. As the sudden love that had in a few hours taken such
+complete possession of her was boundless, so its consequences were
+illimitable. In a nature strange to fear, the fear for another wrought
+a fearful revolution. Her anger against herself was as terrible as her
+fear for him she loved was paralysing. The instinct to act, the terror
+lest it should be too late, the impossibility of acting at all so long
+as she was imprisoned in the room, all three came over her at once.
+
+The mechanical effort of rocking her body from side to side brought no
+rest; the blow she struck upon her breast in her frenzy she felt no
+more than the oaken door had felt those she had dealt it with the
+club. She could not find even the soothing antidote of bodily pain for
+her intense moral suffering. Again the time passed without her knowing
+or guessing of 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, round
+the room. The sound was distinctly that of a human voice, but it
+seemed to 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, as
+though suspecting that among the dead some living being had taken a
+disguise. But she knew them all. There was nothing new to her there.
+She was not afraid. Her passion returned.
+
+"My soul!--yes!" she cried again, leaning heavily on the table, "I
+would give it if I could know, and it would be little enough!"
+
+Again that awful sound filled the room, and rose now almost to a wail
+and died away.
+
+Unorna's brow flushed angrily. In the direct line of her vision stood
+the head of the Malayan woman, its soft, embalmed eyes fixed on hers.
+
+"If there are people hidden here," cried Unorna fiercely, "let them
+show themselves! let them face me! I say it again--I would give my
+immortal soul!"
+
+This time Unorna saw as well as heard. The groan came, and the wail
+followed it and rose to a shriek that deafened her. And she saw how
+the face of the Malayan woman changed; she saw it move in the bright
+lamp-light, she saw the mouth open. Horrified, she looked away. Her
+eyes fell upon the squatting savages--their heads were all turned
+towards her, she was sure that she could see their shrunken chests
+heave as they took breath to utter that terrible cry again and again;
+even the fallen body of the African stirred on the floor, not five
+paces from her. Would their shrieking never stop? All of them--every
+one--even to the white skulls high up in the case; not one skeleton,
+not one dead body that did not 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 dead
+things move. Then came another noise. Were they descending from their
+pedestals and cases and marching upon her, a heavy-footed company of
+corpses?
+
+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
+have him safe!"
+
+Something was close to her. She turned and saw Keyork Arabian at her
+elbow. There was an odd smile on his usually unexpressive face.
+
+"Then give me that soul of yours, if you please," he said. "He is
+quite safe and peacefully asleep. You must have grown a little nervous
+while I was away."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+Unorna let herself sink into a chair. She stared almost vacantly at
+Keyork, then glanced uneasily at the motionless specimens, then stared
+at him again.
+
+"Yes," she said at last. "Perhaps I was a little nervous. Why did you
+lock me in? I would have gone with you. I would have helped you."
+
+"An accident--quite an accident," answered Keyork, divesting himself
+of his fur coat. "The lock is a peculiar one, and in my hurry I forgot
+to show you the trick of it."
+
+"I tried to get out," said Unorna with a forced laugh. "I tried to
+break the door down with a club. I am afraid I have hurt one of your
+specimens."
+
+She looked about the room. Everything was in its usual position,
+except the body of the African. She was quite sure that when she had
+head that unearthly cry, the dead faces had all been turned towards
+her.
+
+"It is no matter," replied Keyork in a tone of indifference which was
+genuine. "I wish somebody would take my collection off my hands. I
+should have room to walk about without elbowing a failure at every
+step."
+
+"I wish you would bury them all," suggested Unorna, with a slight
+shudder.
+
+Keyork looked at her keenly.
+
+"Do you mean to say that those dead things frightened you?" he asked
+incredulously.
+
+"No; I do not. I am not easily frightened. But something odd happened
+--the second strange thing that has happened this evening. Is there
+any one concealed in this room?"
+
+"Not a rat--much less a human being. Rats dislike creosote and
+corrosive sublimate, 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
+are a very remarkable one, Unorna. As a woman of business----" He
+shook his head.
+
+"What do you mean, this time? What did you say?" Her questions came in
+a strained tone and she seemed to have difficulty in concentrating her
+attention, 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 to
+any one who would tell you that the Wanderer was safe. I immediately
+closed 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," she
+said.
+
+"I supposed that you were serious," he answered. "Besides, a bargain
+is a bargain, and there were numerous witnesses to the transaction,"
+he added, 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 were
+groaning 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, and
+that the Peruvian savages turned their heads; it was very strange--at
+first they groaned, and then they wailed, and then they howled and
+shrieked at me."
+
+"Under the circumstances, that is not extraordinary."
+
+Unorna stared at him rather angrily. He was jesting, of course, and
+she had been dreaming, or had been so overwrought by excitement as to
+have been made the victim of a vivid hallucination. Nevertheless there
+was something 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," he
+retorted.
+
+"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 trying
+to jest. It is I who am in earnest. Did you, or did you not, offer
+your soul for a certain piece of information? Did you, or did you not,
+hear those 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 one
+is giddy, the room is really going round? Is there any practical
+difference, so far as sensation goes, between a mummy and a block of
+wood?"
+
+"That, my dear lady, is precisely what we do not know, and what we
+most wish to know. Death is not the change which takes place at a
+moment which is generally clearly defined, when the heart stops
+beating, and the eye turns white, and the face changes colour. Death
+comes some time after that, and we do not know exactly when. It varies
+very much in different individuals. You can only define it as the
+total and final cessation of perception and apperception, both
+functions depending on the nerves. In ordinary cases Nature begins of
+herself to destroy the nerves by a sure process. But how do you know
+what happens when decay is not only arrested but prevented before it
+has begun? How can you foretell what may happen when a skilful hand
+has restored the tissues of the body to their original flexibility, or
+preserved them in the state in which they were last sensitive?"
+
+"Nothing can ever make me believe that a mummy can suddenly hear and
+understand," said Unorna. "Much less that it can move and produce a
+sound. I know that the idea has possessed you for many years, but
+nothing 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 the
+bargain?"
+
+Unorna shrugged her shoulders impatiently and did not answer. Keyork
+relinquished the fencing.
+
+"It is of no importance," he said, changing his tone. "Your dream--or
+whatever 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 another
+lamp. 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
+yet she felt irresistibly impelled to do so. He was a strange compound
+of wisdom and levity, in her opinion, and his light-hearted moods were
+those which she most resented. She was never sure whether he was in
+reality tactless, or frankly brutal. She inclined to the latter view
+of his character, because he always showed such masterly skill in
+excusing himself when he had gone too far. Neither his wisdom nor his
+love of jesting explained to her the powerful attraction he exercised
+over her whole nature, and of which she was, in a manner, ashamed. She
+could quarrel with him as often as they met, and yet she could not
+help being always glad to meet him again. She could not admit that she
+liked him because she dominated him; on the contrary, he was the only
+person she had ever met over whom she had no influence whatever, who
+did as he pleased without consulting her, and who laughed at her
+mysterious power so far as he himself was concerned. Nor was her
+liking founded upon any consciousness of obligation. If he had helped
+her to the best of his ability in the great experiment, it was also
+clear enough that he had the strongest personal interest in doing so.
+He loved life with a mad passion for its own sake, and the only object
+of his study was to find a means of living longer than other men. All
+the aims and desires and complex reasonings of his being tended to
+this simple expression--the wish to live. To what idolatrous self-
+worship Keyork Arabian might be capable of descending, if he ever
+succeeded in eliminating death from the equation of his immediate
+future, it was impossible to say. The wisdom of ages bids us beware of
+the man of one idea. He is to be feared for his ruthlessness, for his
+concentration, for the singular strength he has acquired in the
+centralization of his intellectual power, and because he has welded,
+as it were, the rough metal of many passions and of many talents into
+a single deadly weapon which he wields for a single purpose. Herein
+lay, perhaps, the secret of Unorna's undefined fear of Keyork and of
+her still less definable liking for him.
+
+She leaned one elbow on the table and shaded her eyes from the
+brilliant light.
+
+"I do not know why I should tell you," she said at last. "You will
+only laugh 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 have
+made 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
+use in this case, the most I can hope is that you may find me an
+explanation of 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
+be visible 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 one
+proposition or the other is proved I suspend my judgment. Have you
+seen a ghost?"
+
+"I do not know. I have seen something----" She stopped, as though the
+recollections 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
+belief in ghosts which we occupy towards such questions as the
+abolition of death. 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, more or less, with whose history we are in some
+degree acquainted, of any individual who has escaped death. We
+conclude that all men must die. Similarly, we do not know certainly--
+not from real, irrefutable evidence at least--that the soul of any man
+or woman dead has ever returned visibly to earth. We conclude,
+therefore, that none ever will. There is a difference in the two
+cases, which throws a slight balance of probability on the side of the
+ghost. Many persons have asserted that they have seen ghosts, though
+none have ever asserted that men do not die. For my own part, I have
+had a very wide, practical, and intimate acquaintance with dead people
+--sometimes in very queer places--but I have 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 a living person."
+
+"I never shivered with cold and felt my hair rise upon my head at the
+sight of any living thing," said Unorna dreamily, and still shading
+her eyes with her hand.
+
+"But might you not feel that if you chanced to see some one whom you
+particularly disliked?" asked Keyork, with a gentle laugh.
+
+"Disliked?" repeated Unorna in a harsh voice. She changed her position
+and looked at him. "Yes, perhaps that is possible. I had not thought
+of that. And yet--I would rather it had been a ghost."
+
+"More interesting, certainly, and more novel," observed Keyork, slowly
+polishing his smooth cranium with the palm of his hand. His head, and
+the perfect hemisphere of his nose, reflected the light like ivory
+balls of different sizes.
+
+"I was standing before him," said Unorna. "The place was lonely and it
+was already night. The stars shone on the snow, and I could see
+distinctly. Then she--that woman--passed softly between us. He cried
+out, calling her by name, and then fell forward. After that, the woman
+was 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
+a word?"
+
+"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 an explanation. You were hypnotised, my dear friend, and he made
+you see her. 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 him
+sleep. You tried to force his mind to something contrary to its
+firmest beliefs. I have seen you do it. He is a strong subject. His
+mind rebelled, yielded, then made a final and desperate effort, and
+then collapsed. That effort was so terrible that it momentarily forced
+your will back upon itself, and impressed his vision on your sight.
+There are no ghosts, my dear colleague. There are only souls and
+bodies. If the soul can be defined as anything it can be defined as
+Pure Being in the Mode of Individuality but quite removed from the
+Mode of Matter. As for the body--well, there it is before you, in a
+variety of shapes, and in various states of preservation, as incapable
+of producing a ghost as a picture or a statue. You are altogether in a
+very nervous condition to-day. It is really quite indifferent whether
+that good lady be alive or dead."
+
+"Indifferent!" exclaimed Unorna fiercely. Then she was silent.
+
+"Indifferent to the validity of the theory. If she is dead, you did
+not see 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 an explanation--to say the least. Hypnosis will explain anything
+and everything, without causing you a moment's anxiety for the
+future."
+
+"Then I did not hear shrieks and moans, nor see your specimens moving
+when I was here along just now?"
+
+"Certainly not! Hypnosis again. Auto-hypnosis this time. You should
+really be less nervous. You probably stared at the lamp without
+realising the fact. You know that any shining object affects you in
+that way, if you are not careful. It is a very bright lamp, too.
+Instantaneous effect--bodies appear to move and you hear unearthly
+yells--you offer your soul for sale and I buy it, appearing in the
+nick of time? If your condition had lasted ten seconds longer you
+would have taken me for his majesty and lived, in imagination, through
+a dozen years or so of sulphurous purgatorial treatment under my
+personal supervision, to wake up and find yourself unscorched--and
+unredeemed, as ever."
+
+"You are a most comforting person, Keyork," said Unorna, with a faint
+smile. "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 the
+table at her elbow. His short, sturdy legs swung at a considerable
+height above the floor, and he planted his hands firmly upon the board
+on either side of him. The attitude was that of an idle boy, and was
+so oddly out of keeping with his age and expression that Unorna almost
+laughed 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 that exists, and the only one which can have a really
+sedative effect upon your excitement. Of course, if you have any
+especial object in believing in ghosts--if it affords you any great
+and lasting pleasure to associate, in imagination, with spectres,
+wraiths, and airily-malicious shadows, I will not cross your fancy. To
+a person of solid nerves a banshee may be an entertaining companion,
+and an apparition in a well-worn winding-sheet may be a pretty toy.
+For all I know, it may be a delight to you to find your hair standing
+on end at the unexpected appearance of a dead woman in a black cloak
+between you and the person with whom you are engaged in animated
+conversation. All very well, as a mere pastime, I say. But if you find
+that you are reaching a point on which your judgment is clouded, you
+had better shut up the magic lantern and take the rational view of the
+case."
+
+"Perhaps you are right."
+
+"Will you allow me to say something very frank, Unorna?" asked Keyork
+with 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 becoming
+superstitious." He watched her closely to see what effect the speech
+would 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 and
+tremble."
+
+"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 prove
+it 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 chief
+characteristic. Am I proud, Unorna? The question is absurd, I have
+nothing to be proud of--a little old man with a gray beard, of whom
+nobody ever heard anything remarkable. No one ever accused me of
+pride. How could I be proud of anything? Except of your acquaintance,
+my dear lady," he added gallantly, laying his hand on his heart, and
+leaning towards her as he sat.
+
+Unorna laughed at the speech, and threw back her dishevelled hair with
+a graceful gesture. Keyork paused.
+
+"You are very beautiful," he said thoughtfully, gazing at her face and
+at the red gold lights that played in the tangled tresses.
+
+"Worse and worse!" she exclaimed, still laughing. "Are you going to
+repeat the comedy you played so well this afternoon, and make love to
+me again?"
+
+"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 furnished
+house?" he asked merrily.
+
+"Then you are the devil after all?"
+
+"Or an angel. Why should the evil one have a monopoly in the soul-
+market? But you remind me of my argument. You would have distracted
+Demosthenes in the heat of a peroration, or Socrates in the midst of
+his defence, 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 say that my peculiarity is not less exclusive than Lucifer's,
+though it takes a different turn. I was going to confess with the
+utmost frankness and the most sincere truth that my only crime against
+Heaven is a most perfect, unswerving, devotional love for my own
+particular Self. In that attachment I have never wavered yet--but I
+really cannot say what may become 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 feelings
+better, or I shall find out the truth about you."
+
+He glanced keenly at her, and was silent for a while. Unorna rose
+slowly to her feet, and standing beside him, began to twist her hair
+into a great coil upon her head.
+
+"What made you let it down?" asked Keyork with some curiosity, as he
+watched her.
+
+"I hardly know," she answered, still busy with the braids. "I was
+nervous, 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
+took up 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
+my cloak."
+
+"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 as
+being new, or at least only partially investigated. We may as well
+speak in confidence, Unorna, for we really understand each other. Do
+you not think so?"
+
+"That depends on what you have to say."
+
+"Not much--nothing that ought to offend you. You must consider, my
+dear," he said, assuming an admirably paternal tone, "that I might be
+your father, and that I have your welfare very much at heart, as well
+as your happiness. You love this man--no, do not be angry, do not
+interrupt me. You could not do better for yourself, nor for him. I
+knew him years ago. He is a grand man--the sort of man I would like to
+be. Good. You find him suffering from a delusion, or a memory,
+whichever it be. Not only is this delusion--let us call it so--ruining
+his happiness and undermining his strength, but so long as it endures,
+it also completely excludes the possibility of his feeling for you
+what you feel for him. Your own interest coincides exactly with the
+promptings of real, human charity. And yours is in reality a
+charitable nature, dear Unorna, though you are sometimes a little
+hasty with poor old Keyork. Good again. You, being moved by a desire
+for this man's welfare, most kindly and wisely take steps to cure him
+of his madness. The delusion is strong, but your will is stronger. The
+delusion yields after a violent struggle during which it has even
+impressed itself upon your own senses. The patient is brought home,
+properly cared for, and disposed to rest. Then he wakes, apparently of
+his own accord, and behold! he is completely cured. Everything has
+been successful, everything is perfect, everything has followed the
+usual course of such mental cures by means of hypnosis. The only thing
+I do not understand is the waking. That is the only thing which makes
+me uneasy for the future, until I can see it properly explained. He
+had no right to wake without your suggestion, if he was still in the
+hypnotic state; and if he had already come out of the hypnotic state
+by a natural reaction, it is to be feared that the cure may not be
+permanent."
+
+Unorna had listened attentively, as she always did when Keyork
+delivered himself of a serious opinion upon a psychiatric case. Her
+eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he finished.
+
+"If that is all that troubles you," she said, "you may set your mind
+at rest. After he had fallen, and while the watchman was getting the
+carriage, I repeated my suggestion and ordered him to wake without
+pain in 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 I
+thought, since you forgot nothing. What a woman! Ghost-proof, and able
+to think connectedly even at such a moment! But tell me, did you not
+take the opportunity of suggesting something else?" His eyes twinkled
+merrily, 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 wondering
+whether 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 and
+stroking his long beard.
+
+"There is a limit! Must you for ever be trying to suggest, and trying
+to guide me in everything I do? It is intolerable! I can hardly call
+my soul my own!"
+
+"Hardly, considering my recent acquisition of it," returned Keyork
+calmly.
+
+"That wretched jest is threadbare."
+
+"A jest! Wretched? And threadbare, too? Poor Keyork! His wit is
+failing at last."
+
+He shook his head in mock melancholy over his supposed intellectual
+dotage. Unorna turned away, this time with the determination to leave
+him.
+
+"I am sorry if I have offended you," he said, very meekly. "Was what I
+said so very unpardonable?"
+
+"If ignorance is unpardonable, as you always say, then your speech is
+past forgiveness," said Unorna, relenting by force of habit, but
+gathering 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
+to manufacture by force of suggestion could be worth in a woman's
+eyes. You would know that a woman will be loved for herself, for her
+beauty, for her 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 by a mere patient reduced to the proper state of
+sentiment by a trick of hypnotism, or psychiatry, or of whatever you
+choose to call the effect of 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 Israel
+Kafka loves you."
+
+"Yes, as Israel Kafka loves me, I am not afraid to say it. As he loves
+me, of his own free will, and to his own destruction--as I should have
+loved him, had it been so fated."
+
+"So you are a fatalist, Unorna," observed her companion, still
+stroking and twisting his beard. "It is strange that we should differ
+upon so many fundamental questions, you and I, and yet be such good
+friends. Is it not?"
+
+"The strangest thing of all is that I should submit to your
+exasperating ways as I do."
+
+"It does not strike me that it is I who am quarrelling this time,"
+said Keyork.
+
+"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 planning
+some wickedness. I am sure of it."
+
+"And that is all the credit I get for keeping my temper! Did I not say
+a while 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
+from his seat on the table with considerable agility and suddenly
+standing close before her. "And do you not yet know that when I say a
+thing I do it, 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
+you need not be so terribly impressive; and unless you are going to
+break your word, by which you seem to set such store, and quarrel with
+me, you need not look at me so fiercely."
+
+Keyork suddenly let his voice drop to its deepest and most vibrating
+key.
+
+"I only want you to remember this," he said. "You are not an ordinary
+woman, as I am not an ordinary man, and the experiment we are making
+together is an altogether extraordinary one. I have told you the
+truth. I care for nothing but my individual self, and I seek nothing
+but the prolongation of life. If you endanger the success of the great
+trial again, 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
+there is nothing I will not do to help you--nothing within the bounds
+of your imagination. 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
+the end."
+
+Unorna smiled rather scornfully at first, as she looked down upon the
+little man's strange face and gazed fearlessly into his eyes. But as
+she looked, the smile faded, and the colour slowly sank from her face,
+until she was very pale. And as she felt herself losing courage before
+something which she could not understand, Keyork's eyes grew brighter
+and brighter till they glowed like drops of molten metal. A sound as
+of many 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
+towards the 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 into
+the carriage, which had been waiting since his return.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+A month had passed since the day on which Unorna had first seen the
+Wanderer, and since the evening when she had sat so long in
+conversation with Keyork Arabian. The snow lay heavily on all the
+rolling moorland about Prague, covering everything up to the very
+gates of the black city; 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 gloom which he had no power to pierce, but no man
+could say that he had seen him in that month. At long intervals
+indeed, a faint rose-coloured glow touched the high walls of the
+Hradschin and transfigured for an instant the short spires of the
+unfinished cathedral, hundreds of feet above the icebound river and
+the sepulchral capital; sometimes, in the dim afternoons, a little
+gold filtered through the heavy air and tinged the snow-steeples of
+the Teyn Kirche, and yellowed the stately tower of the town hall; but
+that was all, so far as the moving throngs of silent beings that
+filled the streets could see. The very air men breathed seemed to be
+stiffening with damp cold. For that is not the glorious winter of our
+own dear north, where the whole earth is a jewel of gleaming crystals
+hung between two heavens, between the heaven of the day, and the
+heaven of the night, beautiful alike in sunshine and in starlight,
+under the rays of the moon, at evening and again at dawn; where the
+pines and hemlocks are as forests of plumes powdered thick with dust
+of silver; where the black ice rings like a deep-toned bell beneath
+the heel of the sweeping skate--the ice that you may follow a hundred
+miles if you have breath and strength; where the harshest voice rings
+musically among the icicles and the snow-laden boughs; where the quick
+jingle of sleigh bells far off on the smooth, deep track brings to the
+listener the vision of our own merry Father Christmas, with snowy
+beard, and apple cheeks, and peaked fur cap, and mighty gauntlets, and
+hampers and sacks full of toys and good things and true northern
+jollity; where all is young and fresh and free; where eyes are bright
+and cheeks are red, and hands are strong and hearts are brave; where
+children 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 as
+the giant pines, green, silver-crowned landmarks in the human forest,
+rather than as dried, twisted, sapless trees fit only to be cut down
+and burned, in that dear north to which our hearts and memories still
+turn for refreshment, under the Indian suns, and out of the hot
+splendour of calm southern seas. The winter of the black city that
+spans the frozen Moldau is the winter of the grave, dim as a perpetual
+afternoon in a land where no lotus ever grew, cold with the
+unspeakable frigidness of a reeking air that thickens as oil but will
+not be frozen, melancholy as a stony island of death in a lifeless
+sea.
+
+A month had gone by, and in that time the love that had so suddenly
+taken root in Unorna's heart had grown to great proportions as love
+will when, 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
+the memory of it, but she could not take its place. She had spoken the
+truth when she had told Keyork that she would be loved for herself, or
+not at all, and that she would use neither her secret arts nor her
+rare gifts to 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 her
+side, hour after hour, talking of many things, calm, apparently, and
+satisfied in her society, but strangely apathetic and indifferent.
+Never once in those many days had she seen his pale face light up with
+pleasure, nor his deep eyes show a gleam of interest; never had the
+tone of his voice been disturbed in its even monotony; never had the
+touch of his hand, when they met and parted, felt the communication of
+the thrill that ran through hers.
+
+It was very bitter, for Unorna was proud with the scarcely reasoning
+pride of a lawless, highly gifted nature, accustomed to be obeyed and
+little used to bending under any influence. She brought all the skill
+she could command to her assistance; she talked to him, she told him
+of herself, she sought his confidence, she consulted him on every
+matter, she attempted to fascinate his imagination with tales of a
+life which even he could never have seen; she even sang to him old
+songs and snatches of wonderful melodies which, in her childhood, had
+still survived the advancing wave of silence that has overwhelmed the
+Bohemian people within the memory of living man, bringing a change
+into the daily life and temperament of a whole nation which is perhaps
+unparalleled in any history. He listened, he smiled, he showed a faint
+pleasure and a great understanding in all these things, and he came
+back day after day to talk and listen again. But that was all. She
+felt that she could amuse him without charming him.
+
+And Unorna suffered terribly. Her cheek grew thinner and her eyes
+gleamed with sudden fires. She was restless, and her beautiful hands,
+from seeming to be carved in white marble, began to look as though
+they were chiselled out of delicate transparent alabaster. She slept
+little and thought much, and if she did not shed tears, it was because
+she was too strong to weep for pain and too proud to weep from anger
+and disappointment. And yet her resolution remained firm, for it was
+part and parcel of her inmost self, and was guarded by pride on the
+one hand and an unalterable belief in fate on the other.
+
+To-day they sat together, as they had so often sat, among the flowers
+and the trees in the vast conservatory, she in her tall, carved chair
+and he upon a lower seat before her. They had been silent for some
+minutes. It was not yet noon, but it might have been early morning in
+a southern island, so soft was the light, so freshly scented the air,
+so peaceful the tinkle of the tiny fountain. Unorna's expression was
+sad, as she gazed in silence at the man she loved. There was something
+gone from his face, she thought, since she had first seen him, and it
+was to bring that something back that she would give her life and her
+soul if she could.
+
+Suddenly her lips moved and a sad melody trembled in the air. Unorna
+sang, almost as though singing to herself. The Wanderer's deep eyes
+met hers 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 down
+and tapped upon the carved arm of the chair with an impatient gesture
+familiar to her.
+
+"And what is that one prayer?" asked the Wanderer. "I knew the song
+long ago, 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 words
+rose to my lips and so I sang."
+
+"They are pretty words," said her companion, almost indifferently.
+"And you 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 do
+not 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 glance
+wandered from one to the other, as though he did not see them, being
+lost in meditation. The voice had been calm and clear as ever, but it
+was the first time he had ever said so much, and Unorna's heart stood
+still, half fire and half ice. She could not speak.
+
+"You are very much to me," he said again, at last. "Since I have been
+in this place a change has come over me. I seem to myself to be a man
+without an object, without so much as a real thought. Keyork tells me
+that there is something wanting, that the something is woman, and that
+I ought to love. I cannot tell. I do not know what love is, and I
+never knew. Perhaps it is the absence of it that makes me what I am--a
+body and an intelligence without a soul. Even the intelligence I begin
+to doubt. What sense has there ever been in all my wanderings? Why
+have I been in every place, in every city? What went I forth to see?
+Not even a reed shaken by the wind! I have spoken all languages, read
+thousands of books, known men in every land--and for what? It is as
+though I had once had an object in it all, though I know that there
+was none. But I have realised the worthlessness of my life since I
+have been here. Perhaps you have shown it to me, or helped me to see
+it. I cannot tell. I ask myself again and again what it was all for,
+and I ask in vain. I am lonely, indeed, in the world, but it has been
+my own choice. I remember that I had friends once, when I was younger,
+but I cannot tell what has become of one of them. They wearied me,
+perhaps, in those days, and the weariness drove me from my own home.
+For I have a home, Unorna, and I fancy that when old age gets me at
+last I shall go there to die, in one of those old towers by the
+northern sea. I was born there, and there my 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 shall I 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. But
+I feel that I am not. I am as incapable of that as of anything else. I
+ought to despise myself, and yet I do not. I am perfectly contented,
+and if I am not happy I at least do not realise what unhappiness
+means. Am I not always of the same even temper?"
+
+"Indeed you are." She tried not to speak bitterly, but something in
+her tone struck him.
+
+"Ah, I see! You despise me a little for my apathy. Yes, you are quite
+right. Man is not made to turn idleness into a fine art, nor to
+manufacture contentment out of his own culpable indifference! It is
+despicable--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
+are my 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 for
+her cruelty on that day. She remembered his wrath and his passionate
+denunciations of friendship, his scornful refusal, his savage attempt
+to conquer her will, his failure and his defeat. She remembered how
+she had taken her revenge, delivering him over in his sleep to Keyork
+Arabian's will. She wished that, like him, she could escape from the
+wound of the word in a senseless lethargy of body and mind. She knew
+now what he had suffered, for she suffered it all herself. He, at
+least, had been free to speak his mind, to rage and storm and
+struggle. She must sit still and hide her agony, at the risk of losing
+all. She bit her white lips and 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 not
+friendship 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
+as much as the shadow of a purpose in the world, it is but natural
+that you should despise me a little, even though you may be very fond
+of me. Do you 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 she
+laughed. He seemed not to notice her tone.
+
+"I never knew what friendship was before," he went on. "Of course, as
+I said, I had friends when I was little more than a boy, boys and
+young men like myself, and our friendship came to this, that we
+laughed, and feasted and hunted together, and sometimes even
+quarrelled, and caring little, thought even less. But in those days
+there seemed to be nothing between that and love, and love I never
+understood, that I can remember. But friendship like ours, Unorna, was
+never dreamed of among us. Such friendship as this, when I often think
+that I receive all and give nothing in return."
+
+Again Unorna laughed, so strangely that the sound of her own voice
+startled her.
+
+"Why do you laugh like that?" he asked.
+
+"Because what you say is so unjust to yourself," she answered,
+nervously and scarcely seeing him where he sat. "You seem to think it
+is all on your 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
+each other," he said, presently, thrusting the probe of a new hope
+into the tortured wound.
+
+"Yes?" she spoke faintly, with averted face.
+
+"Something more--a stronger tie, a closer bond. Unorna, do you believe
+in 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 men
+may, since I have known you. We have grown so intimate in these few
+weeks, we seem to understand each other so wholly, with so little
+effort, we spend such happy, peaceful hours together every day, that I
+can almost fancy our two selves having been together through a whole
+lifetime in some former state, living together, thinking together,
+inseparable from birth, and full of an instinctive, mutual
+understanding. I do not know whether that seems an exaggeration to you
+or not. Has the same idea ever crossed your mind?"
+
+She said something, or tried to say something, but the words were
+inaudible; he interpreted them as expressive of assent, and went on,
+in a 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 than
+friends, though we have known each other so short a time. Perhaps it
+is too much to say."
+
+He hesitated, and paused. Unorna breathed hard, not daring to think of
+what might be coming next. He talked so calmly, in such an easy tone,
+it was impossible that he could be making love. She remembered the
+vibrations in his voice when, a month ago, he had told her his story.
+She remembered the inflection of the passionate cry he had uttered
+when he had seen the shadow of Beatrice stealing between them, she
+knew the ring of his speech when he loved, for she had heard it. It
+was not there now. And yet, the effort not to believe would have been
+too great for her strength.
+
+"Nothing that you could say would be--" she stopped herself--"would
+pain me," 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 you
+pain. What I meant was this. I feel towards you, and with you, as I
+can fancy 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 would
+never give her pain. He did not guess what cruel wounds he was
+inflicting now.
+
+"You are surprised," he said, with intolerable self-possession. "I
+cannot wonder. I remember to have very often thought that there are
+few forms of sentimentality more absurd than that which deceives a man
+into the idea that he can with impunity play at being a brother to a
+young and beautiful woman. I have always thought so, and I suppose
+that in whatever remains of my indolent intelligence I think so still.
+But intelligence is not always so reliable as instinct. I am not young
+enough nor foolish enough either, to propose that we should swear
+eternal brother-and-sisterhood--or perhaps I am not old enough, who
+can tell? 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's
+unquiet temper rose at his quiet declaration of his absolute security.
+The colour came again to her cheek, a little hotly, and though there
+was a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke, yet her eyes flashed
+beneath the drooping lids.
+
+"Are you sure it would be safe?" she asked.
+
+"For you, of course there can be no danger possible," he said, in
+perfect simplicity of good faith. "For me--well, I have said it. I
+cannot 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 makes this pleasant life possible."
+
+"And why should you suppose that there is no danger for me?" asked
+Unorna, with a quick glance and a silvery laugh. She was recovering
+her self-possession.
+
+"For you? Why should there be? How could there be? No woman ever loved
+me, then why should you? Besides--there are a thousand reasons, one
+better than the other."
+
+"I confess I would be glad to hear a few of them, my friend. You were
+good enough just now to call me young and beautiful. You are young
+too, and certainly not repulsive in appearance. You are gifted, you
+have led an interesting life--indeed, I cannot help laughing when I
+think how many reasons there are for my falling in love with you. But
+you are very reassuring, 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
+you can find at least one reason far stronger than those you give.
+Young and passably good-looking men are not rare, and as for men of
+genius who have 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
+away lest her eyes should betray what was so far beyond fondness.
+"They say that the most enduring passions are either born in a single
+instant, or are the result of a treacherously increasing liking. Take
+the latter case. Why is it impossible, for you or for me? We are
+slipping from mere liking into friendship, and for all I know we may
+some day fall headlong from friendship into love. It would be very
+foolish no doubt, but it seems to me quite possible. Do you not see
+it?"
+
+The Wanderer laughed lightly. It was years since he had laughed, until
+this friendship had begun.
+
+"What can I say?" he asked. "If you, the woman, acknowledge yourself
+vulnerable, how can I, the man, be so discourteous as to assure you
+that I 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
+have no 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 in
+love 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 my
+world? If it is anything, it consists of a score of men and women who
+chance to be spending their allotted time on earth in that corner of
+the globe in which I was born, who saw me grow to manhood, and who
+most inconsequently arrogate to themselves the privilege of
+criticising my actions, as they criticise each other's; who say loudly
+that this is right and that is wrong, and who will be gathered in due
+time to their insignificant fathers with their own insignificance
+thick upon them, as is meet and just. If that is the world I am not
+afraid of its judgments in the very improbable case of my falling in
+love with you."
+
+Unorna shook her head. There was a momentary relief in discussing the
+consequences 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
+hurt her. Love, at least, was hers in abundance, and he had it not.
+
+"How foolish it is to talk like this!" she exclaimed. "After all, when
+people love, they care very little what the world says. If I loved any
+one"--she tried to laugh carelessly--"I am sure I should be
+indifferent to 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 have
+the 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
+at the uncertainty of her temper, and involuntarily curious as to the
+cause of the disturbance.
+
+"Sometimes it does," Unorna answered.
+
+"I suppose I have grown awkward and tactless in my lonely life. You
+must forgive me if I do not understand my mistake. But since I have
+annoyed you, I am sorry for it. Perhaps you do not like such speeches
+because you think I am flattering you and turning compliments. You are
+wrong if you think that. I am sincerely attached to you, and I admire
+you very much. 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 pleasant
+truths."
+
+"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 in
+submission 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
+no very definite result. Even if the idea of her loving him had
+presented itself to his intelligence he would have scouted it, partly
+on the ground of its apparent improbability, and partly, perhaps,
+because he had of late grown really indolent, and would have resented
+any occurrence which threatened to disturb the peaceful, objectless
+course of 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 you
+forbade 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
+when I 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
+anger she loved him tenfold better than before. Had he not been
+blinded by his own absolute coldness he must have read her heart in
+the look she gave him, for his eyes met hers. But he saw nothing. The
+glance had been involuntary, but Unorna was too thoroughly a woman not
+to know all that it had expressed and would have conveyed to the mind
+of any one not utterly incapable of love, all that it might have
+betrayed even to this man who was her friend and talked of being her
+brother. She realised with terrible vividness the extent of her own
+passion and the appalling indifference of its objet. A wave of despair
+rose and swept over her heart. 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 could take the shape of words. She
+leaned back in her chair, and tried to draw her 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 touched
+her 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 sought
+his 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; is
+it not hot here?"
+
+"I daresay," he answered absently.
+
+He took her hand and then left her, wondering exceedingly over a
+matter which was of the simplest.
+
+It was some time before Unorna realised that he was gone. She had
+suffered a severe shock, not to be explained by any word or words
+which he had spoken, as much as by the revelation of her own utter
+powerlessness, of her total failure to touch his heart, but most
+directly of all the consequence of a sincere passion which was
+assuming dangerous proportions and which threatened to sweep away even
+her pride in its irresistible course.
+
+She grew calmer when she found herself alone, but in a manner she grew
+also more desperate. A resolution began to form itself in her mind
+which she would have despised and driven out of her thoughts a few
+hours earlier; a resolution destined to lead to strange results. She
+began to think of resorting once more to a means other than natural in
+order to influence the man she loved.
+
+In the first moments she had felt sure of herself, and the certainty
+that the Wanderer had forgotten Beatrice as completely as though she
+had never existed had seemed to Unorna a complete triumph. With little
+or no common vanity she had nevertheless felt sure that the man must
+love her for her own sake. She knew, when she thought of it, that she
+was beautiful, unlike other women, and born to charm all living
+things. She compared in her mind the powers she controlled at will,
+and the influence she exercised without effort over every one who came
+near her. It had always seemed to her enough to wish in order to see
+the realisation of her wishes. But she had herself never understood
+how closely the wish was allied with the despotic power of suggestion
+which she possessed. But in her love she had put a watch over her
+mysterious strength and had controlled it, saying that she would be
+loved for herself or not at all. She had been jealous of every glance,
+lest it should produce a result not natural. She had waited to be won,
+instead of trying to win. She had failed, and passion could be
+restrained no longer.
+
+"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 comfortable
+carriage with Keyork Arabian at his side. He opened his eyes quite
+naturally, and after looking out of the window stretched himself as
+far as the limits of the space would allow. He felt very weak and very
+tired. The bright colour had left his olive cheeks, his lips were pale
+and 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 the
+happy faculty of sleeping when I get a chance and that no
+preoccupation disturbs my appetite."
+
+Keyork Arabian was in a very cheerful frame of mind. He was conscious
+of having made a great stride towards the successful realisation of
+his dream. Israel Kafka's ignorance, too, amused him, and gave him a
+fresh and encouraging proof of Unorna's amazing powers.
+
+By a mere exercise of superior will this man, in the very prime of
+youth and strength, had been deprived of a month of his life. Thirty
+days were gone, as in the flash of a second, and with them was gone
+also something less easily replaced, or at least more certainly
+missed. In Kafka's mind the passage of time was accounted for in a way
+which would have seemed supernatural twenty years ago, but which at
+the present day is understood in practice if not in theory. For thirty
+days he had been stationary in one place, almost motionless, an
+instrument in Keyork's skilful hands, a mere reservoir of vitality
+upon which the sage had ruthlessly drawn to the fullest extent of its
+capacities. He had been fed and tended in his unconsciousness, he had,
+unknown to himself, opened his eyes at regular intervals, and had
+absorbed through his ears a series of vivid impressions destined to
+disarm his suspicions, when he was at last allowed to wake and move
+about the world again. With unfailing forethought Keyork had planned
+the details of a whole series of artificial reminiscences, and at the
+moment when Kafka came to himself in the carriage the machinery of
+memory began to work as Keyork had intended that it should.
+
+Israel Kafka leaned back against the cushions and reviewed his life
+during the past month. He remembered very well the afternoon when,
+after a stormy interview with Unorna, he had been persuaded by Keyork
+to accompany the latter upon a rapid southward journey. He remembered
+how he had hastily packed together a few necessaries for the
+expedition, while Keyork stood at his elbow advising him what to take
+and what to leave, with the sound good sense of an experienced
+traveller, and he could almost repeat the words of the message he had
+scrawled on a sheet of paper at the last minute to explain his sudden
+absence from his lodging--for the people of the house had all been
+away when he was packing his belongings. Then the hurry of the
+departure recalled itself to him, the crowds of people at the Franz
+Josef station, the sense of rest in finding himself alone with Keyork
+in a compartment of the express train; after that he had slept during
+most of the journey, waking to find himself in a city of the snow-
+driven Tyrol. With tolerable distinctness he remembered the sights he
+had seen, and fragments of conversation--then another departure, still
+southward, the crossing of the Alps, Italy, Venice--a dream of water
+and sun and beautiful buildings, in which the varied conversational
+powers of his companion found constant material. As a matter of fact
+the conversation was what was most clearly impressed upon Kafka's
+mind, as he recalled the rapid passage from one city to another, and
+realised how many places he had visited in one short month. From
+Venice southwards, again, Florence, Rome, Naples, Sicily, by sea to
+Athens and on to Constantinople, familiar to him already from former
+visits--up the Bosphorus, by the Black Sea to Varna, and then, again,
+a long period of restful sleep during the endless railway journey--
+Pesth, Vienna, rapidly revisited and back at last to Prague, to the
+cold and the gray snow and the black sky. It was not strange, he
+thought, that his recollections of so many cities should be a little
+confused. A man would need a fine memory to catalogue the myriad
+sights which such a trip offers to the eye, the innumerable sounds,
+familiar and unfamiliar, which strike the 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 the retrospect,
+especially to a nature such as Kafka's, full of undeveloped artistic
+instincts and of a passionate love of all sensuous beauty, animate and
+inanimate. The gorgeous pictures rose one after the other in his
+imagination, and satisfied a longing of which he felt that he had been
+vaguely aware before beginning the journey. None of these lacked
+reality, any more than Keyork himself, thought it seemed strange to
+the young 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 easy
+it is to produce a fiction of continuity where an element of confusion
+is introduced by the multitude and variety of the quickly succeeding
+impressions and almost destitute of incident. One occurrence, indeed,
+he remembered with extraordinary distinctness, and could have affirmed
+under oath in all its details. It had taken place in Palermo. The heat
+had 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 head swam in the stifling scirocco. He had sent for a local
+physician, and the 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 when Keyork returned, and the sage had been very angry,
+abusing in most violent terms the ignorance which could still apply
+such methods. Israel Kafka knew that the lancet had left a wound on
+his arm and that the scar was still visible. He remembered, too, that
+he had often felt tired since, and that Keyork had invariably reminded
+him of the circumstances, attributing to it the weariness from which
+he suffered, and indulging each time in fresh abuse of the benighted
+doctor.
+
+Very skilfully had the whole story been put together in all its
+minutest details, carefully thought out and written down in the form
+of a journal before it had been impressed upon his sleeping mind with
+all the tyrannic force of Unorna's strong will. And there was but
+little probability that Israel Kafka would ever learn what had
+actually been happening to him while he fancied that he had been
+travelling swiftly from place to place. He could still wonder, indeed,
+that he should have yielded so easily to Keyork's pressing invitation
+to accompany the latter upon such an extraordinary flight, but he
+remembered then his last interview with Unorna and it seemed almost
+natural that in his despair he should have chosen to go away. Not that
+his passion for the woman was dead. Intentionally, or by an oversight,
+Unorna had not touched upon the question of his love for her, in the
+course of her otherwise well-considered suggestions. Possibly she had
+believed that the statement she had forced from his lips was enough
+and that he would forget her without any further action on her part.
+Possibly, too, Unorna was indifferent and was content to let him
+suffer, believing that his devotion might still be turned to some
+practical use. However that may be, when Israel Kafka opened his eyes
+in the carriage he still loved her, though he was conscious that in
+his manner of loving a change had taken place, of which he was
+destined to realise the consequences before another day had passed.
+
+When Keyork answered his first remark, he turned and looked at the old
+man.
+
+"I suppose you are tougher than I," he said, languidly. "You will
+hardly believe it, but I have been dozing already, here, in the
+carriage, since we 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 a
+melancholy place. But you laugh as though you actually liked the sight
+of 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 may
+imagine a city as suffering from melancholy."
+
+"How absurd!"
+
+"My dear boy, I rarely say absurd things," answered Keyork
+imperturbably. "Besides, as a matter of fact, there is nothing absurd.
+But you suggested rather a fantastic idea to my imagination. The brick
+liver is not a bad conception. Far down in the bowels of the earth, in
+a black cavern hollowed beneath the lowest foundations of the oldest
+church, the brick liver was built by the cunning magicians of old, to
+last 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. A few wise men have handed down the knowledge of the brick
+liver to each other from generation to generation, but the rest of the
+inhabitants are ignorant of its existence. They alone know that every
+vicissitude of the city's condition is traceable to that source--its
+sadness, its merriment, its carnivals and its lents, its health and
+its disease, its prosperity and the hideous plagues which at distant
+intervals kill one in 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 own
+fancies, "and it will yet be carried out. The great cities of the next
+century will each have a liver of brick and mortar and iron and
+machinery, a huge mechanical purifier. You smile! Ah, my dear boy,
+truth and phantasm are very much the same to you! You are too young.
+How can you be expected to care for the great problem of problems, for
+the mighty question of prolonging life?"
+
+Keyork laughed again, with a meaning in his laughter which escaped his
+companion altogether.
+
+"How can you be expected to care?" he repeated. "And yet men used to
+say that it was the duty of strong youth to support the trembling
+weakness of feeble old age."
+
+His eyes twinkled with a diabolical mirth.
+
+"No," said Kafka. "I do not care. Life is meant to be short. Life is
+meant to be storm, broken with gleams of love's sunshine. Why prolong
+it? If it is unhappy you would only draw out the unhappiness to
+greater lengths, 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 total darknesses. But to drag on through
+slow sorrows, or to crawl through a century of contentment--never!
+Better be mad, or asleep, and unconscious of the time."
+
+"You are a very desperate person!" exclaimed Keyork. "If you had the
+management of this unstable world you would make it a very convulsive
+and nervous place. We should all turn into flaming ephemerides,
+fluttering about the crater of a perpetually active volcano. I prefer
+the system of the brick liver. There is more durability in it."
+
+The carriage stopped before the door of Kafka's dwelling. Keyork got
+out with him and stood upon the pavement while the porter took the
+slender luggage into the house. He smiled as he glanced at the
+leathern portmanteau which was supposed to have made such a long
+journey while it had in reality lain a whole month in a corner of
+Keyork's great room behind a group of specimens. He had opened it once
+or twice in that time, had disturbed the contents and had thrown in a
+few objects from his heterogeneous collection, as reminiscences of the
+places visited in imagination by Kafka, and of the acquisition of
+which the latter was only assured in his sleeping state. They would
+constitute a tangible proof of the journey's reality in case the
+suggestion proved less thoroughly successful than was hoped, and
+Keyork prided himself upon this supreme touch.
+
+"And now," he said, taking Kafka's hand, "I would advise you to rest
+as long as you can. I suppose that it must have been a fatiguing trip
+for you, though I myself am as fresh as a May morning. There is
+nothing wrong with you, but you are tired. Repose, my dear boy,
+repose, and plenty of it. That infernal Sicilian doctor! I shall never
+forgive him for bleeding you as he did. There is nothing so weakening.
+Good-bye--I shall hardly see you again to-day, I fancy."
+
+"I cannot tell," answered the young man absently. "But let me thank
+you," he added, with a sudden consciousness of obligation, "for your
+pleasant company, and for making me go with you. I daresay it has done
+me good, though I feel unaccountably tired--I feel almost old."
+
+His tired eyes and haggard face showed that this at least was no
+illusion. The fancied journey had added ten years to his age in thirty
+days, and those who knew him best would have found it hard to
+recognise the brilliantly vital personality of Israel Kafka in the
+pale and exhausted 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 he
+sent the carriage away and began to walk towards his own home. "Not
+this time. But it was a sharp strain, and it would not be safe to try
+it again."
+
+He thrust his gloved hands into the pockets of his fur coat, so that
+the stick he held stood upright against his shoulder in a rather
+military fashion. The fur cap sat a little to one side on his strange
+head, his eyes twinkled, his long white beard waved in the cold wind,
+and his whole appearance was that of a jaunty gnome-king, well
+satisfied with the inspection of his treasure chamber.
+
+And he had cause for satisfaction, as he knew well enough when he
+thought of the decided progress made in the great experiment. The cost
+at which that progress had been obtained was nothing. Had Israel Kafka
+perished altogether under the treatment he had received, Keyork
+Arabian would have bestowed no more attention upon the catastrophe
+than would have been barely necessary in order to conceal it and to
+protect himself and Unorna from the consequences of the crime. In the
+duel with death, the life of one man was of small consequence, and
+Keyork would have sacrificed thousands to his purposes with equal
+indifference to their intrinsic value and with a proportionately
+greater interest in the result to be attained. There was a terrible
+logic in his mental process. Life was a treasure literally inestimable
+in value. Death was the destroyer of this treasure, devised by the
+Supreme Power as a sure means of limiting man's activity and
+intelligence. To conquer Death on his own ground was to win the great
+victory over that Power, and to drive back to an indefinite distance
+the boundaries of human supremacy.
+
+It was assuredly not for the sake of benefiting mankind at large that
+he pursued his researches at all sacrifices and at all costs. The
+prime object of all his consideration was himself, as he
+unhesitatingly admitted on all occasions, conceiving perhaps that it
+was easier to defend such a position than to disclaim it. There could
+be no doubt that in the man's enormous self-estimation, the Supreme
+Power occupied a place secondary to Keyork Arabian's personality, and
+hostile to it. And he had taken up arms, as Lucifer, assuming his
+individual right to live in spite of God, Man and Nature, convinced
+that the secret could be discovered and determined to find it and to
+use it, no matter at what price. In him there was neither ambition,
+nor pride, nor vanity in the ordinary meaning of these words. For
+passion ceases with the cessation of comparison between man and his
+fellows, and Keyork Arabian acknowledged no ground for such a
+comparison in his own case. He had matched 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 no intermediate position between total
+suspension of judgment, and the certainty of direct knowledge. And it
+was equally true that he was no atheist, as he had sanctimoniously
+declared of himself. He admitted the existence of the Power; he
+claimed the right to assail it, and he grappled with the greatest, the
+most terrible, the most universal and the most stupendous of Facts,
+which is the Fact that all men die. Unless he conquered, he must die
+also. He was past theories, as he was beyond most other human
+weaknesses, and facts had for him the enormous value they 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 a
+lifetime. With her he had tried the great experiment and pushed it to
+the very end; and when he conducted Israel Kafka to his home, he
+already knew that the experiment had succeeded. His plan was a simple
+one. He would wait a few months longer for the final result, he would
+select his victim, and with Unorna's help he would himself grow young
+again.
+
+"And who can tell," he asked himself, "whether the life restored by
+such means may not be more resisting and stronger against deathly
+influences than before? Is it not true that the older we grow the more
+slowly we grow old? Is not the gulf which divides the infant from the
+man of twenty years far wider than that which lies between the
+twentieth and the fortieth years, and that again more full of rapid
+change than the third score? Take, too, the wisdom of my old age as
+against the folly of a scarce grown boy, shall not my knowledge and
+care and forethought avail to make the same material last longer on
+the second trial than on the first?"
+
+No doubt of that, he thought, as he walked briskly along the pavement
+and entered his own house. In his great room he sat down by the table
+and fell into a long meditation upon the most immediate consequences
+of his success in the difficult undertaking he had so skilfully
+brought to a conclusion. His eyes wandered about the room from one
+specimen to another, and from time to time a short, scornful laugh
+made his white beard quiver. As he had said once to Unorna, the dead
+things reminded him of many failures; but he had never before been
+able to laugh at them and at the unsuccessful efforts they
+represented. It was different to-day. Without lifting his head he
+turned up his bright eyes, under the thick, finely-wrinkled lids, as
+though looking upward toward that Power against which he strove. The
+glance was malignant and defiant, human and yet half-devilish. Then he
+looked down again, and again fell into deep thought.
+
+"And if it is to be so," he said at last, rising suddenly and letting
+his open hand fall upon the table, "even then, I am provided. She
+cannot free herself from that bargain, at all events."
+
+Then he wrapped his furs around him and went out again. Scarce a
+hundred paces from Unorna's door he met the Wanderer. He looked up
+into the cold, calm face, and put out his hand, with a greeting.
+
+"You look as though you were in a very peaceful frame of mind,"
+observed Keyork.
+
+"Why should I be anything but peaceful?" asked the other, "I have
+nothing to disturb me."
+
+"True, true. You possess a very fine organisation. I envy you your
+magnificent constitution, my dear friend. I would like to have some of
+it, 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 legitimate
+question, though you always tell me I am tactless."
+
+"Perfectly legitimate, my dear Keyork. Yes, I have just left her. It
+is like 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,
+if I were aware of ever being irritable, which I am not."
+
+Keyork smiled and looked down, trying to dislodge a bit of ice from
+the pavement with the point of his stick.
+
+"Soothing--yes. That is just the expression. Not exactly the quality
+most 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 tiring
+her."
+
+"Not likely," observed Keyork. "Do you know Israel Kafka?" he asked
+suddenly.
+
+"Israel Kafka," repeated the Wanderer thoughtfully, as though
+searching in his memory.
+
+"Then you do not," said Keyork. "You could only have seen him since
+you have been here. He is one of Unorna's most interesting patients,
+and mine 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 is
+always talking of our experiences. Humour him, if you meet him. He is
+in danger 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
+to distraction. He has been dangerously ill during the last few weeks
+but is better now, and he may appear at any moment. Humour him a
+little if he wearies you with his stories. That is all I ask. Both
+Unorna and I are interested in the case."
+
+"And does not Unorna care for him at all?" inquired the other
+indifferently.
+
+"No, indeed. On the contrary, she is annoyed at his insistance, but
+sees that 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 Keyork
+carelessly. "This insanity is an enemy of good looks. The nerves give
+way--then the vitality--the complexion goes--men of five and twenty
+years 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 with
+the same calm, cold, peaceful expression which had elicited Keyork's
+admiration, and Keyork himself going forward to Unorna's door. His
+face was very grave. He entered the house by a small side door and
+ascended by a winding staircase directly to the room from which, an
+hour or two earlier, he had carried the still unconscious Israel
+Kafka. Everything was as he had left it, and he was glad to be
+certified that Unorna had not disturbed the aged sleeper in his
+absence. Instead of going to her at once he busied himself in making a
+few observations and in putting in order certain of his instruments
+and appliances. Then at last he went and found Unorna. She was walking
+up and down among the plants and he saw at a glance that something had
+happened. Indeed the few words spoken by the Wanderer had suggested to
+him the possibility of a crisis, and he had purposely lingered in the
+inner apartment, in order to give her time to recover her self-
+possession. She started slightly when he entered, and her brows
+contracted, but she immediately guessed from his expression that he
+was not in one of his aggressive moods.
+
+"I have just rectified a mistake which might have had rather serious
+consequences," he said, stopping before her and speaking earnestly and
+quietly.
+
+"A mistake?"
+
+"We remembered everything, except that our wandering friend and Kafka
+were very likely to meet, and that Kafka would in all probability
+refer to his delightful journey to the south in my company."
+
+"That is true!" exclaimed Unorna with an anxious glance. "Well? What
+have you done?"
+
+"I met the Wanderer in the street. What could I do? I told him that
+Israel Kafka was a little mad, and that his harmless delusions
+referred to a journey he was supposed to have made with me, and to an
+equally imaginary passion which he fancies he feels for you."
+
+"That was wise," said Unorna, still pale. "How came we to be so
+imprudent! One word, and he might have suspected--"
+
+"He could not have suspected all," answered Keyork. "No man could
+suspect that."
+
+"Nevertheless, I suppose what we have done is not exactly--
+justifiable."
+
+"Hardly. It is true that criminal law has not yet adjusted itself to
+meet questions of suggestion and psychic influence, but it draws the
+line, most certainly, somewhere between these questions and the
+extremity to which we have gone. Happily the law is at an immeasurable
+distance from science, and here, as usual in such experiments, no one
+could prove anything, owing to the complete unconsciousness of the
+principal witnesses."
+
+"I do not like to think that we have been near to such trouble," said
+Unorna.
+
+"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? Is
+there no danger of his suspecting anything?"
+
+It seemed as though Unorna had momentarily forgotten that such a
+contingency might be possible, and her anxiety returned with the
+recollection. Keyork's rolling laughter reverberated among the plants
+and 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
+the kind to succeed against me, my dear lady?"
+
+"And why not? After all, in spite of our jesting, you are not a
+supernatural being."
+
+"That depends entirely on the interpretation you give to the word
+supernatural. But, my dear friend and colleague, let us not deceive
+each other, though we are able between us to deceive other people into
+believing almost anything. There is nothing in all this witchcraft of
+yours but a very powerful moral influence at work--I mean apart from
+the mere faculty of clairvoyance which is possessed by hundreds of
+common somnambulists, and which, in you, is a mere accident. The rest,
+this hypnotism, this suggestion, this direction of others' wills, is a
+moral affair, a matter of direct impression produced by words. Mental
+suggestion may in rare cases succeed, when the person to be influenced
+is himself a natural clairvoyant. But these cases are not worth taking
+into consideration. Your influence is a direct one, chiefly exercised
+by means of your words and through the impression of power which you
+know how to convey in them. It is marvellous, I admit. But the very
+definition puts me beyond your power."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"Because there is not a human being alive, and I do not believe that a
+human being ever lived, who had the sense of independent individuality
+which I have. Let a man have the very smallest doubt concerning his
+own independence--let that doubt be ever so transitory and produced by
+any accident 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 dear
+Unorna, I am very careful in guarding against accidents of all sorts,
+for I have attempted to resuscitate a great many dead people and I
+have never succeeded, and I know that a false step on a slippery
+staircase may be quite as fatal as a teaspoonful of prussic acid--or
+an unrequited passion. I avoid all these things and many others. If I
+did not, and if you had any object in getting me under your influence,
+you would succeed sooner or later. Perhaps the day is not far distant
+when I will voluntarily sleep under your hand."
+
+Unorna glanced quickly at him.
+
+"And in that case," he added, "I am sure you could make me believe
+anything 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 which
+Unorna could not detect the least false modulation, though she fancied
+from his fixed gaze that he meant her to understand something which he
+could not say. "You look tired," he continued, "though it is becoming
+to your beauty to be pale--I always said so. I will not weary you. I
+was only going to say that if I were under your influence--you might
+easily make me believe that you were not yourself, but another woman--
+for the rest of my life."
+
+They stood looking at each other in silence during several seconds.
+Then Unorna 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
+left the hall together.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+Unorna was superstitious, as Keyork Arabian had once told her. She did
+not thoroughly understand herself and she had very little real
+comprehension of the method by which she produced such remarkable
+results. She was gifted with a sensitive and active imagination, which
+supplied her with semi-mystic formulae of thought and speech in place
+of reasoned explanations, and she undoubtedly attributed much of her
+own power to supernatural influences. In this respect, at least, she
+was no farther advanced than the witches of older days, and if her
+inmost convictions took a shape which would have seemed
+incomprehensible to those predecessors of hers, this was to be
+attributed in part to the innate superiority of her nature, and
+partly, also, to the high degree of cultivation in which her mental
+faculties had reached development.
+
+Keyork Arabian might spend hours in giving her learned explanations of
+what she did, but he never convinced her. Possibly he was not
+convinced himself, and he still hesitated, perhaps, between the two
+great theories advanced to explain the phenomena of hypnotism. He had
+told her that he considered her influence to be purely a moral one,
+exerted by means of language and supported by her extraordinary
+concentrated will. But it did not follow that he believed what he told
+her, and it was not improbable that he might have his own doubts on
+the subject--doubts which Unorna was not slow to suspect, and which
+destroyed for her the whole force of his reasoning. She fell back upon
+a sort of grossly unreasonable mysticism, combined with a blind belief
+in those hidden natural forces and secret virtues of privileged
+objects, which formed the nucleus of mediaeval scientific research.
+The field is a fertile one for the imagination and possesses a strange
+attraction for certain minds. There are men alive in our own time to
+whom the transmutation of metals does not seem an impossibility, nor
+the brewing of the elixir of life a matter to be scoffed at as a
+matter of course. The world is full of people who, in their inmost
+selves, put faith in the latent qualities of precious stones and
+amulets, who believe their fortunes, their happiness, and their lives
+to be directly influenced by some trifling object which they have
+always upon them. We do not know enough to state with assurance that
+the constant handling of any particular metal, or gem, may not produce
+a real and invariable corresponding effect upon the nerves. But we do
+know most positively that, when the belief in such talismans is once
+firmly established, the moral influence they exert upon men through
+the imagination is enormous. From this condition of mind to that in
+which auguries are drawn from outward and apparently accidental
+circumstances, is but a step. If Keyork Arabian inclined to the
+psychic rather than to the physical school in his view of Unorna's
+witchcraft and in his study of hypnotism in general, his opinion
+resulted naturally from his great knowledge of mankind, and of the
+unacknowledged, often unsuspected, convictions which in reality direct
+mankind's activity. It was this experience, too, and the certainty to
+which it had led him, that put him beyond the reach of Unorna's power
+so long as he chose not to yield himself to her will. Her position was
+in reality diametrically opposed to his, and although he repeated his
+reasonings to her from time to time, he was quite indifferent to the
+nature of her views, and never gave himself any real trouble to make
+her change them. The important point was that she should not lose
+anything of the gifts she possessed, and Keyork was wise enough to see
+that the exercise of them depended in a great measure upon her own
+conviction regarding their exceptional nature.
+
+Unorna herself believed in everything which strengthened and developed
+that conviction, and especially in the influences of time and place.
+It appeared to her a fortunate circumstance, when she at last
+determined to overcome her pride, that the resolution should have
+formed itself exactly a month after she had so successfully banished
+the memory of Beatrice from the mind of the man she loved. She felt
+sure of producing a result as effectual if, this time, she could work
+the second change in the same place and under the same circumstances
+as the first. And to this end everything was in her favour. She needed
+not to close her eyes to fancy that thirty days had not really passed
+between then and now, as she 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 the
+disturbance he had witnessed crossed his mind, still less could he
+guess what thing she meditated as she directed their walk towards that
+lonely place 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 of peaceful, well-satisfied indifference which possessed him,
+answered her in the same strain. It was yet barely afternoon, but
+there was already a foretaste of coming evening in the chilly air.
+
+"I have been thinking of what you said this morning," she said,
+suddenly changing the current of the conversation. "Did I thank you
+for your kindness?" She smiled as she laid her hand gently upon his
+arm, to cross a 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 answered
+thoughtfully. "It is hard for a woman like me to realise what it would
+be to have a brother--or a sister, or any one belonging to me. I
+needed to 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,
+singularly interesting woman, doing good, so far as he knew, in her
+own way, separated from ordinary existence by some unusual
+circumstances, and elevated above ordinary dangers by the strength and
+the pride of her own character. And yet, indolent and indifferent as
+he had grown of late, he was conscious of a vague curiosity in regard
+to her story. Keyork either really knew nothing, or pretended to know
+nothing of her origin.
+
+"I see that you are alone," said the Wanderer. "Have you always been
+so?"
+
+"Always. I have had an odd life. You could not understand it, if I
+told you 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 more
+limited, less fatal, more voluntary. It must seem strange to you--I do
+not 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 father
+nor 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,
+and who sometimes feared me. When I look back, I am amazed at their
+learning and 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 do
+not even know where that place was. I cannot tell you even the name of
+the 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. I sometimes 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 long
+journey, and I remember feeling tired as I was never tired before or
+since. They brought me here, they left me in a religious house among
+nuns. Then I was told that I was rich and free. My fortune was brought
+with me. That, at least, I know. But those who received it and who
+take care of it for me, know no more of its origin than I myself. Gold
+tells no tales, and the secret has been well kept. I would give much
+to know the 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 to
+understand," she added, and then was silent.
+
+"You have all the more need of understanding it, my dear friend," the
+Wanderer answered, looking at her thoughtfully.
+
+"Yes--perhaps so. I can see what friendship is. I can almost guess
+what it would be to have a brother."
+
+"And have you never thought of more than that?" He asked the question
+in his calmest and most friendly tone, somewhat deferentially as
+though fearing lest it should seem tactless and be unwelcome.
+
+"Yes, I have thought of love also," she answered, in a low voice. But
+she said nothing more, and they walked on for some time in silence.
+
+They came out upon the open place by the river which she remembered so
+well. Unorna glanced about her and her face fell. The place was the
+same, but the solitude was disturbed. It was not Sunday as it had been
+on that day a month ago. All about the huge blocks of stone, groups of
+workmen were busy with great chisels and heavy hammers, hewing and
+chipping and fashioning the material that it might be ready for use in
+the early spring. Even the river was changed. Men were standing upon
+the ice, cutting it into long symmetrical strips, to be hauled ashore.
+Some of the great pieces were already separated from the main ice, and
+sturdy fellows, clad in dark woollen, were poling them over the dark
+water to the foot of the gently sloping road where heavy carts stood
+ready to receive the load when cut up into blocks. The dark city was
+taking in a great provision of its own coldness against the summer
+months.
+
+Unorna looked about her. Everywhere there were people at work, and she
+was more disappointed than she would own to herself at the invasion of
+the solitude. The Wanderer looked from the stone-cutters to the ice-
+men with 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 cannot
+bear the sight of people to-day."
+
+They turned in a new direction, Unorna guiding her companion by a
+gesture. They were near to the Jewish quarter, and presently were
+threading their way through narrow and filthy streets thronged with
+eager Hebrew faces, and filled with the hum of low-pitched voices
+chattering together, not in the language of the country, but in a base
+dialect of German. They were in the heart of Prague, in that dim
+quarter which is one of the strongholds of the Israelite, whence he
+directs great enterprises and sets in motion huge financial schemes,
+in which Israel sits, as a great spider in the midst of a dark web,
+dominating the whole capital with his eagle's glance and weaving the
+destiny of the Bohemian people to suit his intricate speculations. For
+throughout the length and breadth of Slavonic and German Austria the
+Jew rules, and rules alone.
+
+Unorna gathered her furs more closely about her, in evident disgust at
+her surroundings, but still she kept on her way. Her companion,
+scarcely less familiar with the sights of Prague than she herself,
+walked by her side, glancing carelessly at the passing people, at the
+Hebrew signs, at the dark entrances that lead to courts within courts
+and into labyrinths of dismal lanes and passages, looking at
+everything with the same serene indifference, and idly wondering what
+made Unorna choose to walk that way. Then he saw that she was going
+towards the cemetery. They reached the door, were admitted and found
+themselves alone in the vast wilderness.
+
+In the midst of the city lies the ancient burial ground, now long
+disused but still undisturbed, many acres of uneven land, covered so
+thickly with graves, and planted so closely with granite and sandstone
+slabs, that the paths will scarce allow two persons to walk side by
+side. The stones stand and lie in all conceivable positions, erect,
+slanting at every angle, prostrate upon the earth or upon others
+already fallen before them--two, three, and even four upon a grave,
+where generations of men have been buried one upon the other--stones
+large and small, covered with deep-cut inscriptions in the Hebrew
+character, bearing the sculpture of two uplifted hands, wherever the
+Kohns, the children of the tribe of Aaron, are laid to rest, or the
+gracefully chiselled ewer of the Levites. Here they lie, thousands
+upon thousands of dead Jews, great and small, rich and poor, wise and
+ignorant, neglected individually, but guarded as a whole with all the
+tenacious determination of the race to hold its own, and to preserve
+the sacredness of its dead. In the dim light of the winter's afternoon
+it is as though a great army of men had fallen fighting there, and had
+been turned to stone as they fell. Rank upon rank they lie, with that
+irregularity which comes of symmetry destroyed, like columns and files
+of soldiers shot down in the act of advancing. And in winter, the gray
+light falling upon the untrodden snow throws a pale reflection upwards
+against each stone, as though from the myriad sepulchres a faintly
+luminous vapour were rising to the outer air. Over all, the rugged
+brushwood and the stunted trees intertwine their leafless branches and
+twigs in a thin, ghostly network of gray, that clouds the view of the
+farther distance without interrupting it, a forest of shadowy
+skeletons clasping fleshless, bony hands one with another, from grave
+to grave, as far as the eye can see.
+
+The stillness in the place is intense. Not a murmur of distant life
+from the surrounding city disturbs the silence. At rare intervals a
+strong breath of icy wind stirs the dead branches and makes them crack
+and rattle against the gravestones and against each other as in a
+dance of death. It is a wild and dreary place. In the summer, indeed,
+the thick leafage lends it a transitory colour and softness, but in
+the depth of winter, when there is nothing to hide the nakedness of
+truth, when the snow lies thick upon the ground and the twined twigs
+and twisted trunks scarce cast a tracery of shadow under the sunless
+sky, the utter desolation and loneliness of the spot have a horror of
+their own, not to be described, but never to be forgotten.
+
+Unorna walked forward in silence, choosing a path so narrow that her
+companion found himself obliged to drop behind and follow in her
+footsteps. In the wildest part of this wilderness of death there is a
+little rising of the ground. Here both the gravestones and the stunted
+trees are thickest, and the solitude is, if possible, even more
+complete than elsewhere. As she reached the highest point Unorna stood
+still, turned quickly towards the Wanderer and held out both her hands
+towards him.
+
+"I have chosen this place, because it is quiet," she said, with a soft
+smile.
+
+Hardly knowing why he did so, he laid his hands in hers and looked
+kindly 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
+at her, and saw for the hundredth time that she was very beautiful.
+There was a faint colour in her cheeks, and her full lips were just
+parted as though a loving word had escaped them which she would not
+willingly recall. Against the background of broken neutral tints, her
+figure stood out, an incarnation of youth and vitality. If she had
+often looked weary and pale of late, her strength and freshness had
+returned to her now in all their abundance. The Wanderer knew that he
+was watching her, and knew that he was thinking of her beauty and
+realising the whole extent of it more fully than ever before, but
+beyond this point his thoughts could 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 to close his own, or to look away from her,
+and then, an instant later, he knew 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 was already in a dream, and he
+fancied that the beautiful figure shone with a soft, rosy light of its
+own in the midst of the gloomy waste. Looking into her sunlike eyes,
+he saw there twin images of himself, that drew him softly and surely
+into themselves until he was absorbed by them and felt that he was no
+longer a reality but a reflection. Then a deep unconsciousness stole
+over all his senses and he slept, or passed into that state which
+seems to lie between sleep and trance.
+
+Unorna needed not to question him this time, for she saw that he was
+completely under her influence. Yet she hesitated at the supreme
+moment, and then, though to all real intents she was quite alone, a
+burning flush of shame rose to her face, and her heart sank within
+her. She felt that she could not do it.
+
+She dropped his hands. They fell to his sides as though they had been
+of lead. Then she turned from him and pressed her aching forehead
+against a tall weather-worn stone that rose higher than her own height
+from the midst of the hillock.
+
+Her woman's nature rebelled against the trick. It was the truest thing
+in her and perhaps the best, which protested so violently against the
+thing she meant to do; it was the simple longing to be loved for her
+own sake, and of the man's own free will, to be loved by him with the
+love she had despised in Israel Kafka. But would this be love at all,
+this artificial creation of her suggestion reacting upon his mind?
+Would it last? 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 of time.
+
+Then the ready excuse flashed upon her--the pretext which the heart
+will always 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 of friendship which had surprised her and wounded her so
+deeply, be the herald of a stronger passion? She looked up quickly and
+met his vacant stare.
+
+"Do you love me?" she asked, almost before she knew what she was going
+to say.
+
+"No." The answer came in the far-off voice that told of his
+unconsciousness, a mere toneless monosyllable breathed upon the murky
+air. But it stabbed her like the thrust of a jagged knife. A long
+silence followed, and Unorna leaned against the great slab of carved
+sandstone.
+
+Even to her there was something awful in his powerless, motionless
+presence. The noble face, pale and set as under a mask, the thoughtful
+brow, the dominating features, were not those of a man born to be a
+plaything to the will of a woman. The commanding figure towered in the
+grim surroundings like a dark statue, erect, unmoving, and in no way
+weak. And yet she knew that she had but to speak and the figure would
+move, the lips would form words, the voice would reach her ear. He
+would raise this hand or that, step forwards or backwards, at her
+command, affirm what she bid him affirm, and deny whatever she chose
+to hear denied. For a moment she wished that he had been as Keyork
+Arabian, stronger than she; then, with the half-conscious comparison
+the passion for the man himself surged up and drowned every other
+thought. She almost forgot that for the time he was not to be counted
+among the living. She went to him, and clasped her hands upon his
+shoulder, and looked 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 neither
+acknowledgment nor response. Like a marble statue he stood still, and
+she leaned upon his shoulder.
+
+"Do you not hear me?" she cried in a more passionate tone. "Do you not
+understand 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 for
+you? And yet I know that I am fair. Or are you ashamed because people
+call me a witch? Why then I will never be one again, for your sake!
+What do I care for it all? Can it be anything to me--can anything have
+worth that 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 sudden
+flush.
+
+"No. I do not despise you." Something in her tone had pierced through
+his stupor and had found an answer. She started at the sound of his
+voice. It was as though he had been awake and had known the weight of
+what she had been saying, and her anger rose at the cold reply.
+
+"No--you do not despise me, and you never shall!" she exclaimed
+passionately. "You shall love me, as I love you--I will it, with all
+my will! We are created to be all, one to the other, and you shall not
+break through the destiny of love. Love me, as I love you--love me
+with all 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, I command it--it shall be as I say--you dare not disobey me--you
+cannot if you would."
+
+She paused, but this time no answer came. There was not even a
+contraction 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,
+and I 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
+from now until you die--until you die," she repeated fiercely.
+
+Again he was silent. She felt that she had no hold upon his heart or
+mind, 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
+and pressed 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 to
+her. 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 sacred
+place, and makes it his, and tears down the old gods and sets up his
+dear 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 you
+indeed of stone, and have you a stone for a heart? Love can melt even
+stones, being set in man as the great central fire in the earth to
+burn the hardest things to streams of liquid flame! And see, again,
+how very soft and gentle he can be! See how I love you--see how sweet
+it is--how very lovely a thing it is to love as woman can. There--have
+you felt it now? Have you seen into the depths of my soul and into the
+hiding-places of 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 not all yours? Take it, and plant it with strong roots
+and seeds of undying life in your own sleeping breast, and let it
+grow, and grow, till it is 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 life and 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 and
+cold. A strange light was upon his features, the passing radiance of a
+supreme happiness seen in the vision of a dream. Again she laid her
+hands upon his shoulder clasped together, as she had done at first.
+She knew that her words had touched him and she was confident of the
+result, confident as one who loves beyond reason. Already in
+imagination she fancied him returning to consciousness, not knowing
+that he had slept, but waking with a gentle word just trembling upon
+his lips, the words she longed to hear.
+
+One moment more, she thought. It was good to see that light upon his
+face, to fancy how that first word would sound, to feel that the
+struggle was past and that there was nothing but happiness in the
+future, full, overflowing, overwhelming, reaching from earth to heaven
+and through time to eternity. One moment, only, before she let him
+wake--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
+always there now, she thought.
+
+At last she spoke.
+
+"Then love, since you are mine, and I am yours, wake from the dream to
+life itself--wake, not knowing that you have slept, knowing only that
+you love me now and always--wake, love wake!"
+
+She waved her delicate hand before his eyes and still resting the
+other upon his shoulder, watched the returning brightness in the dark
+pupils that had been glazed and fixed a moment before. And as she
+looked, her own beauty grew radiant in the splendour of a joy even
+greater than she had dreamed of. As it had seemed to him when he had
+lost himself in her gaze, so now she also fancied that the grim, gray
+wilderness was full of a 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 for her; the crumbling gravestones were turned to
+polished pillars in the temple of an immortal love, and the ghostly,
+leafless trees blossomed with the undying flowers of the earthly
+paradise.
+
+One moment only, and then all was gone. The change came, sure, swift
+and cruel. As she looked, it came, gradual, in that it passed through
+every degree, but sudden also, as the fall of a fair and mighty
+building, which being undermined in its foundations passes in one
+short minute through 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 parted sweetly, as forming the word that was to answer his, and
+the calm indifferent face of the waking man was already before her.
+
+"What is it?" he asked, in his kind and passionless voice. "What were
+you going to ask me, Unorna?"
+
+It was gone. The terribly earnest appeal had been in vain. Not a trace
+of that short vision of love remained impressed upon his brain.
+
+With a smothered cry of agony Unorna leaned against the great slab of
+stone behind her and covered her eyes. The darkness of night descended
+upon her, and with it the fire of a burning shame.
+
+Then a loud and cruel laugh rang through the chilly air, such a laugh
+as the devils in hell bestow upon the shame of a proud soul that knows
+its own infinite bitterness. Unorna started and uncovered her eyes,
+her suffering changed in a single instant to ungovernable and
+destroying anger. She made a step forwards and then stopped short,
+breathing hard. The Wanderer, too, had turned, more quickly than she.
+Between two tall gravestones, not a dozen paces away, stood a man with
+haggard face and eyes on fire, his keen, worn features contorted by a
+smile in which unspeakable satisfaction struggled for expression with
+a profound despair.
+
+The man was Israel Kafka.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+The Wanderer looked from Unorna to Kafka with profound surprise. He
+had never seen the man and had no means of knowing who he was, still
+less of guessing what had brought him to the lonely place, or why he
+had broken into a laugh, of which the harsh, wild tones still echoed
+through the wide cemetery. Totally unconscious of all that had
+happened to himself during the preceding quarter of an hour, the
+Wanderer was deprived of the key to the situation. He only understood
+that the stranger was for some reason or other deeply incensed against
+Unorna, and he realised that the intruder had, on the moment of
+appearance, no control over himself.
+
+Israel Kafka remained where he stood, between the two tall stones, one
+hand resting on each, his body inclined a little forward, his dark,
+sunken eyes, bloodshot and full of a turbid, angry brightness, bent
+intently upon Unorna's face. He looked as though he were about to move
+suddenly forwards, but it was impossible to foresee that he might not
+as suddenly retreat, as a lean and hungry tiger crouches for a moment
+in uncertainty whether to fight or fly, when after tracking down his
+man he finds him not alone and defenceless as he had anticipated, but
+well-armed and in company.
+
+The Wanderer's indolence was only mental, and was moreover transitory
+and artificial. When he saw Unorna advance, he quickly placed himself
+between 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 upon
+her arm with a gesture that betrayed his anxiety for her safety. At
+his touch, 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 voice
+half-choked with passion and anger. "She will tell you she does not
+know me--she will deny my existence to my face. But she knows me very
+well. I am Israel Kafka."
+
+The Wanderer looked at him more curiously. He remembered what he had
+heard but a few hours earlier from Keyork concerning the young
+fellow's madness. 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 the
+disposal of an inanimate object, instead of to the taking into custody
+of a madman.
+
+"Do with me?" cried Kafka, advancing suddenly a step forwards from
+between the slabs. "Do with me? Do you speak of me as though I were a
+dog--a dumb animal--but I will----"
+
+He choked and coughed, and could not finish the sentence. There was a
+hectic flush in his cheek and his thin, graceful frame shook violently
+from head to foot. Unable to speak for the moment, he waved his hand
+in a 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 the
+cemetery and must have overheard Unorna's passionate appeal and must
+have seen and understood the means she was using to win the Wanderer's
+love. Her anger was terrible. She had suffered enough secret shame
+already in stooping to the use of her arts in such a course. It had
+cost her one of the greatest struggles of her life, and her
+disappointment at the result had been proportionately bitter. In that
+alone she had endured almost as much pain as she could bear. But to
+find suddenly that her humiliation, her hot speech, her failure, the
+look which she knew had been on her face until the moment when the
+Wanderer awoke, that all this had been seen and heard by Israel Kafka
+was intolerable. Even Keyork's unexpected appearance could not have so
+fired her wrath. Keyork might have laughed at her afterwards, but her
+failure would have been no triumph to him. Was not Keyork enlisted on
+her side, ready to help her at all times, by word or deed, in
+accordance with the terms of their agreement? But of all men Kafka,
+whom she had so wronged, was the one man who should have been ignorant
+of her defeat and miserable shame.
+
+"Go!" she cried, with a gesture of command. Her eyes flashed and her
+extended hand trembled.
+
+There was such concentrated fury in a single word that the Wanderer
+started in surprise, ignorant as he was of the true state of things.
+
+"You are uselessly unkind," he said gravely. "The poor man is mad. Let
+me 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 and
+faced her. As when many different forces act together at one point,
+producing after the first shock a resultant little expected, so the
+many passions that were at work in his face finally twisted his lips
+into a smile.
+
+"Yes," he said, in a low tone, which did not express submission.
+"Leave me to her! Leave me to the Witch and to her mercy. It will be
+the end this time. She is drunk with her love of you and mad with her
+hatred of me."
+
+Unorna grew suddenly pale, and would have again sprung forward. But
+the Wanderer stopped her and held her arm. At the same time he looked
+into Kafka'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 madness
+excuses you, perhaps, but it does not justify me in allowing you to
+insult a woman."
+
+Kafka's anger took a new direction. Even madmen are often calmed by
+the quiet opposition of a strong and self-possessed man. And Kafka was
+not mad. 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
+the Israelite's quick tact veiled the rough face of his dangerous
+humour.
+
+"I insult no one," he said, almost deferentially. "Least of all her
+whom I 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 forgiven for the sake of what I have suffered. For I have suffered
+much."
+
+Seeing that he was taking a more courteous tone, the Wanderer folded
+his arms and left Unorna free to move, awaiting her commands, or the
+further development of events. He saw in her face that her anger was
+not subsiding, and he wondered less at it after hearing Kafka's
+insulting speech. It was a pity, he thought, that any one should take
+so seriously a maniac's words, but he was nevertheless resolved that
+they should not be repeated. After all, it would be an easy matter, if
+the man again overstepped the bounds of gentle speech, to take him
+bodily away from Unorna'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 quick
+outburst of anger from Kafka, in reply. But he was disappointed in
+this. The smile still lingered on the Moravian's face, when he
+answered, and his expressive voice, no longer choking with passion,
+grew very soft and musical.
+
+"It is not mine to charm," he said. "It is not given to me to make
+slaves of all living things with hand and eye and word. Such power
+Nature does not give to all, she has given none to me. I have no spell
+to win Unorna's love--and if I had, I cannot say that I would take a
+love thus earned."
+
+He paused a moment and Unorna grew paler. She started, but then did
+not move again. His words had power to wound her, but she trembled
+lest the Wanderer 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. The
+star of love was not in the ascendant, the lord of magic charms was
+not trembling upon my horizon, the sun of earthly happiness was not
+enthroned in my mid-heaven. How could it be? She had it all, this
+Unorna here, and Nature, generous in one mad moment, lavished upon her
+all there was to give. For she has all, and we have nothing, as I have
+learned and you will learn before you die."
+
+He looked at the Wanderer as he spoke. His hollow eyes seemed calm
+enough, and in his dejected attitude and subdued tone there was
+nothing that gave warning of a coming storm. The Wanderer listened,
+half-interested and yet half-annoyed by his persistence. Unorna
+herself was silent still.
+
+"The nightingale was singing on that night," continued Kafka. "It was
+a dewy night in early spring, and the air was very soft, when Unorna
+first breathed it. The world was not asleep but dreaming, when her
+eyes first opened to look upon it. Heaven had put on all its glories--
+across its silent breast was bound the milk-white ribband, its crest
+was crowned with God's crown-jewels, the great northern stars, its
+mighty form was robed 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 myriad million gems was darkened by a breath of wind-blown
+mist. The earth was very still, all wrapped in peace and lulled in
+love. The great trees pointed their dark spires upwards from the
+temple of the forest to the firmament of the greater temple on high.
+In the starlight the year's first roses breathed out the perfume
+gathered from the departed sun, and every dewdrop in the short, sweet
+grass caught in its little self the reflection of heaven's vast glory.
+Only, in the universal stillness, the nightingale sang the song of
+songs, and bound the angel of love with the chains of her linked
+melody and made him captive in bonds stronger than his own."
+
+Israel Kafka spoke dreamily, resting against the stone beside him,
+seemingly little conscious of the words that fell in oriental imagery
+from his lips. In other days Unorna had heard him speak like this to
+her, and she had loved the speech, though not the man, and sometimes
+for its sake she had wished her heart could find its fellow in his.
+And even now, the tone and the words had a momentary effect upon her.
+What would have sounded as folly, overwrought, sentimental, almost
+laughable, perhaps, to other women, found an echo in her own childish
+memories and a sympathy in her belief in her own mysterious nature.
+The Wanderer had heard men talk as Israel Kafka talked, in other
+lands, where speech is prized by men and women not for its tough
+strength but for its wealth of flowers.
+
+"And love was her first captive," said the Moravian, "and her first
+slave. Yes, I will tell you the story of Unorna's life. She is angry
+with me now. Well, let it be. It is my fault--or hers. What matter?
+She cannot quite forget me out of mind--and I? Has Lucifer forgotten
+God?"
+
+He sighed, and a momentary light flashed in his eyes. Something in the
+blasphemous strength of the words attracted the Wanderer's attention.
+Utterly indifferent himself, he saw that there was something more than
+madness in the man before him. He found himself wondering what
+encouragement Unorna had given the seed of passion that it should have
+grown 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 amid
+the perfume of the roses, under the starlight, when the nightingale
+was singing. And all things that lived, loved her, and submitted to
+her voice and hand, and to her eyes and to her unspoken will, as
+running water follows the course men give it, winding and gliding,
+falling and rushing, full often of a roar of resistance that covers
+the deep, quick-moving stream, flowing in spite of itself through the
+channel that is dug for it to the determined end. And nothing resisted
+her. Neither man nor woman nor child had any strength to oppose
+against her magic. The wolf hounds licked her feet, the wolves
+themselves crouched fawning in her path. For she is without fear--as
+she is without mercy. Is that strange? What fear can there be for her
+who has the magic charm, who holds sleep in the one hand and death in
+the other, and between whose brows is set the knowledge of what shall
+be hereafter? Can any one harm her? Has any one the strength to harm
+her? Is there anything on earth which she covets and which shall not
+be hers?"
+
+Though his voice was almost as soft as before, the evil smile
+flickered again about his drawn lips as he looked into Unorna's face.
+He wondered why she did not face him and crush him and force him to
+sleep with her eyes as he knew she could do. But he himself was past
+fear. He had suffered too much and cared not what chanced to him now.
+But she should know that he knew all, if he told her so with his
+latest breath. Despair had given him a strange control of his anger
+and of his words, and jealousy had taught him the art of wounding
+swiftly, surely and with a light touch. Sooner or later she would turn
+upon him and annihilate him in a dream of unconsciousness; he knew
+that, and he knew that such faint power of resisting her as he had
+ever possessed was gone. But so long as she was willing to listen to
+him, so long would he torture her with the sting of her own shame, and
+when her patience ended, or her caprice changed, he would find some
+bitter word to cast at her in the moment before 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 the utmost, with all
+subtlety, with all cruelty, with all determination to torture.
+
+"Whatsoever she covets is hers to take. No one escapes the spell in
+the end, no one resists the charm. And yet it is written in the book
+of her fate that she shall one day taste the fruit of ashes, and drink
+of the bitter water. It is written that whosoever slays with the sword
+shall die by the sword also. She has killed with love, and by love she
+shall perish. I loved her once. I know what I am saying."
+
+Again he paused, lingering thoughtfully upon the words. The Wanderer
+glanced at Unorna as though asking her whether he should not put a
+sudden end to the strange monologue. She was pale and her eyes were
+bright; but she shook her head.
+
+"Let him say what he will say," she answered, taking the question as
+though it had been spoken. "Let him say all he will. Perhaps it is the
+last 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--before
+this other man. And then you will make an end of me. I see. I accept
+the offer. I can even thank you for your patience. You are kind
+to-day--I have known you harder. Well, then, I will speak out. I will
+tell my story, not that any one may judge between you and me. There is
+neither judge nor justice for those who love in vain. So I loved you.
+That is the whole story. Do you understand me, sir? I loved this
+woman, but she would not love me. That is all. And what of it, and
+what then? Look at her, and look at me--the beginning and the end."
+
+In a manner familiar to Orientals the unhappy man laid one finger upon
+his own breast, and with the other hand pointed at Unorna's fair young
+face. The Wanderer's eyes obeyed the guiding gesture, and he looked
+from one to the other, and again the belief crossed his thoughts that
+there was less of madness about Israel Kafka than Keyork would have
+had him think. Trying to read the truth from Unorna's eyes, he saw
+that they avoided his, and he fancied he detected symptoms of distress
+in her pallor and contracted lips. And yet he argued that if it were
+all true she would silence the speaker, and that the only reason for
+her patience must be sought in her willingness to humour the diseased
+brain in its wanderings. In either case he pitied Israel Kafka
+profoundly, and his compassion increased from one moment to another.
+
+"I loved her. There is a history in those three words which neither
+the eloquent 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 and phrases, and describe love at my leisure. She grants me
+time; she is very merciful to-day. What would you have me say? You
+know what love is. Think of such love as yours can have been, and take
+twice that, and three times over, and a hundred thousand times, and
+cram it, burning, flaming, melting into your bursting heart--then you
+would know a tenth of what I have known. Love, indeed! Who can have
+known love but me? I stand alone. Since the dull, unlovely world first
+jarred and trembled and began to move, there has not been another of
+my kind, nor has man suffered as I have suffered, and been crushed and
+torn and thrown aside to die, without even the mercy of a death-wound.
+Describe it? Tell it? Look at me! I am both love's description and the
+epitaph on his gravestone. In me he lived, me he tortured, with me he
+dies never to live 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 in return. Do not think that--do not dream that. Do you
+not know that the fiercest drought is as a spring rain to the rocks,
+which thirst not and need no refreshment?"
+
+Again he fixed his eyes on Unorna's face and faintly smiled.
+Apparently she was displeased.
+
+"What is it that you would say?" she asked coldly. "What is this that
+you tell us of rocks and rain, and death-wounds, and the rest? You say
+you loved me once--that was a madness. You say that I never loved you
+--that, at least, is truth. Is that your story? It is indeed short
+enough, 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 the
+sombre fire beamed in them as he spoke again. The weary, tortured
+smile left his wan lips, and his pale face grew stern.
+
+"Laugh, laugh, Unorna!" he cried. "You do not laugh alone. And yet--I
+love you still, I love you so well in spite of all that I cannot laugh
+at you as I would, even though I were to see you again clinging to the
+rock and imploring it to take pity on your thirst. And he who dies for
+you, Unorna--of him you ask nothing, save that he will crawl away and
+die alone, and not disturb your delicate life with such an unseemly
+sight."
+
+"You talk of death!" exclaimed Unorna scornfully. "You talk of dying
+for me because you are ill to-day. To-morrow, Keyork Arabian will have
+cured you, 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 must be more eloquent. You must give us such a tale of woe as
+shall draw tears from our eyes and sobs from our breasts--then we will
+applaud you and let you go. That shall be your reward."
+
+The Wanderer glanced at her in surprise. There was a bitterness in her
+tone 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
+made her crooked-hearted! Love her, and she will hate you as only she
+has learned how to hate. Show her that cold face of yours, and she
+will love you 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 kind of heart, for it freezes when you burn it, and melts
+when you freeze it."
+
+"Are you mad, indeed?" asked the Wanderer, suddenly planting himself
+in front 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. You would know that if you knew what I saw her do with you,
+first when I came here."
+
+"What did she do?" The Wanderer turned quickly as he stood, and looked
+at Unorna.
+
+"Do not listen to his ravings," she said. The words seemed weak and
+poorly chosen, and there was a strange look in her face as though she
+were either afraid or desperate, or both.
+
+"She loves you," said Israel Kafka calmly. "And you do not know it.
+She has power over you, as she has over me, but the power to make you
+love her she has not. She will destroy you, and your state will be no
+better than mine to-day. We shall have moved on a step, for I shall be
+dead and you will be the madman, and she will have found another to
+love and to torture. The world is full of them. Her altar will never
+lack sacrifices."
+
+The Wanderer's face was grave.
+
+"You may be mad or not," he said. "I cannot tell. But you say
+monstrous things, 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.
+Find it in your own way. It will not be the less sure. Speak--say what
+you will. You shall not be interrupted."
+
+The Wanderer drew back, not understanding what was passing, nor why
+Unorna was so long-suffering.
+
+"Say all you have to say," she repeated, coming forward so that she
+stood directly in front of Israel Kafka. "And you," she added,
+speaking to the Wanderer, "leave him to me. He is quite right--I can
+protect myself 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 expect it, I was foolish and unthinking. I should have known you
+better. I should have known that there is one half of your word which
+you never break--the cruel half, and one thing which you cannot
+forgive, and which is my love for you. And yet that is the very thing
+which I cannot forget. 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 strain
+of reproach and spoke once more of his love for her.
+
+"Yes, I see what you mean," he said, very quietly. "You mean to show
+me by your face that you give me no hope. I should have known that by
+other things I have seen here. God knows, I have seen enough! But I
+meant to find 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 you despise me? Do you think I still care, because
+you do? Love is stronger than the woman loved and for her we do deeds
+of baseness, unblushingly, which she would forbid our doing, and for
+which she despises us when she hates us, and loves us the more dearly
+when she loves us at all. You hate me--then despise me, too, if you
+will. It is too late to care. I followed you like a spy, I saw what I
+expected to see, I have suffered what I knew I should suffer. You know
+that I have been away during this whole month, and that I have
+travelled thousands of leagues in the hope of forgetting you."
+
+"And yet I fancied I had seen you within the month," Unorna said, with
+a cruel smile.
+
+"They say that ghosts haunt the places they have loved," answered
+Kafka unmoved. "If that be true I may have troubled your dreams and
+you may have seen me. I have come back broken in body and in heart. I
+think I have come back to die here. The life is going out of me, but
+before it is quite gone I can say two things. I can tell you that I
+know you at last, and that, in spite of the horror of knowing what you
+are, I love you still."
+
+"Am I so very horrible?" she asked scornfully.
+
+"You know what you are, better than I can tell you, but not better
+than I know. I know even the secret meaning of your moods and
+caprices. I know 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,
+for you know that I know, and that alone is a sin past all
+forgiveness, and over and above that I am guilty of the crime of
+loving when you have no love 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
+account of the height of my folly when I see the depth of my love,
+which has swallowed up myself and all my life. In the last hour I have
+known its depth and breadth and strength, for I have seen what it can
+bear. And why should I complain of it? Have I not many times said that
+I would die for 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 I know 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 the
+love that no martyrdom could kill. Ay--to prove that love I would die
+a hundred 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 you
+come out of your hiding-place and accuse me of things I have neither
+done nor thought of doing, building up falsehood upon lie, and lie
+upon falsehood in the attempt to ruin me in the eyes of one who has my
+friendship and who is my friend. You are foolish to throw yourself
+upon my mercy, Israel Kafka."
+
+"Foolish? Yes, and mad, too! And my madness is all you have left me--
+take it--it is yours! You cannot kill my love. Deny my words, deny
+your deeds! Let all be false in you--it is but one pain more, and my
+heart is not broken yet. It will bear another. Tell me that what I saw
+had 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 to me, whether you speak truth or not? Tell me it is not true that
+I would die a thousand martyrdoms for your sake, as you are, and if
+you were a thousand times worse than you are! Your wrong, your right,
+your truth, your falsehood, you yourself are swallowed up in the love
+I bear you! I love you always, and I will say it, and say it again--
+ah, your eyes! I love them, too! Take me into them, Unorna--whether in
+hate or love--but in love--yes--love--Unorna--golden Unorna!"
+
+With the cry on his lips--the name he had given her in other days--he
+made one mad step forwards, throwing out his arms as though to clasp
+her to him. But it was too late. Even while he had been speaking her
+mysterious 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 him
+against the tall slab. The whole pitilessness of her nature gleamed
+like a cold light in her white face.
+
+"There was a martyr of your race once," she said in cruel tones. "His
+name was Simon Abeles. You talk of martyrdom! You shall know what it
+means--though it be too good for you, who spy upon the woman whom you
+say you love."
+
+The hectic flush of passion sank from Israel Kafka's cheek. Rigid,
+with outstretched arms and bent head, he stood against the ancient
+gravestone. Above him, as though raised to heaven in silent
+supplication, were the sculptured hands that marked the last resting-
+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 spoke
+quietly and very distinctly as though to impress every word upon the
+ear of the man who was in her power. The Wanderer listened, too,
+scarcely comprehending at first, but slowly yielding to the influence
+she exerted until the vision rose before him also with all its moving
+scenes, in all its truth and in all its horror. As in a dream the
+deeds that had been passed before him, the desolate burial-ground was
+peopled with forms and faces of other days, the gravestones rose from
+the earth and piled themselves into gloomy houses and remote courts
+and dim streets and venerable churches, the dry and twisted trees
+shrank down, and broadened and swung their branches as arms, and drew
+up their roots out of the ground as feet under them and moved hither
+and thither. And the knots and bosses and gnarls upon them became
+faces, dark, eagle-like and keen, and the creaking and crackling of
+the boughs and twigs under the piercing blast that swept by, became
+articulate and like the voices of old men talking angrily together.
+There were sudden changes from day to night and from night to day. In
+dark chambers crouching men took counsel of blood together under the
+feeble rays of a flickering lamp. In the uncertain twilight of winter,
+muffled figures lurked at the corner of streets, waiting for some one
+to pass, who must not escape them. As the Wanderer gazed and listened,
+Israel Kafka was transformed. He no longer stood with outstretched
+arms, his back against a crumbling slab, his filmy eyes fixed on
+Unorna's face. He grew younger; his features were those of a boy of
+scarcely thirteen years, pale, earnest and brightened by a soft light
+which followed him hither and thither, and he was not alone. He moved
+with others through the old familiar streets of the city, clothed in a
+fashion of other times, speaking in accents comprehensible but unlike
+the speech of to-day, acting in a dim and far-off life that had once
+been.
+
+The Wanderer looked, and, as in dreams, he knew that what he saw was
+unreal, he knew that the changing walls and streets and houses and
+public places were built up of gravestones which in truth were deeply
+planted in the ground, immovable and incapable of spontaneous motion;
+he knew that the crowds of men and women were not human beings but
+gnarled and twisted trees rooted in the earth, and that the hum of
+voices which reached his ears was but the sound of dried branches
+bending in the wind; he knew that Israel Kafka was not the pale-faced
+boy who glided from place to place followed everywhere by a soft
+radiance; he knew that Unorna was the source and origin of the vision,
+and that the mingling speeches of the actors, now shrill in angry
+altercation, now hissing in low, fierce whisper, were really formed
+upon Unorna's lips and made audible through her tones, as the chorus
+of indistinct speech proceeded from the swaying trees. It was to him
+an illusion of which he understood the 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 unfold itself. He understood further
+that Israel Kafka was in a state different from this, that he was
+suffering all the reality of another life, which to the Wanderer was
+but a dream. For the moment all his faculties had a double perception
+of things and sounds, distinguishing clearly between the fact and the
+mirage that distorted and obscured it. For the moment he was aware
+that his reason was awake though his eyes and his ears might be
+sleeping. Then the unequal contest between the senses and the
+intellect ceased, and while still retaining the dim consciousness that
+the source of all he saw and heard lay in Unorna's brain, he allowed
+himself to be led quickly from one scene to another, absorbed and
+taken out of himself by the horror of the deeds done before him.
+
+At first, indeed, the vision, though vivid, seemed objectless and of
+uncertain meaning. The dark depths of the Jews' quarter of the city
+were opened, and it was towards evening. Throngs of gowned men,
+crooked, bearded, filthy, vulture-eyed, crowded upon each other in a
+narrow public place, talking in quick, shrill accents, gesticulating,
+with hands 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 the gloom like fitful flashes of lightning, plucking at each
+other by the sleeve and pointing long fingers and crooked nails, two,
+three and four at a time, as markers, in their ready reckoning, a
+writhing mass of humanity, intoxicated by the smell of gold, mad for
+its possession, half hysteric with the fear of losing it, timid, yet
+dangerous, poisoned to the core by the sweet sting of money, terrible
+in intelligence, vile in heart, contemptible in body, irresistible in
+the unity of their greed--the Jews of Prague, two hundred years ago.
+
+In one corner of the dusky place there was a little light. A boy stood
+there, beside a veiled woman, and the light that seemed to cling about
+him was not the reflection of gold. He was very young. His pale face
+had in 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, the features noble, aquiline--not vulture-like. Such a face
+might holy Stephen, Deacon and Protomartyr, have turned upon the young
+men who laid their garments at the fee of the unconverted Saul.
+
+He stood there, looking on at the scene in the market-place, not
+wondering, for nothing of it was new to him, not scorning, for he felt
+no hate, not wrathful, for he dreamed of peace. He would have had it
+otherwise--that was all. He would have had the stream flow back upon
+its source and take a new channel for itself, he would have seen the
+strength of his people wielded in cleaner deeds for nobler aims. The
+gold he hated, the race for it he despised, the poison of it he
+loathed, but he had neither loathing nor contempt nor hatred for the
+men themselves. He looked upon them and he loved to think that the
+carrion vulture might once again be purified and lifted on strong
+wings and become, as in old days, the eagle of the mountains.
+
+For many minutes he gazed in silence. Then he sighed and turned away.
+He held certain books in his hand, for he had come from the school of
+the synagogue where, throughout the short winter days, the rabbis
+taught him and his companions the mysteries of the sacred tongue. The
+woman by his side was a servant in his father's house, and it was her
+duty to attend him through the streets, until the day when, being
+judged a man, he should 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 was
+always about him grew brighter, and spread out arms behind him, to the
+right and left, in the figure of a cross.
+
+They walked together, side by side, quickly and often glancing behind
+them as though to see whether they were followed. And yet it seemed as
+though it was not they who moved, but the city about them which
+changed. The throng of busy Jews grew shadowy and disappeared, their
+shrill voices 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 and sword at side. The outline of the old synagogue
+melted into the murky air and changed its shape, and stood out again
+in other and ever-changing forms. Now they were passing before the
+walls of a noble palace, now beneath long, low galleries of arches,
+now again across the open space of the Great Ring in the midst of the
+city--then all at once they were standing before the richly carved
+doorway of the Teyn Kirche, the very doorway out of which the Wanderer
+had followed the fleeting shadow of Beatrice's figure but a month ago.
+And then they paused, and looked again to the right and left, and
+searched the dark corners with piercing glances.
+
+"Thy life is in thine hand," said the woman, speaking close to the
+boy's ear. "It is yet time. Turn with me and let us go back."
+
+The mysterious radiance lit up the youth's beautiful face in the dark
+street 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 his
+face as he led the way up the steps.
+
+The woman bowed her head and drew her veil more closely about her and
+followed him. Then they were within the church, darker, more ghostly,
+less rich in those days than now. The boy stood beside the hewn stone
+basin wherein was the blessed water, and he touched the frozen surface
+with his fingers, and held them out to his companion.
+
+"Is it thus?" he asked. And the heavenly smile grew more radiant as he
+made the sign of the Cross.
+
+Again the woman inclined her head.
+
+"Be it not upon me!" she exclaimed earnestly. "Though I would it might
+be for ever so with thee."
+
+"It is for ever," the boy answered.
+
+He went forward and prostrated himself before the high altar, and the
+soft light hovered above him. The woman knelt at a little distance
+from him, with clasped hands and upturned eyes. The church was very
+dark and silent.
+
+An old man in a monk's robe came forward out of the shadow of the
+choir and stood behind the marble rails and looked down at the boy's
+prostrate figure, wonderingly. Then the low gateway was opened and he
+descended the 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
+gloom of 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 in
+the chilly air, and the ancient monk was upon the threshold under the
+carved 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
+the streets as they moved on. Then a cloud descended over all, and
+certain days and weeks passed, and again the boy was walking swiftly
+toward the church. But the woman was not with him, and he believed
+that he was alone, though the messengers of evil were upon him. Two
+dark figures moved in the shadow, silent, noiseless in their walk,
+muffled in long garments. He went on, no longer deigning to look back,
+beyond fear as he had ever been, and beyond even the expectation of a
+danger. He went into the church, and the two men made gestures, and
+spoke in low tones, and hid themselves in the shade of the buttresses
+outside.
+
+The vision grew darker and a terrible stillness was over everything,
+for the church was not opened to the sight this time. There was a
+horror of long waiting with the certainty of what was to come. The
+narrow street was 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 place of 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 moment
+watching him as he went down. Then he, also, turned and went back, and
+the door was closed.
+
+Swiftly the two men glided from their hiding-place and sped along the
+uneven pavement. The boy paused and faced them, for he felt that he
+was taken. They grasped him by the arms on each side, Lazarus his
+father, and Levi, surnamed the Short-handed, the strongest and the
+cruellest and the most relentless of the younger rabbis. Their grip
+was rough, and the older man held a coarse woollen cloth in his hand
+with which to smother the boy's cries if he should call out for help.
+But he was very calm and did not resist them.
+
+"What would you?" he asked.
+
+"And what doest thou in a Christian church?" asked Lazarus in low
+fierce tones.
+
+"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 hard
+hand 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 no
+resistance to Levi's rough strength, not only suffering himself to be
+dragged along but doing his best to keep pace with the man's long
+strides, nor did he murmur at the blows and thrusts dealt him from
+time to time by his father from the other side. During some minutes
+they were still traversing the Christian part of the city. A single
+loud cry for help would have brought a rescue, a few words to the
+rescuers would have roused a mob of fierce men and the two Jews would
+have paid with their lives for the deeds they had not yet committed.
+But Simon Abeles uttered no 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 be his. Onward they sped, and in the
+vision the way they traversed seemed to sweep past them, so that they
+remained always in sight though always hurrying on. The Christian
+quarter was passed; before them hung the chain 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 martyr and his torturers. One
+word to him, even then, and the butt of his heavy halberd would have
+broken Levi's arm and laid the boy's father in the dust. 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 a space,
+and a horror of long waiting in the falling night.
+
+Lights moved within the house, and then one window after another was
+bolted and barred from within. Still the silence endured until the ear
+was grown used to it and could hear sounds very far off, from deep
+down below the house itself, but the walls did not open and the scene
+did not change. A dull noise, bad to hear, resounded as from beneath a
+vault, and then another and another--the sound of cruel blows upon a
+human body. 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 the
+bowels 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 losing
+consciousness 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 him
+here for this night. Perchance cold and hunger will be more potent
+than stripes, 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
+the crevices of the outer shutters, and sleep descended upon the
+quarter of the Jews. Still the scene in the vision changed not. After
+a long stillness a clear young voice was heard speaking.
+
+"Lord, if it be Thy will that I die, grant that I may bear all in Thy
+name, grant that I, unworthy, may endure in this body the punishments
+due to me in spirit for my sins. And if it be Thy will that I live,
+let my life be used also for Thy glory."
+
+The voice ceased and the cloud of passing time descended upon the
+vision and was lifted again and again. And each time the same voice
+was heard and the sound of torturing blows, but the voice of the boy
+was weaker every night, though it was not less brave.
+
+"I believe," it said, always. "Do what you will, you have power over
+the body, but I have the Faith over which you have no power."
+
+So the days and the nights passed, and though the prayer came up in
+feeble tones, it was born of a mighty spirit and it rang in the ears
+of the tormentors as the voice of an angel which they had no power to
+silence, appealing from them to the tribunal of the Throne of God Most
+High.
+
+Day by day, also, the rabbis and the elders began to congregate
+together at evening before the house of Lazarus and to talk with him
+and with each other, debating how they might break the endurance of
+his son and bring him again into the synagogue as one of themselves.
+Chief among them in their councils was Levi, the Short-handed,
+devising new tortures for the frail body to bear and boasting how he
+would conquer the stubborn boy by the might of his hands to hurt. Some
+of the rabbis shook their 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 said
+that when the fool had been chastised the evil spirit would depart
+from him.
+
+Once more the cloud of passing time descended and was lifted. Then the
+walls of the house were opened and in a low arched chamber the rabbis
+sat about a black table. It was night and a single smoking lamp was
+lighted, a mere wick projecting out of a three-cornered vessel of
+copper which 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. Their crooked hands and claw-like nails moved uneasily and
+there was a lurid fire in their vulture's eyes. They bent forward,
+speaking to each other in low tones, and from beneath their greasy
+caps their anointed side curls dangled and swung as they moved their
+heads. But Levi the Short-handed was not among them. Their muffled
+talk was interrupted from time to time by the sound of sharp, loud
+blows, as of a hammer striking upon nails, and as though a carpenter
+were at work not far from the room in which they sat.
+
+"He has not repented," said Lazarus, from his place. "Neither many
+stripes, nor cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, have moved him to
+righteousness. 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.
+"Shall we give him over to the Christians that he may dwell among them
+and become 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
+flickered from one face to another as a firefly flutters from tree to
+tree in the night--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 little
+before he spoke.
+
+"I am obedient to your judgment. It is yours to command and mine to
+obey. 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 a burnt sacrifice before the Lord?"
+
+"Let him die," said the rabbis.
+
+"Then let him die," answered Lazarus. "I am your servant. It is mine
+to obey."
+
+"His blood be on our heads," they said. And again, the evil smile went
+round.
+
+"It is then expedient that we determine of what manner his death shall
+be," continued the father, inclining his body to signify his
+submission.
+
+"It is not lawful to shed his blood," said the rabbis. "And we cannot
+stone him, lest we be brought to judgment of the Christians. Determine
+thou the manner of his death."
+
+"My masters, if you will it, let him be brought once more before us.
+Let us 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 our
+entreaties, let him die. Levi hath brought certain pieces of wood
+hither to my house, and is even now at work. If the youth is still
+stubborn in his unbelief, let him die even as the Unbeliever died--by
+the righteous judgment 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
+remained seated, motionless in their places awaiting his return. The
+noise of Levi's hammer echoed through the low vaulted chamber, and at
+each blow the smoking lamp quivered a little, casting strange shadows
+upon the evil faces beneath its light. At last footsteps, slow and
+uncertain, were heard without, the low door opened, and Lazarus
+entered, holding up the body of his son before him.
+
+"I have brought him before you for the last time," he said. "Question
+him and hear his condemnation out of his own mouth. He repents not,
+though I have done my utmost to bring him back to the paths of
+righteousness. Question him, my masters, and let us see what he will
+say."
+
+White and exhausted with long hunger and thirst, his body broken by
+torture, scarcely any longer sensible to bodily pain, Simon Abeles
+would have 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
+towards the breast, but the deep, dark eyes were open and gazed calmly
+upon those who sat in judgment at the table. A rough piece of linen
+cloth was wrapped about the boy's shoulders and body, but his thin
+arms were bare.
+
+"Hearest thou, Simon, son of Lazarus?" asked the rabbis. "Knowest thou
+in whose presence thou standest?"
+
+"I hear you and I know you all." There was no fear in the voice though
+it trembled from weakness.
+
+"Renounce then thy errors, and having suffered the chastisement of thy
+folly, return to the ways of thy father and of thy father's house and
+of all 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's
+mercy."
+
+The rabbis gazed at the brave young face, and smiled and wagged their
+beards, talking one with another in low tones.
+
+"It is as we feared," they said. "He is unrepentant and he is worthy
+of death. It is not expedient that the young adder should live. There
+is poison under his tongue, and he speaks things not lawful for an
+Israelite to hear. Let him die, that we may see him no more, and that
+our children be not corrupted by his false teachings."
+
+"Hearest thou? Thou shalt die." It was Lazarus who spoke, while
+holding up 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
+said these many days, and return to us, thou shalt be forgiven and thy
+days shall be long among us, and thy children's days after thee, and
+the Lord shall 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 the
+manner 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 you
+will. I die in the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ, and into His hands
+I commend my spirit--which you cannot take."
+
+"Lead him forth! Let him be crucified!" cried the rabbis together. "We
+will hear him no longer."
+
+Then Lazarus led his son away from them, and left them talking
+together and shaking their heads and wagging their filthy beards. And
+in the vision the scene changed. The chamber with its flickering lamp
+and its black table and all the men who were in it grew dim and faded
+away, and in its place there was a dim inner court between high
+houses, upon which only 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 two pieces 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 bear the slight burden of the boy's frail
+body. And beside it stood Lazarus and Levi, the Short-handed, the
+strong rabbi, holding Simon Abeles between them. On the ground lay
+pieces of cord, ready, wherewith to bind him 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 the
+body hanging thereon, against the wall of the narrow court, over
+against the house of Lazarus.
+
+"Thou mayest still repent--during this night," said the father,
+holding up 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 once
+more.
+
+Then Lazarus raised his hand and struck him once more on the mouth, as
+he 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
+his torments fail, dealt him one heavy blow just where the ear joins
+the neck, and it was over at last. A radiant smile of peace flickered
+over the pale face, the eyelids quivered and closed, the head fell
+forward upon 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 dead
+face and smiled and spoke a few low words in the Hebrew tongue and
+then went out into the street, until only Lazarus and Levi were left
+alone with the dead body. Then they debated what they should do, and
+for a time they went into the house and refreshed themselves with food
+and wine, and comforted each other, well knowing that they had done an
+evil deed. And they came back when it was late and wrapped the body in
+the coarse cloth and carried it out stealthily and buried it in the
+Jewish cemetery, and departed again to their own houses.
+
+"And there he lay," said Unorna, "the boy of your race who was
+faithful to death. Have you suffered? Have you for one short hour
+known the meaning of such great words as you dared to speak to me? Do
+you know now what it means to be a martyr, to suffer for standing on
+the very spot where he lay, you have felt in some small degree a part
+of what he must have felt. You live. Be warned. If again you anger me,
+your life shall not be spared you."
+
+The visions had all vanished. Again the wilderness of gravestones and
+lean, crooked trees appeared, wild and desolate as before. The
+Wanderer roused himself and saw Unorna standing before Israel Kafka's
+prostrate body. As though suddenly released from a spell he sprang
+forward and knelt down, trying to revive the unconscious man by
+rubbing his hands and chafing his temples.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+The Wanderer glanced at Unorna's face and saw the expression of
+relentless hatred which had settled upon her features. He neither
+understood it nor attempted to account for it. So far as he knew,
+Israel Kafka was mad, a man to be pitied, to be cared for, to be
+controlled perhaps, but assuredly not to be maltreated. Though the
+memories of the last half hour were confused and distorted, the
+Wanderer began to be aware that the young Hebrew had been made to
+suffer almost beyond the bounds of human endurance. So far as it was
+possible to judge, Israel Kafka's fault consisted in loving a woman
+who did not return his love, and his worst misdeed had been his sudden
+intrusion upon an interview in which the Wanderer could recall nothing
+which might not have been repeated to the whole world with impunity.
+
+During the last month he had lived a life of bodily and mental
+indolence, in which all his keenest perceptions and strongest
+instincts had been lulled into a semi-dormant state. Unknown to
+himself, the mainspring of all thought and action had been taken out
+of his existence together with the very memory of it. For years he had
+lived and moved and wandered over the earth in obedience to one
+dominant idea. By a magic of which he knew nothing that idea had been
+annihilated, temporarily, if not for ever, and the immediate
+consequence had been the cessation of all interest and of all desire
+for individual action. The suspension of all anxiety, restlessness and
+mental suffering had benefited the physical man though it had reduced
+the intelligence to a state bordering upon total apathy.
+
+But organisations, mental or physical, of great natural strength, are
+never reduced to weakness by a period of inactivity. It is those minds
+and bodies which have been artificially developed by a long course of
+training to a degree of power they were never intended to possess,
+which lose that force almost immediately in idleness. The really very
+strong man has no need of constant gymnastic exercise; he will be
+stronger than other men whatever he does. The strong character needs
+not be constantly struggling against terrible odds in the most
+difficult situations in order to be sure of its own solidity, nor must
+the deep intellect be ever plodding through the mazes of intricate
+theories and problems that it may feel itself superior to minds of
+less compass. There is much natural inborn strength of body and mind
+in the world, and on the whole those who possess either accomplish
+more than those in whom either is the result of long and well-
+regulated training.
+
+The belief in a great cruelty and a greater injustice roused the man
+who throughout so many days had lived in calm indifference to every
+aspect of the humanity around him. Seeing that Israel Kafka could not
+be immediately restored to consciousness, he rose to his feet again
+and stood 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 your
+powers to destroy him in body and mind?"
+
+"Perhaps," answered Unorna calmly, though there was still a dangerous
+light in her eyes.
+
+"No. It is no reason," answered the Wanderer with a decision to which
+Unorna was not accustomed. "Keyork tells me that the man is mad. He
+may be. But he loves you and deserves mercy of you."
+
+"Mercy!" exclaimed Unorna with a cruel laugh. "You heard what he said
+--you were for silencing him yourself. You could not have done it. I
+have--and most effectually."
+
+"Whatever your art really may be, you use it badly and cruelly. A
+moment ago I was blinded myself. If I had understood clearly while you
+were speaking that you were making this poor fellow suffer in himself
+the hideous agony you described I would have stopped you. You blinded
+me, as you dominated him. But I am not blind now. You shall not
+torment him any longer.
+
+"And how would you have stopped me? How can you hinder me now?" asked
+Unorna.
+
+The Wanderer gazed at her in silence for some moments. There was an
+expression in his face which she had never seen there. Towering above
+her he looked down. The massive brows were drawn together, the eyes
+were cold 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 his
+glance boldly. Scarcely half an hour earlier she had been able to
+steal away his senses and make him subject to her. She was ready to
+renew the contest, though she realised that a change had taken place
+in him.
+
+"You talk of force to a woman!" she exclaimed, contemptuously. "You
+are indeed brave!"
+
+"You are not a woman. You are the incarnation of cruelty. I have seen
+it."
+
+His eyes were cold and his voice was stern. Unorna felt a very sharp
+pain and shivered as though she were cold. Whatever else was bad and
+cruel and untrue in her wild nature, her love for him was true and
+passionate and enduring. And she loved him the more for the strength
+he was beginning to show, and for his determined opposition. The words
+he had spoken had hurt her as he little guessed they could, not
+knowing that he alone of men had power to wound her.
+
+"You do not know," she answered. "How should you?" Her glance fell and
+her voice trembled.
+
+"I know enough," he said. He turned coldly from her and knelt again
+beside Israel Kafka.
+
+He raised the pale head and supported it upon his knee, and gazed
+anxiously into the face, raising the lids with his finger as though to
+convince himself that the man was not dead. Indeed there seemed to be
+but little life left in him as he lay there with outstretched arms and
+twisted fingers, scarcely breathing. In such a place, without so much
+as the commonest restorative to aid him, the Wanderer saw that he had
+but little chance of success.
+
+Unorna stood aside, not looking at the two men. It was nothing to her
+whether Kafka lived or died. She was suffering herself, more than she
+had ever suffered in her life. He had said that she was not a woman--
+she whose whole woman's nature worshiped him. He had said that she was
+the incarnation of cruelty--and it was true, though it was her love
+for him that made her cruel to the other. Could he know what she had
+felt, when she had understood that Israel Kafka had heard her
+passionate words and seen her eager face, and had laughed her to
+scorn? Could any woman at such a time be less than cruel? Was not her
+hate for the man who loved her as great as her love for the man who
+loved her not? Even if she possessed instruments of torture for the
+soul more terrible than those invented in darker ages to rack the
+human body, was she not justified in using them all? Was not Israel
+Kafka guilty of the greatest of all crimes, of loving when he was not
+loved, and of witnessing her shame and discomfiture? She could not
+bear to look at him, lest she should lose herself and try to thrust
+the Wanderer aside and kill the man with her hands.
+
+Then she heard footsteps on the frozen path, and turning quickly she
+saw that the Wanderer had lifted Kafka's body from the ground and was
+moving rapidly away, towards the entrance of the cemetery. He was
+leaving her in anger, without a word. She turned very pale and
+hesitated. Then she ran forward to overtake him, but he, hearing her
+approach, quickened his stride, 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
+not leave me so!"
+
+But he would not pause, and hurried onward towards the gate, while she
+hung upon his arm, trying to hinder him and speaking in desperate
+agitation. She felt that if she let him go now, he would leave her for
+ever. In that moment even her hatred of Kafka sank into
+insignificance. She would do anything, bear anything, promise anything
+rather than lose what she loved so wildly.
+
+"Stop!" she cried again. "I will save him--I will obey you--I will be
+kind 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 and
+trying to tear Kafka from his arms, that he was forced to stand still
+and face her.
+
+"Let me pass!" he exclaimed, making another effort to advance. But she
+clung to him and he could not move.
+
+"No,--I will not let you go," she murmured. "You can do nothing
+without me, 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 even
+remember--"
+
+"Do not swear. I shall not believe you."
+
+"You will believe when you see--you will forgive me--you will
+understand."
+
+Without answering he exerted his strength and clasping the insensible
+man more firmly in his arms he made one or two steps forward. Unorna's
+foot slipped on the frozen ground and she would have fallen to the
+earth, but she clung to him with desperate energy. Seeing that she was
+in danger of some bodily hurt if he used greater force, the Wanderer
+stopped again, uncertain how to act; Unorna stood before him, panting
+a little from the struggle, her face as white as death.
+
+"Unless you kill me," she said, "you shall not take him away so. Hold
+him 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 as
+you do?"
+
+"Am I not at your mercy?" asked Unorna. "If I deceive you, can you not
+do 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
+Kafka does not recover his strength and his consciousness, then take
+me with you and deliver me up to justice as a witch--as a murderess,
+if you will."
+
+The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what she
+said 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 whispered
+into his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who held him.
+The mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was almost
+instantaneous. He opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna and then
+at the Wanderer. There was neither pain nor passion in his face, but
+only wonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their strength, he
+stood upright and passed his hand over his eyes as though trying to
+remember what 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 very
+tired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will take
+you home."
+
+"Yes--yes--I must have fainted. Forgive me--it comes over me
+sometimes."
+
+He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the present
+moment, when he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his two
+companions, as they all three began to walk towards the gate. Unorna
+avoided his eyes, and seemed to be looking at the irregular slabs they
+passed on their way.
+
+The Wanderer had intended to free himself from her as soon as Kafka
+regained his senses, but he had not been prepared for such a sudden
+change. He saw, now, that he could not exchange a word with her
+without exciting the man's suspicion, and he was by no means sure that
+the first emotion might not produce a sudden and dangerous effect. He
+did not even know how great the change might be, which Unorna's words
+had brought about. That Kafka had forgotten at once his own conduct
+and the fearful vision which Unorna had imposed upon him was clear,
+but it did not follow that he had ceased to love her. Indeed, to one
+only partially acquainted with the laws which govern hypnotics, such a
+transition seemed very far removed from possibility. He who in one
+moment had himself been made to forget utterly the dominant passion
+and love of his life, was so completely ignorant of the fact that he
+could not believe such a thing possible in any case whatsoever.
+
+In the dilemma in which he found himself there was nothing to be done
+but to be guided by circumstances. He was not willing to leave Kafka
+alone with the woman who hated him, and he saw no means of escaping
+her society 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 be prepared for all events by revolving all the possibilities
+in his mind.
+
+But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to time
+she stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern and cold
+as ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A terrible
+anxiety overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable, that he would
+henceforth avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not reckoned upon
+such a nature as his, capable of being roused to implacable anger by
+mere sympathy for the suffering of another. Then, understanding it at
+last, she had thought it would be enough that those sufferings should
+be forgotten by him upon whom they had been inflicted. She could not
+comprehend the horror he felt for herself and for her hideous cruelty.
+She had entered the cemetery in the consciousness of her strong will
+and of her mysterious powers certain of victory, sure that having once
+sacrificed her pride and stooped so low as to command what should have
+come of itself, she should see his face change and hear the ring of
+passion in that passionless voice. She had failed in that, and
+utterly. She had been surprised by her worst enemy. She had been
+laughed to scorn in the moment of her deepest humiliation, and she had
+lost the foundations of friendship in the attempt to build upon them
+the hanging gardens 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 loitering
+at the entrance. The Wanderer told him to find a carriage.
+
+"Two carriages," said Unorna, quickly. The boy ran out. "I will go
+home alone," she added. "You two can drive together."
+
+The Wanderer inclined his head in assent, but said nothing. Israel
+Kafka'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 sharp
+answer. 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 not
+heed her. At that moment two carriages appeared and drew up at the end
+of the narrow alley which leads from the street to the entrance of the
+cemetery. All three walked forward together. Kafka went forward and
+opened the door of one of the conveyances for Unorna to get in. The
+Wanderer, still anxious for the man's safety, would have taken his
+place, 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
+her hand, and he took it coldly, not being able to do otherwise.
+
+"You will let me know, will you not?" she said. "I am anxious about
+him."
+
+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 so
+that his head was inside the door and the other man could not hear her
+words.
+
+"I am anxious about you," she said very kindly. "Make him come himself
+to me and tell me how you are."
+
+"Surely--if you have asked him--"
+
+"He hates me," whispered Unorna quickly. "Unless you make him come he
+will 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 for
+you--and for me. Good-bye."
+
+"Your word is my law," said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were bright
+and his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had spoken so
+kindly to him. A ray of hope entered his life.
+
+The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He understood
+that in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some mischief.
+Her carriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter the one
+intended for them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his lodgings.
+Then he sank back into the corner, exhausted and conscious of his
+extreme weakness. 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
+that I followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I
+saw you afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I came back
+from my long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred. Did she make
+me sleep? I feel as I have felt before when I have fancied that she
+has hypnotised me."
+
+The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked as
+naturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of little or
+no weight.
+
+"Yes," he answered. "She made you sleep."
+
+"Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have
+forgotten it."
+
+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
+eyes to his companion. "But, yet," he added, "that is hardly a reason
+why you should not tell me what happened."
+
+"I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have
+no right 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
+to win her."
+
+"Precisely. I need say no more."
+
+"On the contrary," said Kafka with sudden energy, "when a man gives
+such advice 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.
+Yours is 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 and
+I have ceased to be her friend. As for my interest in you, it does not
+even pretend to be friendly--it is that which any man may feel for a
+fellow-being, and what any man would feel who had seen what I have
+seen this afternoon."
+
+The calm bearing and speech of the experienced man of the world
+carried weight with it in the eyes of the young Moravian, whose hot
+blood knew little of restraint and less of caution; with the keen
+instinct of his race in the reading of character he suddenly
+understood that his companion was at once generous and disinterested.
+A burst of confidence followed close upon the conviction.
+
+"If I am to lose her love, I would rather lose my life also, and by
+her hand," he said hotly. "You are warning me against her. I feel that
+you are honest and I see that you are in earnest. I thank you. If I am
+in danger, do not try to save me. I saw her face a few moments ago,
+and she spoke to me. I cannot believe that she is plotting my
+destruction."
+
+The Wanderer was silent. He wondered whether it was his duty to do or
+say more. Unorna was a changeable woman. She might love the man
+to-morrow. But Israel Kafka was too young to let the conversation
+drop. Boy-like he expected confidence for confidence, and was
+surprised at his companion's taciturnity.
+
+"What did she say to me when I was asleep?" he asked, after a short
+pause.
+
+"Did you ever hear the story of Simon Abeles?" the Wanderer inquired
+by way 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 with
+Unorna, or with me? I am myself a Jew. The time has gone by when we
+Jews hid 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, I
+forgot that you are a Christian."
+
+The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. It had not struck him that
+Israel Kafka might be a man of the deepest religious convictions, a
+Hebrew of the Hebrews, and that what he would resent most would be the
+fact that in his sleep Unorna had made him play the part and suffer
+the martyrdom of a convert to Christianity. This was exactly what took
+place. He would have suffered anything at Unorna's hands, and without
+complaint, even to bodily death, but his wrath rose furiously at the
+thought that she had been playing with what he held most sacred, that
+she had forced from his lips the denial of the faith of his people and
+the confession of the Christian belief, perhaps the very words of the
+hated Creed. The modern Hebrew of Western Europe might be indifferent
+in such a case, as though he had spoken in the delirium of a fever,
+but the Jew of the less civilised East is a different being, and in
+some ways a stronger. Israel Kafka represented the best type of his
+race, and his blood 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 believe firmly in opposite creeds have been known to respect
+each other even in a 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
+Simon Abeles in it all, though I seemed to be aware that you and he
+were one person. I did interfere--so soon as I was free to move. I
+think I saved your 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--but
+you saw it all, you say. You saw me play the part of the apostate, you
+heard 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
+was silent. A few moments later the carriage stopped at the door of
+Kafka's lodging. The latter turned to his companion, who was startled
+by the change in the young face. The mouth was now closely set, the
+features seemed bolder, the eyes harder and more manly, a look of
+greater dignity and strength was in the whole.
+
+"You do not love her?" he asked. "Do you give me your word that you do
+not love her?"
+
+"If you need so much to assure you of it, I give you my word. I do not
+love 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 found
+themselves in a large room furnished almost in Eastern fashion, with
+few objects, but those of great value. Israel Kafka was alone in the
+world and 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 rich carpets.
+
+"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
+send you to her with news of myself. She said that you hated her and
+would not 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 will
+certainly not go to her of my own choice."
+
+"She said that I had fainted. That was a lie. She invented it as an
+excuse 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 showing
+you how terrible that hatred could be. It is not possible to conceive
+of anything more diabolically bad than what she did to me. She made me
+her sport--yours, too, perhaps, or she would at least have wished it.
+On that 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 for a belief I abhor. Can you conceive of anything more
+devilish? A moment later she smiles upon me and presses my hand, and
+is anxious to know of my good health. And but for you, I should never
+have known what she had done to me. I owe you gratitude, though it be
+for the worst pain I have ever suffered. But do you think I will
+forgive her?"
+
+"You would be very forgiving if you could," said the Wanderer, his own
+anger 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
+stood before the Wanderer and looked into his eyes. His face was very
+calm and resolute, the flush had vanished from his thin cheeks, and
+the features were 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 kill
+her."
+
+The Wanderer had seen many men in many lands and had witnessed the
+effects of many passions. He gazed earnestly into Israel Kafka's face,
+searching in vain for some manifestation of madness. But he was
+disappointed. The Moravian had formed his resolution in cold blood and
+intended to carry it out. His only folly appeared to lie in the
+announcement 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.
+"Will you 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 no
+common murderer. I will not kill her as she would have killed me. Warn
+her, not me. Go to her and say, 'Israel Kafka has promised before God
+that he will take your blood in expiation, and there is no escape from
+the man who is himself ready to die.' Tell her to fly for her life,
+and that 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
+to find himself forced in common humanity to take her part.
+
+"I shall free myself of my shame in loving her, at the price of her
+blood and mine. Will you go?"
+
+"And what is to prevent me from delivering you over to safe keeping
+before you do this deed?"
+
+"You have no witness," answered Kafka with a smile. "You are a
+stranger in the city and in this country, and I am rich. I shall
+easily prove that you love Unorna, and that you wish to get rid of me
+out of jealousy."
+
+"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
+place where the keen, splendid Eastern weapons hung upon the wall.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+The Wanderer knew that the case was urgent and the danger great. There
+was no mistaking the tone of Israel Kafka's voice nor the look in his
+face. Nor did the savage resolution seem altogether unnatural in a man
+of the Moravian's breeding. The Wanderer had no time and but little
+inclination to blame himself for the part he had played in disclosing
+to the principal actor the nature of the scene which had taken place
+in the cemetery, and the immediate consequences of that disclosure,
+though wholly unexpected, did not seem utterly illogical. Israel
+Kafka's nature was eastern, violently passionate and, at the same
+time, long-suffering in certain directions as only the fatalist can
+be. He could have loved for a lifetime faithfully, without requital;
+he would have suffered in patience Unorna's anger, scorn, pity or
+caprice; he had long before now resigned his free will into the
+keeping of a passion which was degrading as it enslaved all his
+thoughts and actions, but which had something noble in it, inasmuch as
+it fitted him for the most heroic self-sacrifice.
+
+Unorna's act had brought the several seemingly contradictory elements
+of his character to bear upon one point. He had realised in the same
+moment that it was impossible for her to love him; that her changing
+treatment of him was not the result of caprice but of a fixed plan of
+her own, in the execution of which she would spare him neither
+falsehood nor insult; that to love such a woman was the lowest
+degradation; that he could nevertheless not destroy that love; and,
+finally, that the only escape from his shame lay in her destruction,
+and that this must in all probability involve his own death also. At
+the same time he felt that there was something solemn in the expiation
+he was about to exact, something that accorded well with the fierce
+traditions of ancient Israel, 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 had no object in concealment, for his own life was
+already ended by the certainty that his love was hopeless, and on the
+other hand, fatalist as he was, he believed that Unorna could not
+escape him and that no warning could save her.
+
+The Wanderer understood most of these things as he hastened towards
+her house through the darkening streets. Not a carriage was to be
+seen, and he was obliged to traverse the distance on foot, as often
+happens at supreme moments, when everything might be gained by the
+saving of a few minutes in conveying a warning.
+
+He saw himself in a very strange position. Half an hour had not
+elapsed since he had watched Unorna driving away from the cemetery and
+had inwardly determined that he would never, if possible, set eyes on
+her again. Scarcely two hours earlier, he had been speaking to her of
+the sincere 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 left her meaning that the parting should be final, and now he was
+hurrying to her house to give her the warning which alone could save
+her from destruction. And yet, he found it impossible to detect any
+inconsistency in his own conduct. As he had been conscious of doing
+his utmost to save Israel Kafka from her, so now he knew that he was
+doing all he could to save Unorna from the Moravian, and he recognised
+the fact that no man with the commonest feelings of humanity could
+have done less in either case. But he was conscious, also, of a change
+in himself which he did not attempt to analyse. His indolent, self-
+satisfied apathy was gone, the strong interests of human life and
+death stirred him, mind and body together acquired their activity and
+he was at all points once more a man. He was ignorant, indeed, of what
+had been taken from him. The memory of Beatrice was gone, and he
+fancied himself one who had never loved woman. He looked back with
+horror and amazement upon the emptiness of his past life, wondering
+how such an existence as he had led, or fancied he had led, could have
+been possible.
+
+But there was scant time for reflection upon the problem of his own
+mission in the world as he hastened towards Unorna's house. His
+present mission was clear enough and simple enough, though by no means
+easy of accomplishment. What Israel Kafka had told him was very true.
+Should he attempt a denunciation, he would have little chance of being
+believed. It would be easy enough for Kafka to bring witnesses to
+prove his own love for Unorna and the Wanderer's intimacy with her
+during the past month, and the latter's consequent interest in
+disposing summarily of his Moravian rival. A stranger in the land
+would have small hope of success against a man whose antecedents were
+known, whose fortune was reputed great, and who had at his back the
+whole gigantic strength of the Jewish interest in Prague, if he chose
+to invoke the assistance of his people. The matter would end in a few
+days in the Wanderer being driven from the country, while Israel Kafka
+would be left behind to work his will as might seem best in his own
+eyes.
+
+There was Keyork Arabian. So far as it was possible to believe in the
+sincerity of any of the strange persons among whom the Wanderer found
+himself, it seemed certain that the sage was attached to Unorna by
+some bond of mutual interests which he would be loth to break. Keyork
+had many acquaintances and seemed to posses everywhere a certain
+amount of respect, whether because he was perhaps a member of some
+widespread, mysterious society of which the Wanderer knew nothing, or
+whether this importance of his was due to his personal superiority of
+mind and wide experience of travel, no one could say. But it seemed
+certain that if Unorna could be placed for the time being in a safe
+refuge, it would be best to apply to Keyork to insure her further
+protection. Meanwhile that refuge must be found and Unorna must be
+conveyed to it without delay.
+
+The Wanderer was admitted without question. He found Unorna in her
+accustomed place. She had thrown aside her furs and was sitting in an
+attitude of deep thought. Her dress was black, and in the soft light
+of the shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the
+midst of thick shrubbery in a garden. Her elbow rested on her knee,
+her chin upon her beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was
+bright colour.
+
+She knew the Wanderer's footstep, but she neither moved her body nor
+turned her head. She felt that she grew paler than before, and she
+could hear her heart beating strongly.
+
+"I come from Israel Kafka," said the Wanderer, standing still before
+her.
+
+She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not
+look up.
+
+"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 your
+life, and that there is no escape from a man who is ready to lay down
+his own."
+
+Unorna turned her head slowly towards him, and a very soft look stole
+over her strange face.
+
+"And you have brought me his message--this warning--to save me?" she
+said.
+
+"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 he
+could no longer misunderstand. He was cold and impassive.
+
+"I fancy it will not be safe to hesitate long," he said. "He is in
+earnest."
+
+"I do not fear Israel Kafka, and I fear death less," answered Unorna
+deliberately. "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, might
+prevent 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 done
+for 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 Wanderer began 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
+cannot answer for the consequences."
+
+"No time? There is all eternity. What is eternity, or time, or life to
+me? I will wait for him here. Why did you tell him what I did, if you
+wished me to live?"
+
+"Why--since there are to be questions--why did you exercise your
+cruelty upon an innocent man who loves you?"
+
+"Why? There are reasons enough!" Unorna's voice trembled slightly.
+"You do not know what happened. How should you? You were asleep. You
+may as well know, since I may be beyond telling you an hour from now.
+You may as well know how I love you, and to what depths I have gone
+down to win your love."
+
+"I would rather not receive your confidence," the Wanderer answered
+haughtily. "I came here to save your life, not to hear your
+confessions."
+
+"And when you have heard, you will no longer wish to save me. If you
+choose to leave me here, I will wait for Israel Kafka alone. He may
+kill me if he pleases. I do not care. But if you stay you shall hear
+what I have to say."
+
+She glanced at his face. He folded his arms and stood still. Whatever
+she had done, he would not leave her alone at the mercy of the
+desperate man whom he expected every moment to enter the room. If she
+would not save herself, he might nevertheless disarm Kafka and prevent
+the deed. As his long sleeping energy revived in him the thought of a
+struggle was not disagreeable.
+
+"I loved you from the moment when I first saw you," said Unorna,
+trying to speak calmly. "But you loved another woman. Do you remember
+her? Her name was Beatrice, and she was very dark, as I am fair. You
+had lost her and you had sought her for years. You entered my house,
+thinking that she had gone in before you. Do you remember that
+morning? It was a month ago to-day. You told me the story."
+
+"You have dreamed it," said the Wanderer in cold surprise. "I never
+loved any woman yet."
+
+Unorna laughed bitterly.
+
+"How perfect it all was at first!" she exclaimed. "How smooth it
+seemed! How easy! You slept before me, out there by the river that
+very afternoon. 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-day what he had suffered in the person of the martyr. You
+told him the story, and he believes you, because he knows me, and
+knows what I can do. You can believe me or not; as you will. I did
+it."
+
+"You are dreaming," the Wanderer repeated, wondering whether she were
+not out of her mind.
+
+"I did it. I said to myself that if I could destroy your old love,
+root it out from your heart and from your memory and make you as one
+who had never 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, is it not? And young I am, and I loved as no woman ever
+loved. And I said that it was enough, and that soon you would love me,
+too. A month has passed away since then. You are of ice--of stone--I
+do not know of what you are. This morning you hurt me. I thought it
+was the last hurt and that I should die then--instead of to-night. Do
+you remember? You thought I was ill, and you went away. When you were
+gone I fought with myself. 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--you talked of friendship. The sting of it! It is
+no wonder that I grew faint with 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! And I 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 burned her memory. That pride I had
+still, until that moment. I fancied that it was in my power, if I
+would stoop so low, to make you sleep again as you had slept before,
+and to make you at my bidding feel all I felt. I fought with myself. I
+would not go down to that depth. And then I said that even that were
+better than your friendship, even a false semblance of 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 you sleep, and then
+I told you what was in my heart and poured out the fire of my soul
+into your ears. A look came into your face--I shall not forget it. My
+folly was upon me, and I thought it was for me. I know the truth now.
+Sleeping, the old memory revived in you of her whom waking you will
+never remember again. But the look was there, and I bade you awake. My
+soul rose in my eyes. I hung upon your lips. The loving word I longed
+for seemed already to tremble in the air. Then came the truth. You
+awoke, and your face was stone, calm, smiling, indifferent, unloving.
+And all this Israel Kafka had seen, hiding like a thief almost beside
+us. He saw it all, he heard it all, my words of love, my agony of
+waiting, my utter humiliation, my burning shame. Was I cruel to him?
+He had made me suffer, and he suffered in his turn. All this you did
+not know. You know it now. There is nothing more to tell. Will you
+wait here until he comes? Will you look on, and be glad to see me die?
+Will you remember in the years to come with satisfaction that you saw
+the witch killed for her many misdeeds, and for the chief of them all
+--for loving you?"
+
+The Wanderer had listened to her words, but the tale they told was
+beyond the power of his belief. He stood still in his place, with
+folded arms, 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 an invention to excuse her cruelty and to win his
+commiseration. It failed to 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
+with sudden agitation, turning and half rising from her seat. "Think
+what you will be doing, if you save me. Think well. You say that
+Israel Kafka is desperate. 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, and
+silently wondered what the end would be. He, too, was human, and pity
+for 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 is a
+kinship between pity and love? Think well--beware--be warned. I have
+told you much, but you do not know me yet. If you save me, you save me
+but to love you more than I do already. Look at me. For me there is
+neither God, nor hell, nor pride, nor shame. There is nothing that I
+will not do, nothing I shall be ashamed or afraid of doing. If you
+save me, you save me that I may follow you as long as I live. I will
+never leave you. You shall never escape my presence, your whole life
+shall be full of me--you do not love me, and I can threaten you with
+nothing more intolerable than myself. Your eyes will weary of the
+sight of me and your ears at the sound of my voice. Do you think I
+have no hope? A moment 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 your keeping then, and shall know it, and feel it, and love my
+prison for your sake, even if you will not let me see you. If you
+would escape from me, 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 to you. 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! I will 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
+fallen upon her knees, and as he tried to free himself had fallen
+almost to her length upon the marble floor, clinging to his very feet,
+so that he could make no step without doing her some hurt. He looked
+down, amazed and silent, and as he looked she cast one glance upward
+to his stern face, the bright tears streaming like falling gems from
+her unlike eyes, her face pale and quivering, her rich hair all
+loosened and falling about her.
+
+And then, neither body, nor heart, nor soul, could bear the enormous
+strain that was laid upon them. A low cry broke from her lips, a
+stormy sob, another and another, like quick short waves breaking over
+the bar when the tide is low and the wind is rising suddenly.
+
+The Wanderer was in sore straits, for the minutes were passing quickly
+and he remembered the last look on Kafka's face, and how he had left
+the Moravian standing before the weapons on the wall. And nothing had
+been done yet, not so much as an order given not to admit him if he
+came to the house. At any moment he might be upon them. And the storm
+showed no signs of being spent. Her wild, convulsive sobbing was
+painful to hear. If he tried to move, she dragged herself frantically
+at his feet so that he feared lest he should tread upon her hands. He
+pitied her now most truly, though he guessed rightly that to show his
+pity would be but to add fuel to the blazing flame.
+
+Then, in the interval of a second, as she drew breath to weep afresh,
+he fancied that he heard sounds below as of the great door being
+opened and closed again. With a quick, strong movement, stooping low
+he put his arms about her and raised her from the floor. At his touch,
+her sobbing ceased 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 him still feel that if he did not support her weight with his
+arm she would fall again. In the midst of the most passionate and real
+outburst of despairing love there was no artifice which she would not
+use to be nearer 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
+seconds for 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
+the hall opposite to the usual entrance, and where he knew that there
+must be a door behind the screen of plants. His hold tightened upon
+her yielding waist. Her head fell back and her full lips parted in an
+ecstasy 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 leave
+this house with me now, very well. But leave this room you shall. If I
+am 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 one
+enter at the other end and rapid footsteps on the marble pavement.
+
+"Which is it to be?" asked the Wanderer, pale and calm. He had pushed
+her through before him and seemed ready to go back alone.
+
+With violent strength she drew him to her, closed the door and slipped
+the strong steel bolt across below the lock. There was a dim light in
+the passage.
+
+"Together, then," she said. "I shall at least be with you--a little
+longer."
+
+"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
+of the door-lock as some one tried to force it open. Then a heavy
+sound as though a man's shoulder struck against the solid panel.
+Unorna led the way through a narrow, winding passage, illuminated here
+and there by small lamps with shades of soft colours, blown in
+Bohemian glass.
+
+Pushing aside a curtain they came out into a small room. The Wanderer
+uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise as he recognised the
+vestibule and saw before him the door of the great conservatory, open
+as Israel Kafka had left it. That the latter was still trying to
+pursue them through the opposite exit was clear enough, for the blows
+he was striking on the panel echoed loudly out into the hall. Swiftly
+and silently Unorna closed the entrance and locked it securely.
+
+"He is safe for a little while," she said. "Keyork will find him there
+when he comes, an hour hence, and Keyork will perhaps bring him to his
+senses."
+
+She had regained control of herself, to all appearances, and she spoke
+with perfect calm and self-possession. The Wanderer looked at her in
+surprise and with some suspicion. Her hair was all falling about her
+shoulders, but saving this sign, there was no trace of the recent
+storm, nor the least indication of passion. If she had been acting a
+part throughout before an audience, she would have seemed less
+indifferent when the curtain fell. The Wanderer, having little cause
+to trust her, found it hard to believe that she had not been
+counterfeiting. It seemed impossible that she should be the same woman
+who but a moment earlier had been dragging herself at his feet, in
+wild tears and wilder protestations of her love.
+
+"If you are sufficiently rested," he said with a touch of sarcasm
+which he could not restrain, "I would suggest that we do not wait any
+longer here."
+
+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
+you think. I see it in your face."
+
+Before he could prevent her she had opened the door wide again and was
+advancing calmly into the conservatory.
+
+"Israel Kafka!" she cried in loud clear tones. "I am here--I am
+waiting--come!"
+
+The Wanderer ran forward. He caught sight in the distance of a pair of
+fiery eyes and of something long and thin and sharp-gleaming under the
+soft lamps. He knew then that all was deadly earnest. Swift as thought
+he caught Unorna and bore her from the hall, locking the door again
+and setting his broad shoulders against it, as he put her down. The
+daring act 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
+are hanging there, and here are mine. Let us be going."
+
+Quietly, as though nothing unusual had happened, they descended the
+stairs together. The porter came forward with all due ceremony, to
+open the shut door. Unorna told him that if Keyork Arabian came while
+she was out, he was to be shown directly into the conservatory. A
+moment later she and her companion were standing together in the small
+irregular square before the Clementinum.
+
+"Where will you go?" asked the Wanderer.
+
+"With you," she answered, laying her hand upon his arm and looking
+into his face as though waiting to see what direction he would choose.
+"Unless you send me back to him," she added, glancing quickly at the
+house and making as though she would withdraw her hand once more. "If
+it is to be that, I will go alone."
+
+There seemed to be no way out of the terrible dilemma, and the
+Wanderer stood still in deep thought. He knew that if he could but
+free himself from her for half an hour, he could get help from the
+right quarter and take Israel Kafka red-handed and armed as he was.
+For the man was caught as in a trap and must stay there until he was
+released, and there would be little doubt from his manner, when taken,
+that he was either mad or consciously attempting some crime. There was
+no longer any necessity, he thought, for Unorna to take refuge
+anywhere for more than an hour. In that time Israel Kafka would be in
+safe custody, and she could re-enter her house with nothing to fear.
+But he counted without Unorna's unyielding obstinacy. She threatened
+if he left her for a moment to go back to Israel Kafka. A few minutes
+earlier she had carried out her threat and the consequence had been
+almost fatal.
+
+"If you are in your right mind," he said at last, beginning to walk
+towards the corner, "you will see that what you wish to do is utterly
+against reason. I will not allow you to run the risk of meeting Israel
+Kafka 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 by
+force, if need be."
+
+"And you will leave me there, and I shall never see you again. I will
+not go, and you will find it hard to take me anywhere in the crowded
+city by force. You are not Israel Kafka, with the whole Jews' quarter
+at your command in which to hide me."
+
+The Wanderer was perplexed. He saw, however, that if he would yield
+the point and give his word to return to her, she might be induced to
+follow his 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, I
+wonder? 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 safe
+to-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 came
+here. Take me there quickly--no--not quickly either--let it be very
+long! I shall not see you until to-morrow."
+
+A carriage was passing at a foot pace. The Wanderer stopped it, and
+helped 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
+shake her off. At the gate they both got out, and he rang a bell that
+echoed through 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 disappeared
+within.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+Having made the necessary explanations to account for her sudden
+appearance, Unorna found herself installed in two rooms of modest
+dimensions, and very simply though comfortably furnished. It was quite
+a common thing for ladies to seek retreat and quiet in the convent
+during two or three weeks of the year, and there was plenty of
+available space at the disposal of those who wished to do so. Such
+visits were indeed most commonly made during the lenten season, and on
+the day when Unorna sought refuge among the nuns it chanced that there
+was but one other stranger 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 with equanimity the quiet observation of a number of
+woman, most of whom would probably have been to some extent acquainted
+with the story of her life, and some of whom would certainly have
+wished out of curiosity to enter into nearer acquaintance with her
+while within the convent, while not intending to prolong their
+intercourse with her any further. It could not be expected, indeed,
+that in a city like Prague such a woman as Unorna could escape notice,
+and the fact that little or nothing was known of her true history had
+left a very wide field for the imaginations 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 she was the daughter of a noble of
+eastern Bohemia who had died soon after her birth, the last of his
+family, having converted his ancestral possessions into money for
+Unorna's benefit, in order to destroy all trace of her relationship to
+him. The secret must, of course, have been confided to some one, but
+it had been kept faithfully, and Unorna herself was no wiser than
+those who mused themselves with fruitless speculations regarding her
+origin. If from the first, from the moment when, as a young girl, she
+left the convent to enter into possession of her fortune she had
+chosen to assert some right to a footing in the most exclusive
+aristocracy in the world, it is not impossible that the protection of
+the Abbess might have helped her to obtain it. The secret of her birth
+would, however, have rendered a marriage with a man of that class all
+but impossible, and would have entirely excluded her from the only
+other position considered dignified for a well-born woman of fortune,
+unmarried and wholly without living relations or connections--that of
+a lady-canoness on the Crown foundation. Moreover, her wild bringing-
+up, and the singular natural gifts she possessed, and which she could
+not resist the impulse to exercise, had in a few months placed her in
+a position from which no escape was possible so long as she continued
+to live in Prague; and against those few--chiefly men--who for her
+beauty's sake, or out of curiosity, would gladly have made her
+acquaintance, she raised an impassable barrier of pride and reserve.
+Nor was her reputation altogether an evil one. She lived in a strange
+fashion, it is true, but the very fact of her extreme seclusion had
+kept her name free from stain. If people spoke of her as the Witch, it
+was more from habit and half in jest than in earnest. In strong
+contradiction to the cruelty which she could exercise ruthlessly when
+roused to anger, was her well-known kindness to the poor, and her
+charities to institutions founded for their benefit were in reality
+considerable, and were said to be boundless. These explanations seem
+necessary in order to account for the readiness with which she turned
+to the convent when she was in danger, and for the facilities which
+were then at once offered her for a stay long or short, as she should
+please to make it. Some of the more suspicious nuns looked grave when
+they heard that she was under their roof; others, again, had been
+attached to her during the time she had formerly spent among them; and
+there were not lacking those who, disapproving of her presence, held
+their peace, in the anticipation that the rich and eccentric lady
+would on departing present a gift of value to their order.
+
+The rooms which were kept at the disposal of ladies desiring to make a
+religious retreat for a short time were situated on the first floor of
+one wing of the convent overlooking a garden which was not within the
+cloistered precincts, but which was cultivated for the convenience of
+the nuns, who themselves never entered it. The windows on this side
+were not latticed, and the ladies who occupied the apartments were at
+liberty to look out upon the small square of land, their view of the
+street beyond being cut off however by a wall in which there was one
+iron gate for the convenience of the gardeners, who were thus not
+obliged to pass through the main entrance of the convent in order to
+reach their work. Within the rooms all opened out upon a broad vaulted
+corridor, lighted in the day-time by a huge arched window looking upon
+an inner court, and at night by a single lamp suspended in the middle
+of the passage by a strong iron chain. The pavement of this passage
+was of broad stones, once smooth and even but now worn and made
+irregular by long use. The rooms for the guests were carpeted with
+sober colours and warmed by high stoves built up of glazed white
+tiles. The furniture, as has been said, was simple, but afforded all
+that was strictly necessary for ordinary comfort, each apartment
+consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room, small in lateral dimensions
+but relatively very high. The walls were thick and not easily
+penetrated by any sounds from without, and, as in many religious
+houses, the entrances from the corridor were all closed by double
+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 sound as
+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-stool
+provided with a hard and well-worn cushion for the knees. Over this a
+brown wooden crucifix was hung upon the gray wall.
+
+In the majority of convents it is not usual, nor even permissible, for
+ladies in retreat to descend to the nuns' refectory. When there are
+many guests they are usually served by lay sisters in a hall set apart
+for the purpose; when there are few, their simple meals are brought to
+them in their rooms. Moreover they of course put on no religious robe,
+though they dress themselves in black. In the church, or chapel, as
+the case may be, they do not take places within the latticed choir
+with the sisters, but either sit in the body of the building, or
+occupy a side chapel reserved for their use, or else perform their
+devotions kneeling at high windows above the choir, which communicate
+within with rooms accessible from the convent. It is usual for them to
+attend Mass, Vespers, the Benediction and Complines, but when there
+are midnight services they are not expected to be present.
+
+Unorna was familiar with convent life and was aware that the
+Benediction was over, and that the hour for the evening meal was
+approaching. A fire had been lighted in her sitting-room, but the air
+was still very cold and she sat wrapped in her furs as when she had
+arrived, leaning back in a corner of the sofa, her head inclined
+forward, and one white hand resting on the green baize cloth which
+covered the table.
+
+She was very tired, and the absolute stillness was refreshing and
+restoring after the long-drawn-out emotions of the stormy day. Never,
+in her short and passionate life, had so many events been crowded into
+the space of a few hours. Since the morning she had felt almost
+everything that 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 that day her life and all its interests had been
+stationary at the point familiar to her during a whole month, the
+point that still lay within the boundaries of hope's kingdom, the
+point at which the man she loved had wounded her by speaking of
+brotherly affection and sisterly regard. She could almost believe,
+when she thought of it all, that some one had done to her as she had
+done to others, that she had been cast into a state of sleep, and had
+been forced against her will to live through the storms of years in
+the lethargy of an hour. And yet, despite all, her memory was
+distinct, her faculties were awake, her intellect had lost none of its
+clearness, even in the last and worst hour of all. She could recall
+each look on the Wanderer's face, each tone of his cold speech, each
+intonation of her own passionate outpourings. Her strong memory had
+retained all, and there was not the slightest break in the continuity
+of her recollections. But there was little comfort to be derived from
+the certainty that she had not been dreaming, and that everything had
+really taken place precisely as she remembered it. She would have
+given all she possessed, which was much, to return to the hour of noon
+on that same day.
+
+In so far as a very unruly nature can understand itself, Unorna
+understood the springs of the actions, she regretted and confessed
+that in all likelihood she would do again as she had done at each
+successive stage. Indeed, since the last great outbreak of her heart,
+she realised more than ever the great proportions which her love had
+of late assumed; and she saw that she was indeed ready, as she had
+said, to dare everything and risk everything for the sake of obtaining
+the very least show of passion in return. It was quite clear to her,
+since she had failed so totally, that she should have had patience,
+that she ought to have accepted gratefully the man's offer of
+brotherly devotion, and trusted 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 way to-morrow. She possessed all the blind
+indifference to consequences which is a chief characteristic of the
+Slav nature when dominated by passion. She had shone it in her rash
+readiness to face Israel Kafka at the moment of leaving her own home.
+If she could not have what she longed for, she cared as little what
+became of her as she cared for Kafka's own fate. She had but one
+object, one passion, one desire, and to all else her indifference was
+supreme. Life and death, in this world or the next, were less weighty
+than feathers in a scale that measures hundreds of tons. The very idea
+of balance was for the moment beyond her imagination. For a while
+indeed the pride of a woman at once young, beautiful, and accustomed
+to authority, had kept her firm in the determination to be loved for
+herself, as she believed that she deserved to be loved; and just so
+long as that remained, she had held her head high, confidently
+expecting that the mask of indifference would soon be shivered, that
+the eyes she adored would soften with warm light, that the hand she
+worshipped would tremble suddenly, as though waking to life within her
+own. But that pride was gone, and from its disappearance there had
+been but one step to the most utter degradation of soul to which a
+woman can descend, and from that again but one step more to a
+resolution almost stupid in its hardened obstinacy. But as though to
+show how completely she was dominated by the man whom she could not
+win even her last determination had yielded under the slightest
+pressure from his will. She had left her house beside him with the mad
+resolve never again to be parted from him, cost what it might,
+reputation, fortune, life itself. And yet ten minutes had not elapsed
+before she found herself alone, trusting to a mere word of his for the
+hope of ever seeing him again. She seemed to have no individuality
+left. He had spoken and she had obeyed. He had commanded and she had
+done his bidding. She was even more ashamed of this than of having
+wept, and sobbed, and dragged herself at his feet. In the first moment
+she had submitted, deluding herself with the idea she had expressed,
+that he was consigning her to a prison and that her freedom was
+dependent on his will. The foolish delusion vanished. She saw that she
+was free, when she chose, to descend the steps she had just mounted,
+to go out through the gate she had lately entered, and to go
+whithersoever she would, at the mere risk of meeting Israel Kafka. And
+that risk she heartily despised, being thoroughly brave by nature, and
+utterly indifferent to death by force of circumstance.
+
+She comforted herself with the thought that the Wanderer would come to
+her, once at least, when she was pleased to send for him. She had that
+loyal belief inseparable from true love until violently overthrown by
+irrefutable evidence, and which sometimes has such power as to return
+even then, overthrowing the evidence of the senses themselves. Are
+there not men who trust women, and women who trust men, in spite of
+the vilest betrayals? Love is indeed often the inspirer of subjective
+visions, creating in the beloved object the qualities it admires and
+the virtues it adores, powerless to accept what it is not willing to
+see, dwelling in a fortress guarded by intangible, and therefore
+indestructible, fiction and proof against the artillery of facts.
+Unorna's confidence was, however, not misplaced. The man whose promise
+she had received had told the truth when he had said that he had never
+broken any promise whatsoever.
+
+In this, at least, there was therefore comfort. On the morrow she
+would see him again. The moment of complete despair had passed when
+she had received that assurance from his lips, and as she thought of
+it, sitting in the absolute stillness of her room, the proportions of
+the storm grew less, and possible dimensions of a future hope greater
+--just as the seafarer when his ship lies in a flat calm of the oily
+harbour thinks half incredulously of the danger past, despises himself
+for the anxiety he 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 was as strong as ever. In a dim vision the wreck of her
+pride floated still in the stormy distance, but she turned her eyes
+away, for it was no longer a part of her. The spectre of her
+humiliation rose up and tried to taunt her with her shame--she almost
+smiled at the thought that she could still remember it. He lived, she
+lived, and he should yet be hers. As her physical weariness began to
+disappear in the absolute quiet and rest, her determination revived.
+Her power was not all gone yet. On the morrow she would see him again.
+She might still fix her eyes on his, and in an unguarded moment cast
+him into a deep sleep. She remembered that look on his face in the old
+cemetery. She had guessed rightly; it had been for the faint memory of
+Beatrice. But she would bring it back again, and it should be for her,
+for he should never wake again. Had she not done as much with the
+ancient scholar who for long years had lain in her home in that
+mysterious state, who obeyed when she commanded him to rise, and walk,
+to eat, to speak? Why not the Wanderer, then? To outward eyes he would
+be alive and awake, calm, natural, happy. And yet he would be
+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
+did not know. Nature might rebel in the end and throw off the yoke of
+the heavily-imposed will. An interval might follow, full again of
+storm and passion and despair; but it would pass, and he would again
+fall under her influence. She had read, and Keyork Arabian had told
+her, of the marvels done every day by physicians of common power in
+the great hospitals and universities of the Empire, and elsewhere
+throughout Europe. 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 could produce the hypnotic sleep for the first time. When
+they had got as far as that, indeed, they could bring their learning,
+their science, and their experience to bear--and they could make
+foolish experiments, familiar to Unorna from her childhood as the
+sights and sounds of her daily life. Few, if any of them, had even the
+power necessary to hypnotise an ordinarily strong man in health. She,
+on the contrary, had never failed in that, and at the first trial,
+except with Keyork Arabian, a man of whom she said in her heart, half
+in jest and half superstitiously, that he was not a man at all, but a
+devil or a monster over whom earthly influences had no control.
+
+All her energy returned. The colour came back to her face, her eyes
+sparkled, her strong white hands contracted and opened, and closed
+again, as though she would grasp something. The room, too, had become
+warmer and she had forgotten to lay aside her furs. She longed for
+more air and, rising, walked across the room. It occurred to her that
+the great corridor would be deserted and as quiet as her own
+apartment, and she went out and began to pace the stone flags, her
+head high, looking straight before her.
+
+She wished that she had him there now, and she was angry at the
+thought that she had not seen earlier how easily it could all be done.
+However strong he might be, having twice been under her influence
+before he could not escape it again. In those moments when they had
+stood together before the great dark buildings of the Clementinum, it
+might all have been accomplished; and now, she must wait until the
+morning. But her mind 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 nothing to her that he would be wholly unconscious of his
+past life--had she not already made him forget the most important part
+of it? He would still be himself, and yet he would love her, and speak
+lovingly to her, and act as she would have him act. Everything could
+be done, and she would risk nothing, for she would marry him and make
+him her lawful husband, and they would spend their lives together, in
+peace, in the house wherein she had so abased herself before him,
+foolishly believing that, as a mere woman, she could win him.
+
+She paced the corridor, passing and repassing beneath the light of the
+single lamp that hung in the middle, walking quickly, with a sensation
+of pleasure in the movement and in the cold draught that fanned her
+cheek.
+
+Then she heard footsteps distinct from the echo of her own and she
+stood still. Two women were coming towards her through the gloom. She
+waited near her own door, supposing that they would pass her. As they
+came near, she saw that the one was a nun, habited in the plain gray
+robe and black 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
+two stopped and stood for a moment conversing together, Unorna could
+not clearly distinguish their faces. Then the lady entered one of the
+rooms, the third or the fourth from Unorna's, and the nun remained
+standing outside, apparently hesitating whether to turn to the right
+or to the left, or asking herself in which direction her occupations
+called her. Unorna made a movement, and at the sound of her foot the
+nun came towards her.
+
+"Sister Paul!" Unorna exclaimed, recognising her as her face came
+under the glare of the lamp, and holding out her hands.
+
+"Unorna!" cried the nun, with an intonation of surprise and pleasure.
+"I did not know that you were here. What brings you back to us?"
+
+"A caprice, Sister Paul--nothing but a caprice. I shall perhaps be
+gone to-morrow."
+
+"I am sorry," answered the sister. "One night is but a short retreat
+from the world." She shook her head rather sadly.
+
+"Much may happen in a night," replied Unorna with a smile. "You used
+to tell 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. You can 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 the stairs 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 it
+is still the carnival season in the world. It is in Lent that the
+great ladies come to us, and then we have often not a room free."
+
+The nun smiled sadly, shaking her head again, in a way that seemed
+habitual with her.
+
+"After all," she added, as Unorna said nothing, "it is better that
+they should come then, rather than not at all, though I often think it
+would be better still if they spent carnival in the convent and Lent
+in the world."
+
+"The world you speak of would be a gloomy place if you had the
+ordering of it, Sister Paul!" observed Unorna with a little laugh.
+
+"Ah, well! I daresay it would seem so to you. I know little enough of
+the 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 though
+searching for something. She was a thin, pale woman over forty years
+of age. Not a wrinkle marked her waxen skin, and her hair was entirely
+concealed under the smooth head-dress, but her age was in her eyes.
+
+"What is your life, Unorna?" she asked suddenly. "We hear strange
+tales of 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 the
+head.
+
+"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
+were good friends once."
+
+"And are still. The more reason why you should tell me what is said.
+Of course I am alone in the world, and people will always tell vile
+tales of women who have no one to protect them."
+
+"No, no," Sister Paul hastened to assure her. "As a woman, no word has
+reached us that touches your fair name. On the contrary, I have heard
+worldly women say much more that is good of you in that respect than
+they will say of each other. But there are other things, Unorna--other
+things which fill me with fear for you. They call you by a name that
+makes 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, it
+must be untrue."
+
+Unorna was silent for a moment and then understood. She laughed aloud
+with perfect unconcern.
+
+"I know!" she cried. "How foolish of me! They call me the Witch--of
+course."
+
+Sister Paul's face grew very grave, and she immediately crossed
+herself devoutly, looking askance at Unorna as she did so. But Unorna
+only laughed again.
+
+"Perhaps it is very foolish," said the nun, "but I cannot bear to hear
+such a thing said of you."
+
+"It is not said in earnest. Do you know why they call me the Witch? It
+is very simple. It is because I can make people sleep--people who are
+suffering or mad or in great sorrow, and then they rest. That is all
+my magic."
+
+"You can put people to sleep? Anybody?" Sister Paul opened her faded
+eyes very wide. "But that is not natural," she added in a perplexed
+tone. "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 use
+strange words and herbs and incantations?"
+
+Unorna laughed again, but the nun seemed shocked by her levity and she
+forced herself to be grave.
+
+"No, indeed!" she answered. "I look into their eyes and tell them to
+sleep--and they do. Poor Sister Paul! You are behind the age in the
+dear old convent here. The thing is done in half of the great
+hospitals of Europe every day, and men and women are cured in that way
+of diseases that paralyse them in body as well as in mind. Men study
+to learn how it is done; it is as common to-day, as a means of
+healing, as the medicines you 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
+there might be something diabolical in it. "And do you heal the sick
+in this way by means of this--thing?"
+
+"Sometimes," Unorna answered. "There is an old man, for instance, whom
+I 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
+prayer with it. Could you not say a prayer with it, Unorna?"
+
+"I daresay I could," replied the other, trying not to laugh. "But that
+would 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
+not true that the prayer can distract the will from the performance of
+a good deed." She shook her head more energetically than usual. "And
+it is not good either that you should be called a witch, you who have
+lived here amongst us."
+
+"It is not my fault!" exclaimed Unorna, somewhat annoyed by her
+persistence. "And besides, Sister Paul, even if the devil is in it, it
+would 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
+the Evil One does it? Is it not good to make him do good, if one can,
+even against his will?"
+
+"No, no!" cried Sister Paul, in great distress. "Do not talk like that
+--let us not talk of it at all! Whatever it is, it is bad, and I do
+not understand it, and I am sure that none of us here could, no matter
+how 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, mechanically smoothing her broad, starched collar with the
+other. Unorna was silent for a few minutes, plucking at the sable
+lining of the cloak which lay beside her upon the sofa where she had
+dropped it.
+
+"Let us talk of other things," she said at last. "Talk of the other
+lady who is here. Who is she? What brings her into retreat at this
+time of year?"
+
+"Poor thing--yes, she is very unhappy," answered Sister Paul. "It is a
+sad story, so far as I have heard it. Her father is just dead, and she
+is alone in the world. The Abbess received a letter yesterday from the
+Cardinal Archbishop, requesting that we would receive her, and this
+morning she came. His eminence knew her father, it appears. She is
+only to be here for a short time, I believe, until her relations come
+to take her home to her own country. Her father was taken ill in a
+country place near the city, which he had hired for the shooting
+season, and the poor girl was left all alone out there. The Cardinal
+thought she would be safer and perhaps less unhappy with us while she
+is waiting."
+
+"Of course," said Unorna, with a faint interest. "How old is she, poor
+child?"
+
+"She is not a child, she must be five and twenty years old, though
+perhaps 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. It
+suggested something."
+
+Though Sister Paul was as unworldly as five and twenty years of
+cloistered life can make a woman who is naturally simple in mind and
+devout in thought, she possessed that faculty of quick observation
+which is learned as readily, and exercised perhaps as constantly, in
+the midst of a small community, where each member is in some measure
+dependent upon all the rest for the daily pittance of ideas, as in
+wider spheres of 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 remembered
+the clearness and precision of the Wanderer's first impression, when
+he first told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Kirche, and she
+reflected that the name was a very uncommon one. The Beatrice of his
+story too had a father and no other relation, and was supposed to be
+travelling with him. By the uncertain light in the corridor Unorna had
+not been able to distinguish the lady's features, but the impression
+she had received had been that she was dark, as Beatrice was. There
+was no reason in the nature of things why this should not be the woman
+whom the Wanderer loved. It was natural enough that, being left alone
+in a strange city at such a moment, she should have sought refuge in a
+convent, and this being admitted it followed that she would naturally
+have been advised to retire to the one in which Unorna found herself,
+it being the one in which ladies were most frequently received as
+guests. Unorna could hardly trust herself to speak. She was conscious
+that Sister Paul was watching her, and she turned her face from the
+lamp.
+
+"There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking with
+her, if you wish it," said the nun. "She told me that she would be at
+Compline at nine o'clock. If you will be there yourself you can see
+her come in, and watch her when she goes out. Do you think you have
+ever seen 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
+to believe that the guest was identical with some one of whom she had
+heard very often. Her manner was abstracted and she seemed ill at
+ease. But that might be the result of fatigue.
+
+"Are you not hungry?" asked the nun. "You have had nothing since you
+came, I am sure."
+
+"No--yes--it is true," answered Unorna. "I had forgotten. It would be
+very 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 in
+the morning. Good-night."
+
+"Good-night, dear Sister Paul. Will you say a prayer for me?" She
+added the question suddenly, by an impulse of which she was hardly
+conscious.
+
+"Indeed I will--with all my heart, my dear child," answered the nun
+looking earnestly into her face. "You are not happy in your life," she
+added, 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
+out softly.
+
+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 near
+her, but that she could not, upon any reasonable pretext, go and knock
+at her door and see her and speak to her. She felt also a terrible
+doubt as to whether she would recognise her, at first sight, as the
+same woman whose shadow had passed between herself and the Wanderer on
+that eventful day a month ago. The shadow had been veiled, but she had
+a prescient consciousness of the features beneath the veil.
+Nevertheless, she might be mistaken. It would be necessary to seek her
+acquaintance by some excuse and endeavour to draw from her some
+portion of her story, enough to confirm Unorna's suspicions, or to
+prove conclusively that they were unfounded. To do this, Unorna
+herself needed all her strength and coolness, and she was glad when a
+lay sister entered the room bringing her evening meal.
+
+There were moments when Unorna, in favourable circumstances, was able
+to 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 the woman who was only separated from her by two or three
+walls. But that was not possible in this case. To be successful she
+would have needed some sort of guiding thread, or she must have
+already known the person she wished to see. She could not command that
+inexplicable condition as she could dispose of her other powers, at
+all times and in almost all moods. She felt that if she were at
+present capable of falling into the trance state at all, her mind
+would wander uncontrolled in some other direction. There was nothing
+to be done but to have patience.
+
+The lay sister went out. Unorna ate mechanically what had been set
+before her and waited. She felt that a crisis perhaps more terrible
+than that through which she had lately passed was at hand, if the
+stranger should prove to be indeed the Beatrice whom the Wanderer
+loved. Her brain was in a whirl when she thought of being brought face
+to face with the woman who had been before her, and every cruel and
+ruthless instinct of 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 rushed
+in from the corridor. She wished to hear the lady's footstep when she
+left her room to go to the church, and she sat down and remained
+motionless, fearing lest her own footfall should prevent the sound
+from reaching 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
+light tread upon the pavement. She rose quietly and went out,
+following in the same direction. She could see nothing but a dark
+shadow moving before her towards the opposite end of the passage,
+farther and farther from the hanging lamp. Unorna could hear her own
+heart beating as she followed, first to the right, then to the left.
+There was another light at this point. The lady had noticed that some
+one was coming behind her and turned her head to look back. The
+delicate, dark profile stood out clearly. Unorna held her breath,
+walking swiftly forward. But in a moment the lady went on, and entered
+the chapel-like room from which a great balconied window looked down
+into the church above the choir. As Unorna went in, she saw her
+kneeling upon one of the stools, her hands folded, her head inclined,
+her eyes closed, a black veil loosely thrown over her still blacker
+hair and falling down upon her shoulder without hiding her face.
+
+Unorna sank upon her knees, compressing her lips to restrain the
+incoherent exclamation that almost broke from them in spite of her,
+clasping her hands desperately, so that the faint blue veins stood out
+upon the marble surface.
+
+Below, hundreds of candles blazed upon the altar in the choir and sent
+their full yellow radiance up to the faces of the two women, as they
+knelt there almost side by side, both young, both beautiful, but
+utterly unlike. In a single glance Unorna had understood that it was
+true. An arm's length separated her from the rival whose very
+existence made her own happiness an utter impossibility. With
+unchanging, unwilling gaze she examined every detail of that beauty
+which the Wanderer had so loved, that even when forgotten there was no
+sight in his eyes for other women.
+
+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 it otherwise, though she could not but recognise the reality
+from the impression she had received. She had imagined it more
+ethereal, more faint, more sexless, more angelic, as she had seen it
+in her thoughts. Divine it was, but womanly beyond Unorna's own. Dark,
+delicately aquiline, tall and noble, the purity it expressed was of
+earth and not of 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 the mortal sorrows of this world, not with the
+unfathomable melancholy of the suffering saint. The lips were human,
+womanly, pure and tender, but not formed for speech of prayer alone.
+The drooping lids, not drawn, but darkened with faint, uneven shadows
+by the flow of many tears, were slowly lifted now and again,
+disclosing a vision of black eyes not meant for endless weeping, nor
+made so deep and warm only to strain their sight towards heaven above,
+forgetting earth below. Unorna knew that those same eyes could gleam,
+and flash, and blaze, with love and hate and anger, that under the
+rich, pale skin, the blood could rise and ebb with the changing tide
+of the heart, that the warm lips could part with passion and, moving,
+form words of love. She saw pride in the wide sensitive nostrils,
+strength in the even brow, and queenly dignity in the perfect poise of
+the head upon the slender throat. And the clasped hands were womanly,
+too, neither full and white and heavy like those of a marble statue,
+as Unorna's were, nor thin and over-sensitive like those of holy women
+in old pictures, but real and living, delicate in outline, but not
+without nervous strength, hands that might linger in another's, not
+wholly passive, but all responsive to the thrill of a loving touch.
+
+It was very hard to bear. A better woman than Unorna might have felt
+something evil and cruel and hating in her heart, at the sight of so
+much beauty in one who held her place, in the queen of the kingdom
+where she longed to reign. Unorna's cheek grew very pale, and her
+unlike eyes were fierce and dangerous. It was well for her that she
+could not speak to Beatrice then, for she wore no mask, and the dark
+beauty would have seen the danger of death in the face of the fair,
+and would have turned and defended herself in time.
+
+But the sweet singing of the nuns came softly up from below, echoing
+to the groined roof, rising and falling, high and low; and the full
+radiance of the many waxen tapers shone steadily from the great altar,
+gilding and warming statue and cornice and ancient moulding, and
+casting deep shadows into all the places that it could not reach. And
+still the two women knelt in their high balcony, the one rapt in
+fervent prayer, the other wondering that the presence of such hatred
+as hers should have no power to kill, and all the time making a
+supreme effort to compose her own features into the expression of
+friendly sympathy and interest which she knew she would need so soon
+as the singing ceased and it was time to leave the church again.
+
+The psalms were finished. There was a pause, and then the words of the
+ancient hymn floated up to Unorna's ears, familiar in years gone by.
+Almost unconsciously she herself, by force of old habit, joined in the
+first verse. Then, suddenly, she stopped, not realising, indeed, the
+horrible gulf that lay between the words that passed her lips, and the
+thoughts that were at work in her heart, but silenced by the near
+sound of a voice less rich and full, but far more exquisite and tender
+than her 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,"
+sang Beatrice in long, sweet notes.
+
+Unorna heard no more. The light dazzled her, and the blood beat in her
+heart. It seemed as though no prayer that was ever prayed could be
+offered up more directly against herself, and the voice that sang it,
+though not loud, had the rare power of carrying every syllable
+distinctly 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 words
+into her very ear. Afraid to look round, lest her face should betray
+her emotion, Unorna glanced down at the kneeling nuns. She started.
+Sister Paul, alone of them all, was looking up, her faded eyes fixed
+on Unorna's with a look that implored and yet despaired, her clasped
+hands a little raised from the low desk before her, most evidently
+offering up the words with the whole fervent intention of her pure
+soul, as an intercession 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 and women. The divine voice beside her seemed to dominate the
+hundred voices below; the nun's despairing look chilled for one
+instant all her love and 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 Sister Paul's glance turned again towards the altar.
+The moment was passed and Unorna was again what she had been before.
+
+Then followed the canticle, the voice of the prioress in the versicles
+after that, and the voices of the nuns, no longer singing, as they
+made the responses; the Creed, a few more versicles and responses, the
+short, final prayers, and all was over. From the church below came up
+the soft sound that many women make when they move silently together.
+The nuns were passing out in their appointed order.
+
+Beatrice remained kneeling a few moments longer, crossed herself and
+then rose. At the same moment Unorna was on her feet. The necessity
+for immediate action at all costs restored the calm to her face and
+the tactful skill to her actions. She reached the door first, and
+then, half turning her head, stood aside, as though to give Beatrice
+precedence in passing. Beatrice glanced at her face for the first
+time, and then by a courteous movement of the head signified that
+Unorna should go out first. Unorna appeared to hesitate, Beatrice to
+protest. Both women smiled a little, and Unorna, with a gesture of
+submission, passed through the doorway. She had managed it so well
+that it was almost impossible to avoid speaking as they threaded the
+long corridors together. Unorna allowed a moment to pass, as though to
+let her companion understand the slight awkwardness of the situation,
+and then addressed 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 the
+quality of her thrilling voice vibrated for an instant. They walked a
+few steps farther in silence.
+
+"I am not exactly in retreat," she said presently, either because she
+felt that it would be almost rude to say nothing, or because she
+wished her position to be clearly understood. "I am waiting here for
+some one who 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 was
+very young."
+
+By a common instinct, as they fell into conversation, they began to
+walk more slowly, side by side.
+
+"Indeed," said Beatrice, with a slight increase of interest. "Then you
+were 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 of myself."
+
+There was a little bitterness in her tone, intentional, but masterly
+in its truth to nature.
+
+"Left by your parents?" Beatrice asked. The question seemed almost
+inevitable.
+
+"I had none. I never knew a father or a mother." Unorna's voice grew
+sad with each syllable.
+
+They had entered the great corridor in which their apartments were
+situated, and were approaching Beatrice's door. They walked more and
+more slowly, in silence during the last few moments, after Unorna had
+spoken. Unorna sighed. The passing breath traveling on the air of the
+lonely place seemed both to invite and to offer sympathy.
+
+"My father died last week," Beatrice said in a very low tone, that was
+not quite steady. "I am quite alone--here and in the world."
+
+She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested upon
+Unorna'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. In
+another moment she knew that Beatrice would have disappeared within.
+Her heart beat violently until the answer came. She had been
+successful.
+
+"Will you, indeed?" Beatrice exclaimed. "I am poor company, but I
+shall be very glad if you will come in."
+
+She opened her door, and Unorna entered. The apartment was almost
+exactly like her own in size and shape and furniture, but it already
+had the air of being inhabited. There were books upon the table, and a
+square jewel-case, and an old silver frame containing a large
+photograph of a stern, dark man in middle age--Beatrice's father, as
+Unorna at once understood. Cloaks and furs lay in some confusion upon
+the chairs, a large box stood with the lid raised, against the wall,
+displaying a quantity of lace, among which lay silks and ribbons of
+soft colours.
+
+"I only came this morning," Beatrice said, as though to apologise for
+the disorder.
+
+Unorna sank down in a corner of the sofa, shading her eyes from the
+bright lamp with her hand. She could not help looking at Beatrice, but
+she felt that she must not let her scrutiny be too apparent, nor her
+conversation too eager. Beatrice was proud and strong, and could
+doubtless be very cold and forbidding when she chose.
+
+"And do you expect to be here long?" Unorna asked, as Beatrice
+established herself at the other end of the sofa.
+
+"I cannot tell," was the answer. "I may be here but a few days, or I
+may have to stay a month.
+
+"I lived here for years," said Unorna thoughtfully. "I suppose it
+would be impossible now--I should die of apathy and inanition." She
+laughed in a subdued way, as though respecting Beatrice's mourning.
+"But I was young then," she added, suddenly withdrawing her hand from
+her eyes, so that the full light of the lamp fell upon her.
+
+She chose to show that she, too, was beautiful, and she knew that
+Beatrice had as yet hardly seen her face as they passed through the
+gloomy corridors. It was an instinct of vanity, and yet, for her
+purpose, it was the right one. The effect was sudden and unexpected,
+and Beatrice 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 a
+confession 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 the
+age she admitted and her extreme beauty it seemed probable that she
+must be. It occurred to her that the acquaintance had been made
+without any presentation, and that neither knew the other's name.
+
+"Since I am a little the younger," she said, "I should tell you who I
+am."
+
+Unorna made a slight movement. She was on the point of saying that she
+knew already--and too well.
+
+"I am Beatrice Varanger."
+
+"I am Unorna." She could not help a sort of cold defiance that sounded
+in her tone as she pronounced the only name she could call hers.
+
+"Unorna?" Beatrice repeated, courteously enough, but with an air of
+surprise.
+
+"Yes--that is all. It seems strange to you? They called me so because
+I was 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
+would tell 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 very
+gentle smile.
+
+"You are very kind to say so," said Beatrice quietly.
+
+Unorna was perfectly well aware that it must seem strange, to say the
+least 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 cared
+little what Beatrice thought, provided that she could interest her.
+She had a distinct intention in making the time slip by unnoticed,
+until it should be late.
+
+She related her history, so far as it was known to herself, simply and
+graphically, substantially as it has been already set forth, but with
+an abundance of anecdote and comment which enhanced the interest and
+at the same time extended its limits, interspersing her monologues
+with remarks which called for an answer and which served as tests of
+her companion's attention. She hinted but lightly at her possession of
+unusual power over animals, and spoke not at all of the influence she
+could exert upon people. Beatrice listened eagerly. She could have
+told, on her part, that for years her own life had been dull and
+empty, and that it was long 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
+which had begun a month before that time, and at that point her story
+ended.
+
+"Then you are not married?" Beatrice's tone expressed an interrogation
+and 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 question
+might seem a natural one for Unorna to ask, although she had said that
+she was alone in the world. Unorna might have supposed her to have
+lost her husband. But Unorna could see that it was not surprise alone
+that had startled her. The question, as she knew it must, had roused a
+deep and painful train of thought.
+
+"No," said Beatrice, in an altered voice. "I am not married. I shall
+never 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
+the suggestion.
+
+But Unorna was suffering too. She had allowed herself to imagine that
+in the long years which had passed Beatrice might perhaps have
+forgotten. It had even crossed her mind that she might indeed be
+married. But in the few words, and in the tremor that accompanied
+them, as well as in the increased pallor of Beatrice's face, she
+detected a love not less deep 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 not
+control her voice, but with supreme judgment of the effect she allowed
+herself to be carried beyond all reserve. In the one short sentence
+her whole passion expressed itself, genuine, deep, strong, ruthless.
+She let the words come as they would, and Beatrice was startled by the
+passionate 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 be restrained no longer. For years she had kept silence, for
+there had been no one to whom she could speak. For years she had
+sought him, as best she could, as he had sought her, fruitlessly and
+at last hopelessly. And she had known that her father was seeking him
+also, everywhere, that he might drag her to the ends of the earth at
+the mere suspicion of the Wanderer's presence in the same country. It
+had amounted to a madness with him of the kind not seldom seen.
+Beatrice might marry whom she pleased, but not the one man she loved.
+Day by day and year by year their two strong wills had been silently
+opposed, and neither the one nor the other had ever been unconscious
+of the struggle, nor had either yielded 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 resist him. Never in that time had
+she lost faith in the devotion of the man she sought, and at last it
+was only in the belief that he was dead that she could discover an
+explanation of his failure to find her. Still she would not change,
+and still, through the years, she loved more and more truly, and
+passionately, and unchangingly.
+
+The feeling that she was in the presence of a passion as great, as
+unhappy, and as masterful as her own, unloosed her tongue. Such things
+happen in this strange world. Men and women of deep and strong
+feedings, outwardly cold, reserved, taciturn and proud, have been
+known, once in their lives, to pour out the secrets of their hearts to
+a stranger or a mere acquaintance, as they could never have done to a
+friend.
+
+Beatrice seemed scarcely conscious of what she was saying, or of
+Unorna's presence. The words, long kept back and sternly restrained,
+fell with a strange strength from her lips, and there was not one of
+them from first to last that did not sheathe itself like a sharp knife
+in Unorna's heart. The enormous jealousy of Beatrice which had been
+growing within her beside her love during the last month was reaching
+the climax of its overwhelming magnitude. She hardly knew when
+Beatrice ceased speaking, for the words were still all ringing in her
+ears, and clashing madly in her own breast, and prompting her fierce
+nature to do some violent deed. But Beatrice looked for no sympathy
+and did not see Unorna's face. She had forgotten Unorna herself at the
+last, as she sat staring at the opposite wall.
+
+Then she rose quickly, and taking something from the jewel-box, thrust
+it 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 shall
+never meet again."
+
+"What is it?" Unorna tried to ask, holding the closed case in her
+hands. She knew what was within it well enough, and her self-command
+was forsaking her. It was almost more than she could bear. It was as
+though Beatrice were wreaking vengeance on her, instead of her
+destroying her rival as she had meant to do, sooner or later.
+
+Beatrice took the thing from her, opened it, gazed at it a moment, and
+put it again into Unorna's hands. "It was like him," she said,
+watching her 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,
+and the extraordinary contrast in the colour of her two eyes was
+horribly apparent. The one seemed to freeze, the other to be on fire.
+The strongest and worst passions that can play upon the human soul
+were all expressed with awful force in the distorted mask, and not a
+trace of the magnificent beauty so lately there was visible. Beatrice
+shrank back in horror.
+
+"You know him!" she cried, half guessing at the truth.
+
+"I know him--and I love him," said Unorna slowly and fiercely, her
+eyes fixed on her enemy, and gradually leaning towards her so as to
+bring her face 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
+was a fascination from which no living thing could escape. She tried
+to scream, 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 upon her cheek. Then her brain reeled, her limbs relaxed,
+and her head fell back 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 the
+intention of making Beatrice sleep, for she had no distinct intention
+whatever at that moment. Her words and her look had been but the
+natural results of overstrained passion, and she repeated what she had
+said again and again, and gazed long and fiercely into Beatrice's face
+before she realised that she had unintentionally thrown her rival and
+enemy into the intermediate state. It is rarely that the first stage
+of hypnotism produces the same consequences in two different
+individuals. In Beatrice it took the form of total unconsciousness, as
+though she had merely fainted away.
+
+Unorna gradually regained her self-possession. After all, Beatrice had
+told 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 in
+which the story had been told. Word after word, phrase after phrase
+had cut her and stabbed her to the quick, and when Beatrice had thrust
+the miniature into her hands her wrath had risen in spite of herself.
+But now that she had returned to a state in which she could think
+connectedly, and now that she saw Beatrice asleep before her, she did
+not regret what she had unwittingly done. From the first moment when,
+in the balcony over the church, she had realised that she was in the
+presence of the woman she hated, she had determined to destroy her. To
+accomplish this she would in any case have used her especial weapons,
+and though she had intended to steal by degrees upon her enemy,
+lulling her to sleep by a more gentle fascination, at an hour when the
+whole convent should be quiet, yet since the first step had been made
+unexpectedly and without her will, she did not regret it.
+
+She leaned back and looked at Beatrice during several minutes, smiling
+to herself from time to time, scornfully and cruelly. Then she rose
+and locked the outer door and closed the inner one carefully. She knew
+from long 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 was very beautiful.
+
+"If he could see us now!" she exclaimed aloud.
+
+The thought suggested something to her. She would like to see herself
+beside this other woman and compare the beauty he loved with the
+beauty that 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's head. Then she changed the position of the lamp and looked
+at herself, and touched her hair, and smoothed her brow, and loosened
+the black lace about her white throat. And she looked from herself to
+Beatrice, and back to herself again, many times.
+
+"It is strange that black should suit us both so well--she so dark and
+I so 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 and
+laying the mirror on the table.
+
+She began to walk up and down the room as was her habit when in deep
+thought, turning over in her mind the deed to be done and the surest
+and best way of doing it. It never occurred to her that Beatrice could
+be allowed to live beyond that night. If the woman had been but an
+unconscious obstacle in her path Unorna would have spared her life,
+but as matters stood, she had no inclination to be merciful.
+
+There was nothing to prevent the possibility of a meeting between
+Beatrice and the Wanderer, if Beatrice remained alive. They were in
+the same city together, and their paths might cross at any moment. The
+Wanderer had forgotten, but it was not sure that the artificial
+forgetfulness would be proof against an actual sight of the woman once
+so dearly loved. The same consideration was true of Beatrice. She,
+too, might be made to forget, though it was always an experiment of
+uncertain issue and of more than uncertain result, even when
+successful, so far as duration was concerned. Unorna reasoned coldly
+with herself, recalling all that Keyork Arabian had told her and all
+that she had read. She tried to admit that Beatrice might be disposed
+of in some other way, but the difficulties seemed to be
+insurmountable. To effect such a disappearance Unorna must find some
+safe place in which the wretched woman might drag out her existence
+undiscovered. But Beatrice was not like the old beggar who in his
+hundredth year had leaned against Unorna's door, unnoticed and uncared
+for, and had been taken in and had never 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 any moment, and would even afford a
+brilliant example of Unorna's charitable doings. But Beatrice was a
+stranger and a person of some importance in the world. The Cardinal
+Archbishop himself had directed the nuns to receive her, and they were
+responsible for her safety. To spirit her away in the night would be a
+dangerous thing. Wherever she was to be taken, Unorna would have to
+lead her there alone. Unorna would herself be missed. Sister Paul
+already suspected that the name of Witch was more than a mere
+appellation. There would be a search made, and suspicion might easily
+fall upon Unorna, who would have been obliged, of course, to conceal
+her enemy in her own house for lack of any other convenient place.
+
+There was no escape from the deed. Beatrice must die. Unorna could
+produce death in a form which could leave no trace, and it would be
+attributed to a weakness of the heart. Does any one account otherwise
+for 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 was
+last seen by a friend, who describes the conversation accurately, and
+expresses astonishment at the catastrophe which followed so closely
+upon the visit. He, or she, is found alone by a servant, or a third
+person, in a profound lethargy from which neither restoratives nor
+violent shocks upon the nerves can produce any awakening. In one hour,
+or a few hours, it is over. There is an examination, and the
+authorities pronounce an ambiguous verdict--death from a syncope of
+the heart. Such things happen, they say, with a shake of the head.
+And, indeed, they know that such things really do happen, and they
+suspect that they do not happen naturally; but there is no evidence,
+not even so much as may be detected in a clever case of vegetable
+poisoning. The heart has stopped beating, and death has followed.
+There are wise men by the score to-day who do not ask "What made it
+stop?" but "Who made it stop?" But they have no evidence to bring, and
+the new jurisprudence, which in some countries covers the cases of
+thefts and frauds committed under hypnotic suggestion, cannot as yet
+lay down the law for cases where a man has been told to die, and dies
+--from "weakness of the heart." And yet it is known, and well known,
+that by hypnotic suggestion the pulse can be made to fall to the
+lowest number of beatings consistent with life, and that the
+temperature of the body can be commanded beforehand to stand at a
+certain 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
+of what 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 with authority and responsible to the world of science for
+every word he speaks, and doubly so for every word he writes. A few
+believe in the antiquated doctrine of electric animal currents, the
+vast majority are firm in the belief that the influence is a moral one
+--all admit that whatever force, or influence, lies at the root of
+hypnotism, the effects it can produce are practically unlimited,
+terrible in their comprehensiveness, and almost entirely unprovided
+for in the scheme of modern criminal law.
+
+Unorna was sure of herself, and of her strength to perform what she
+contemplated. There lay the dark beauty in the corner of the sofa,
+where she had sat and talked so long, and told her last story, the
+story of her 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 never wake again. She would lie there still, until they
+found her, hour after hour, the pulse growing weaker and weaker, the
+delicate hands colder, the face more set. At the last, there would be
+a convulsive shiver of the queenly form, and that would be the end.
+The physicians and the authorities would come and would speak of a
+weakness of the heart, and there 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
+vengeance upon the woman who stood between her and happiness? Was
+there to be nothing but that, nothing but the painless passing of the
+pure young spirit 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 just retribution for her existence? Unorna could lead her,
+as she had led Israel Kafka, through the life and death of a martyr,
+through a life of wretchedness and a death of shame, but then, the
+moment must come at last, since this was to be death indeed, and her
+spotless soul would be beyond Unorna's reach forever. No, that was not
+enough. Since she could not be allowed to live to be tormented,
+vengeance must follow her beyond the end of life.
+
+Unorna stood still and an awful light of evil came into her face. A
+thought of which the enormity would have terrified a common being had
+entered 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
+and lovely face of her sleeping enemy, devising a crime to be imposed
+upon her for her eternal destruction. Unorna was very superstitious,
+or the hideous scheme could never have presented itself to her. To her
+mind the deed was everything, whatever it was to be, and the intention
+or the unconsciousness in doing it could have nothing to do with the
+consequences to the soul of the doer. She made no theological
+distinctions. Beatrice should commit some terrible crime and should
+die in committing it. Then she would be lost, and devils would do in
+hell the worst torment which Unorna could not do on earth. A crime--a
+robbery, a murder--it must be done in the convent. Unorna hesitated,
+bending her brows and poring in imagination over the dark catalogue of
+all imaginable evil.
+
+A momentary and vague terror cast its shadow on her thoughts. By some
+accident 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 done
+since that day. She had greatly changed since then. She could think
+calmly now of deeds which even she would not have dared then. She
+thought of the evening when she had cried aloud that she would give
+her soul 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
+sometimes fancied, and had there been a reality and a binding meaning
+in that contract?
+
+Keyork Arabian! He, indeed, possessed the key to all evil. What would
+he have done with Beatrice? Would he make her rob the church--murder
+the abbess in her sleep? Bad, but not bad enough.
+
+Unorna started. A deed suggested itself so hellish, so horrible in its
+enormity, so far beyond all conceivable human sin, that for one moment
+her brain reeled. She shuddered again and again, and groped for
+support and leaned against the wall in a bodily weakness of terror.
+For one moment she, who feared nothing, was shaken by fear from head
+to foot, her face turned white, her knees shook, her sight failed her,
+her teeth chattered, her lips moved hysterically.
+
+But she was strong still. The thing she had sought had come to her
+suddenly. She set her teeth, and thought of it again and again, till
+she could face the horror of it without quaking. Is there any limit to
+the hardening of the human heart?
+
+The distant bells rang out the call to midnight prayer. Unorna stopped
+and listened. She had not known how quickly time was passing. But it
+was better so. She was glad it was so late, and she said so to
+herself, but the evil smile that was sometimes in her face was not
+there now. She had thought a thought that left a mark on her forehead.
+Was there any reality in that jesting contract with Keyork Arabian?
+
+She must wait before she did the deed. The nuns would go down into the
+lighted church, and kneel and pray before the altar. It would last
+some time, the midnight lessons, the psalms, the prayers--and she must
+be sure that all was quiet, for the deed could not be done in the room
+where Beatrice was sleeping.
+
+She was conscious of the time now, and every minute seemed an hour,
+and every second was full of that one deed, done over and over again
+before her eyes, until every awful detail of the awful whole was
+stamped indelibly upon her brain. She had sat down now, and leaning
+forwards, was watching the innocent woman and wondering how she would
+look when she was doing it. But she was calm now, as she felt that she
+had never been in her life. Her breath came evenly, her heart beat
+naturally, she thought connectedly of what she was about to do. But
+the time seemed endless.
+
+The distant clocks chimed the half hour, three-quarters, past
+midnight. Still she waited. At the stroke of one she rose from her
+seat, and standing beside Beatrice laid her hand upon the dark brow.
+
+A few questions, a few answers followed. She must assure herself that
+her victim was in the right state to execute minutely all her
+commands. Then she opened the door upon the corridor and listened. Not
+a sound broke the intense stillness, and all was dark. The hanging
+lamp had been extinguished and the nuns had all returned from the
+midnight service to their cells. No one would be stirring now until
+four o'clock, and half an hour was all that Unorna needed.
+
+She took Beatrice's hand. The dark woman rose with half-closed eyes
+and set 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 with
+her, she was obliged to trust herself to her victim, for whose vision
+there 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 not
+enter it. The staircase is on the right of the door, and leads into
+the choir. Go!"
+
+Without hesitation Beatrice led her out into the impenetrable gloom,
+with swift, noiseless footsteps in the direction commanded, never
+wavering nor hesitating whether to turn to the right or the left, but
+walking as confidently as though in broad daylight. Unorna counted the
+turnings and knew that there was no mistake. Beatrice was leading her
+unerringly towards the staircase. They reached it, and began to
+descend the winding steps. Unorna, holding her leader by one hand,
+steadied herself with the other against the smooth, curved wall,
+fearing at every moment lest she should stumble and fall in the total
+darkness. But Beatrice never faltered. To her the way was as bright as
+though the noonday sun had shone before her.
+
+The stairs ended abruptly against a door. Beatrice stood still. She
+had received no further commands and the impulse ceased.
+
+"Draw back the bolt and take me into the church," said Unorna, who
+could see nothing, but who knew that the nuns fastened the door behind
+them when they returned into the convent. Beatrice obeyed without
+hesitation and led her forward.
+
+They came out between the high carved seats of the choir, behind the
+high altar. The church was not quite as dark as the staircase and
+passages had been, and Unorna stood still for a moment. In some of the
+chapels hanging lamps of silver were lighted, and their tiny flames
+spread a faint radiance upwards and sideways, though not downwards,
+sufficient to break the total obscurity to eyes accustomed for some
+minutes to no light at all. The church stood, too, on a little
+eminence in the city, where the air without was less murky and
+impenetrable with the night mists, and though there was no moon the
+high upper windows of the nave were distinctly visible in the gloomy
+height like great lancet-shaped patches of gray upon a black ground.
+
+In the dimness, all objects took vast and mysterious proportions. A
+huge giant reared his height against one of the pillars, crowned with
+a high, pointed crown, stretching out one great shadowy hand into the
+gloom--the tall pulpit was there, as Unorna knew, and the hand was the
+wooden crucifix standing out in its extended socket. The black
+confessionals, too, took shape, like monster nuns, kneeling in their
+heavy hoods and veils, with heads inclined, behind the fluted
+pilasters, just within the circle of the feeble chapel lights. Within
+the choir, the deep shadows seemed to fill the carved stalls with the
+black ghosts of long dead sisters, returned to their familiar seats
+out of the damp crypt below. The great lectern in the midst of the
+half circle behind the high altar became a hideous skeleton, headless,
+its straight arms folded on its bony breast. The back of the high
+altar itself was a great throne whereon sat in judgment a misty being
+of awful form, judging the dead women all through the lonely night.
+The stillness was appalling. Not a rat stirred.
+
+Unorna shuddered, not at what she saw, but at what she felt. She had
+reached the place, and the doing of the deed was at hand. Beatrice
+stood beside her erect, asleep, motionless, her dark face just
+outlined in the surrounding dusk.
+
+Unorna took her hand and led her forwards. She could see now, and the
+moment had come. She brought Beatrice before the high altar and made
+her stand in front of it. Then she herself went back and groped for
+something in the dark. It was the pair of small wooden steps upon
+which the priest mounts in order to open the golden door of the high
+tabernacle above the altar, when it is necessary to take therefrom the
+Sacred Host for the Benediction, or other consecrated wafers for the
+administration of the Communion. To all Christians, of all
+denominations whatsoever, the bread-wafer when once consecrated is a
+holy thing. To Catholics and Lutherans there is there, substantially,
+the Presence of God. No imaginable act of sacrilege can be more
+unpardonable than the desecration of the tabernacle and the wilful
+defilement and destruction of the Sacred Host.
+
+This was Unorna's determination. Beatrice should commit this crime
+against 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 ages of ages.
+
+Considering what she believed, it is no wonder that she should have
+shuddered at the tremendous thought. And yet, in the distortion of her
+reasoning, the sin would be upon Beatrice who did the act, and not
+upon herself who commanded it. There was no diminution of her own
+faith in the sacredness of the place and the holiness of the
+consecrated object--had she been one whit less sure of that, her
+vengeance would have been vain and her whole scheme meaningless.
+
+She came back out of the darkness and set the wooden steps in their
+place before the altar at Beatrice's feet. Then, as though to save
+herself from all participation in the guilt of the sacrilege which was
+to follow, she withdrew outside the Communion rail, and closed the
+gate behind her.
+
+Beatrice, obedient to her smallest command, and powerless to move or
+act without her suggestion, stood still as she had been placed, with
+her back to the church and her face to the altar. Above her head the
+richly wrought door of the tabernacle caught what little light there
+was and reflected it from its own uneven surface.
+
+Unorna paused a moment, looked at the shadowy figure, and then glanced
+behind her into the body of the church, not out of any ghostly fear,
+but to assure herself that she was alone with her victim. She saw that
+all was quite ready, and then she calmly knelt down just upon one side
+of the gate and rested her folded hands upon the marble railing. A
+moment of intense stillness followed. Again the thought of Keyork
+Arabian flashed across her mind. Had there been any reality, she
+vaguely wondered, in that compact made with him? What was she doing
+now? But the crime 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. She
+was able to count the strokes and was glad to find that she had lost
+no time. As soon as the long, singing echo of the bells had died away,
+she spoke, not loudly, but clearly and distinctly.
+
+"Beatrice Varanger, go forward and mount the steps I have placed for
+you."
+
+The dark figure moved obediently, and Unorna heard the slight sound of
+Beatrice's foot upon the wood. The shadowy form rose higher and higher
+in 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 its
+hand as though searching for something, and then the arm fell again to
+the side.
+
+"Do as I command you," Unorna repeated with the angry and dominant
+intonation that always came into her voice when she was not obeyed.
+
+Again the hand was raised for a moment, groped in the darkness and
+sank down into the shadow.
+
+"Beatrice Varanger, you must do my will. I order you to open the door
+of the tabernacle, to take out what is within and to throw it to the
+ground!" Her voice rang clearly through the church. "And may the crime
+be 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 a
+moment upon the tabernacle, the effect, Unorna thought, of the golden
+door being suddenly opened.
+
+But she was wrong. The figure moved, indeed, and stretched out a hand
+and moved again. A sudden crash of something very heavy, falling upon
+stone, broke the great stillness--the dark form tottered, reeled and
+fell to its length upon the great altar. Unorna saw that the golden
+door was still closed, and that Beatrice had fallen. Unable to move or
+act by her own free judgment, and compelled by Unorna's determined
+command, she had made a desperate effort to obey. Unorna had forgotten
+that there was a raised step upon the altar itself, and that there
+were other obstacles in the way, including heavy candlesticks and the
+framed Canon of the Mass, all of which are usually set aside before
+the tabernacle is opened by the priest. In attempting to do as she was
+told, the sleeping woman had stumbled, had overbalanced herself, had
+clutched one of the great silver candlesticks so that it fell heavily
+beside her, and then, having no further support, she had fallen
+herself.
+
+Unorna sprang to her feet and hastily opened the gate of the railing.
+In a moment she was standing by the altar at Beatrice's head. She
+could see that the dark eyes were open now. The great shock had
+recalled her to consciousness.
+
+"Where am I?" she asked in great distress, seeing nothing in the
+darkness now, and groping with her hands.
+
+"Sleep--be silent and sleep!" said Unorna in low, firm tones, pressing
+her palm upon the forehead.
+
+"No--no!" cried the startled woman in a voice of horror. "No--I will
+not sleep--no, do not touch me! Oh, where am I--help! Help!"
+
+She was not hurt. With one strong, lithe movement, she sprang to the
+ground and stood with her back to the altar, her hands stretched out
+to defend herself from Unorna. But Unorna knew what extreme danger she
+was in if Beatrice left the church awake and conscious of what had
+happened. She seized the moving arms and tried to hold them down,
+pressing her face forward so as to look into the dark eyes she could
+but faintly distinguish. It was no easy matter, however, for Beatrice
+was young and strong and active. Then all at once she began to see
+Unorna's eyes, as Unorna could see hers, and she felt the terrible
+influence stealing over her again.
+
+"No--no--no!" she cried, struggling desperately. "You shall not make
+me sleep. I will not--I will not!"
+
+There was a flash of light again in the church, this time from behind
+the high altar, and the noise of quick footsteps. But neither Unorna
+nor Beatrice noticed the light or the sound. Then the full glow of a
+strong lamp fell upon the faces of both and dazzled them, and Unorna
+felt a cool thin hand upon her own. Sister Paul was beside them, her
+face very white and her faded eyes turning from the one to the other.
+
+It was very simple. Soon after Compline was over the nun had gone to
+Unorna's room, had knocked and had entered. To her surprise Unorna was
+not there, but Sister Paul imagined that she had lingered over her
+prayers and would soon return. The good nun had sat down to wait for
+her, and telling her beads had fallen asleep. The unaccustomed warmth
+and comfort of the guest's room had been too much for the weariness
+that constantly oppressed a constitution broken with ascetic
+practices. Accustomed by long habit to awake at midnight to attend the
+service, her eyes opened of themselves, indeed, but a full hour later
+than usual. She heard the clock strike one, and for a moment could not
+believe her senses. Then she understood that she had been asleep, and
+was amazed to find that Unorna had not come back. She went out hastily
+into the corridor. The lay sister had long ago extinguished the
+hanging lamp, but Sister Paul saw the light streaming from Beatrice's
+open door. She went in and called aloud. The bed had not been touched.
+Beatrice was not there. Sister Paul began to think that both the
+ladies must have gone to the midnight service. The corridors were dark
+and they might have lost their way. She took the lamp from the table
+and went to the balcony at which the guests performed their devotion.
+It had been her light that had flashed across the door of the
+tabernacle. She had looked down into the choir, and far below her had
+seen a figure, unrecognisable from that height in the dusk of the
+church, but clearly the figure of a woman standing upon the altar.
+Visions of horror rose before her eyes of the sacrilegious practices
+of witchcraft, for she had thought of nothing else during the whole
+evening. Lamp in hand she descended the stairs to the choir and
+reached the altar, providentially, just in time to save Beatrice from
+falling a victim again to the evil fascination of the enemy who had
+planned the destruction of her soul as well as of her body.
+
+"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 the
+struggle presented itself even to her quick intellect. She fixed her
+eyes on the nun's face, concentrating all her will, for she knew that
+unless she could control her also, she herself was lost. Beatrice
+answered the question, drawing herself up proudly against the great
+altar and pointing at Unorna with her outstretched hand, her dark eyes
+flashing indignantly.
+
+"We were talking together, this woman and I. She looked at me--she was
+angry--and then I fainted, or fell asleep, I cannot tell which. I
+awoke in the dark to find myself lying upon the altar here. Then she
+took hold of me and tried to make me sleep again. But I would not. Let
+her explain, 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 and
+savagely. She felt that she might as well have looked upon some
+ancient picture of a saint in heaven, and bid it close its eyes. But
+she would not give up the attempt, for her only safety lay in its
+success. For a long 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 moment
+upon 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 take
+you to a place where you will be safe. She will not trouble you any
+more to-night. Say a prayer, my child, and do not be afraid."
+
+"I am not afraid," said Beatrice. "But where is she?" she asked
+suddenly.
+
+Unorna had glided away while they were speaking. Sister Paul held the
+lamp high and looked in all directions. Then she heard the heavy door
+of the sacristy swing upon its hinges and strike with a soft thud
+against the small leathern cushion. Both women followed her, but as
+they opened the door again a blast of cold air almost extinguished the
+lamp. The night wind was blowing in from the street.
+
+"She is gone out," said Sister Paul. "Alone and at this hour--Heaven
+help her!" It was as she said, Unorna had escaped.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+After leaving Unorna at the convent, the Wanderer had not hesitated as
+to the course he should pursue. It was quite clear that the only
+person to whom he could apply at the present juncture was Keyork
+Arabian. Had he been at liberty to act in the most natural and simple
+way, he would have applied to the authorities for a sufficient force
+with which to take Israel Kafka into custody as a dangerous lunatic.
+He was well aware, however, that such a proceeding must lead to an
+inquiry of a more or less public nature, of which the consequences
+might be serious, or at least extremely annoying, to Unorna. Of the
+inconvenience to which he might himself be exposed, he would have
+taken little account, though his position would have been as difficult
+to explain as any situation could be. The important point was to
+prevent the possibility of Unorna's name being connected with an open
+scandal. Every present circumstance in the case was directly or
+indirectly the result of Unorna's unreasoning passion for himself, and
+it was clearly his duty, as a man of honour, to shield her from the
+consequences of her own acts, as far as lay in his power.
+
+He did not indeed believe literally all that she had told him in her
+mad confession. Much of that, he was convinced, was but a delusion. It
+might be possible, indeed, for Unorna to produce forgetfulness of such
+a dream as she impressed upon Kafka's mind in the cemetery that same
+afternoon, or even, perhaps, of some real circumstance of merely
+relative importance in a man's life; but the Wanderer could not
+believe that it was in her power to destroy the memory of the great
+passion through which 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's own mind was clearly wandering, or else she had
+invented the story, supposing him credulous enough to believe it. In
+either case it did not deserve a moment's consideration except as
+showing to what lengths her foolish and ill-bestowed love could lead
+her.
+
+Meanwhile she was in danger. She had aroused the violent and deadly
+resentment of Israel Kafka, a man who, if not positively insane, as
+Keyork Arabian had hinted, was by no means in a normal state of mind
+or body, a man beside himself with love and anger, and absolutely
+reckless of life for the time being, a man who, for the security of
+all concerned, must be at least temporarily confined in a place of
+safety, until a proper treatment and the lapse of a certain length of
+time should bring him to his senses. For the present, he was wholly
+untractable, being at the mercy of the most uncontrolled passions and
+of one of those intermittent phases of blind fatalism to which the
+Semitic races are peculiarly subject.
+
+There were two reasons which determined the Wanderer to turn to Keyork
+Arabian for assistance, besides his wish to see the bad business end
+quickly and without publicity. Keyork, so far as the Wanderer was
+aware, was himself treating Israel Kafka's case, and would therefore
+know what to do, if any one knew at all. Secondly, it was clear from
+the message which Unorna had left with the porter of her own house
+that she expected Keyork to come at any moment. He was then in
+immediate danger of being brought face to face with Israel Kafka
+without having received the least warning of his present condition,
+and it was impossible to say what the infuriated youth might do at
+such a moment. He had been shut up, caught in his own trap, as it
+were, for some time, and his anger and madness might reasonably be
+supposed to have been aggravated rather than cooled by his unexpected
+confinement. It was as likely as not that he would use the weapon he
+carried upon the first person with whom he found himself face to face,
+especially if that person made any attempt to overpower and disarm
+him.
+
+The Wanderer drove to Keyork Arabian's house, and leaving his carriage
+to 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's
+instrument, or because he was really nervously sensitive to the sound
+of one, nobody had ever discovered. The Wanderer knocked therefore,
+and Keyork answered the knock in person.
+
+"My dear friend!" he exclaimed in his richest and deepest voice, as he
+recognised the Wanderer. "Come in. I am delighted to see you. You will
+join me at supper. This is good indeed!"
+
+He took his visitor by the arm and led him in. Upon one of the tables
+stood a round brass platter covered, so far as it was visible, with
+Arabic inscriptions, and highly polished--one of those commonly used
+all over the East at the present day for the same purpose. Upon this
+were placed at random several silver bowls, mere hemispheres without
+feet, remaining in a convenient position by their own weight. One of
+these contained snowy rice, in that perfectly dry but tender state
+dear to the taste of Orientals, in another there was a savoury,
+steaming mess of tender capon, chopped in pieces with spices and
+aromatic herbs, a third contained a pure white curd of milk, and a
+fourth was heaped up with rare fruits. A flagon of Bohemian glass,
+clear and bright as rock-crystal, and covered with very beautiful
+traceries of black and gold, with a drinking-vessel of the same
+design, stood upon the table beside the platter.
+
+"My simple meal," said Keyork, spreading out his hands, and smiling
+pleasantly. "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
+with a smile. "But my business is rather urgent."
+
+Suddenly he saw that there was a third person in the room, and glanced
+at Keyork in surprise.
+
+"I want to speak a few words with you alone," he said. "I would not
+trouble you but----"
+
+"Not in the least, not in the least, my dear friend!" asseverated
+Keyork, motioning him to a chair beside the board.
+
+"But we are not alone," observed the Wanderer, still standing and
+looking at the stranger. Keyork saw the glance and understood. He
+broke into peals of laughter.
+
+"That!" he exclaimed, presently. "That is only the Individual. He will
+not 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
+my servant--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 table
+observing the two men intently but respectfully with his keen little
+black eyes. The rest of his square, dark face expressed nothing. He
+had perfectly straight, jet-black hair which hung evenly all around
+his head and flat against his cheeks. He was dressed entirely in a
+black robe of the nature of a kaftan, gathered closely round his waist
+by a black girdle, and fitting tightly over his stalwart shoulders.
+
+"His discretion is beyond all doubt," Keyork answered, "and for the
+best of all reasons. He is totally deaf and dumb and absolutely
+illiterate. I brought him years ago in Astrakhan, of a Russian friend.
+He is very clever with his fingers. It is he who stole for me the
+Malayan lady's head over there, after she was executed. And now, my
+dear friend, let us have supper."
+
+There were neither plates nor knives nor forks upon the table, and at
+a sign from Keyork the Individual retired to procure those Western
+incumbrances to eating. The Wanderer, acquainted as he had long been
+with his host's eccentricities, showed little surprise, but understood
+that whatever he said would not be overheard, any more than if they
+had been alone. He hesitated a moment, however, for he had not
+determined exactly how far it was necessary to acquaint Keyork with
+the circumstances, and he was anxious to avoid all reference to
+Unorna's folly in regard to himself. The Individual returned,
+bringing, with other things, a drinking-glass for the Wanderer. Keyork
+filled it and then filled his own. It was clear that ascetic practices
+formed no part of his scheme for the prolongation of life. As he
+raised his glass to his lips, his bright eyes twinkled.
+
+"To Keyork's long life and happiness," he said calmly, and then sipped
+the wine. "And now for your story," he added, brushing the brown drops
+from his white moustache with a small damask napkin which the
+Individual presented to him and immediately received again, to throw
+it aside as unfit for a second use.
+
+"I hardly think that we can afford to linger over supper," the
+Wanderer said, 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 that
+the Wanderer started, not being prepared for any manifestation of what
+seemed to be the deepest emotion. The gnome sprang from the table with
+a cry that would have been like the roar of a wounded wild beast if it
+had not 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 was
+helping 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,
+always unmoved, rearranged the coat and cap neatly in their place,
+following all his master's movements, however, with his small eyes.
+Then the sage broke out in a different strain. He flung his arms round
+the Wanderer's body and attempted to embrace him.
+
+"You have saved my life!--the curse of the three black angels on you
+for not saying so first!" he cried in an agony of ecstasy. "Preserver!
+What can I do for you?--Saviour of my existence, how can I repay you!
+You shall live forever, as I will; you shall have all my secrets; the
+gold spider shall spin her web in your dwelling; the Part of Fortune
+shall shine on your path, it shall rain jewels on your roof; and your
+winter shall have snows of pearls--you shall--"
+
+"Good Heavens! Keyork," interrupted the Wanderer. "Are you mad? What
+is the matter with you?"
+
+"Mad? The matter? I love you! I worship you! I adore you! You have
+saved her life, and you have saved mine; you have almost killed me
+with fright and joy in two moments, you have--"
+
+"Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is quite safe, but we must do something
+about 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 again
+and was toasting himself.
+
+"To Keyork, to his long life, to his happiness!" he cried. Then he wet
+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, and
+Israel Kafka can wait."
+
+"Do you think so? Is it safe?" the Wanderer asked.
+
+"Perfectly," returned Keyork, growing quite calm again. "The locks are
+very good on those doors. I saw to them myself."
+
+"But some one else--"
+
+"There is no some one else," interrupted the sage sharply. "Only three
+persons can enter the house without question--you, I, and Kafka. You
+and I are here, and Kafka is there already. When we have eaten we will
+go to him, and I flatter myself that the last state of the young man
+will be so immeasurably worse than the first, that he will not
+recognise himself when I have done with him."
+
+He had helped his friend and began eating. Somewhat reassured the
+Wanderer followed his example. Under the circumstances it was as well
+to take advantage of the opportunity for refreshment. No one could
+tell what might happen before morning.
+
+"It just occurs to me," said Keyork, fixing his keen eyes on his
+companion's face, "that you have told me absolutely nothing, except
+that Kafka 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 I
+wish to know a little more. For instance, what was the immediate cause
+of Kafka's extremely theatrical and unreasonable rage? That would
+interest me very much. Of course, he is mad, poor boy! But I take
+delight in following out the workings of an insane intellect. Now
+there are no phases of insanity more curious than those in which the
+patient is possessed with a desire to destroy what he loves best.
+These cases are especially worthy of study because they happen so
+often in our day."
+
+The Wanderer saw that some explanation was necessary and he determined
+to give one in as few words as possible.
+
+"Unorna and I had strolled into the Jewish Cemetery," he said. "While
+we were talking there, Israel Kafka suddenly came upon us and spoke
+and acted very wildly. He is madly in love with her. She became very
+angry and would not let me interfere. Then, by way of punishment for
+his intrusion I suppose, she hypnotised him and made him believe that
+he was Simon Abeles, and brought the whole of the poor boy's life so
+vividly before me, as I listened, that I actually seemed to see the
+scenes. I was quite unable to stop her or to move from where I stood,
+though I was quite awake. But I realised what was going on and I was
+disgusted at her cruelty to the unfortunate man. He fainted at the
+end, but when he came to himself he seemed to remember nothing. I took
+him home and Unorna went away by herself. Then he questioned me so
+closely as to what had happened that I was weak enough to tell him the
+truth. Of course, as a fervent Hebrew, which he seems to be, he did
+not relish the idea of having played the Christian martyr for Unorna's
+amusement, and amidst the graves of his own people. He there and then
+impressed me that he intended to take Unorna's life without delay, but
+insisted that I should warn 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 some delay, which proved fortunate, as it turned
+out, for we left the conservatory by the small door just as he was
+entering from the other end. We locked it behind us, and going round
+by the passages locked the other door upon him also, so that he was
+caught in a trap. And there he is, unless some one has let him out."
+
+"And then you took Unorna to the convent?" Keyork had listened
+attentively.
+
+"I took her to the convent, promising to come to her when she should
+send for me. Then I saw that I must consult you before doing anything
+more. 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 way
+which entirely concealed the very important part Unorna's passion for
+him had played in the sequence of events. Seeing that Keyork asked no
+further questions he felt satisfied that he had accomplished his
+purpose as he had intended, and that the sage suspected nothing. He
+would have been very much disconcerted had he known that the latter
+had long been aware of Unorna's love, and was quite able to guess at
+the cause of Kafka's sudden appearance and extreme excitement. Indeed,
+so soon as he had finished the short narrative, his mind reverted with
+curiosity to Keyork himself, and he wondered what the little man had
+meant by his amazing outburst of gratitude on hearing of Unorna's
+safety. Perhaps he loved her. More impossible things than that had
+occurred in the Wanderer's experience. Or, possibly, he had an object
+to gain in exaggerating his thankfulness to Unorna's preserver. He
+knew that Keyork rarely did anything without an object, and that,
+although he was occasionally very odd and excitable, he was always in
+reality perfectly well aware of what he was doing. He was roused from
+his speculations by Keyork's voice.
+
+"There will be no difficulty in securing Kafka," he said. "The real
+question is, what shall we do with him? He is very much in the way at
+present, and he must be disposed of at once, or we shall have more
+trouble. How infinitely more to the purpose it would have been if he
+had wisely determined to cut his own throat instead of Unorna's! But
+young men are so thoughtless!"
+
+"I will only say one thing," said the Wanderer, "and then I will leave
+the direction to you. The poor fellow has been driven mad by Unorna's
+caprice and cruelty. I am determined that he shall not be made to
+suffer gratuitously anything more."
+
+"Do you think that Unorna was intentionally cruel to him?" inquired
+Keyork. "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. "But of
+course you will understand that we have to deal with a dangerous
+lunatic, and that it may be necessary to use whatever means are most
+sure and certain."
+
+"I shall not quarrel with your means," the Wanderer said quietly,
+"provided that there is no unnecessary brutality. If I see anything of
+the kind I will take the matter into my own hands."
+
+"Certainly, certainly!" said the other, eyeing with curiosity the man
+who spoke so confidently of taking out of Keyork Arabian's grasp
+whatever 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
+fingers which is very pretty."
+
+"I fancy that you and I could manage him. It is a pity that neither of
+us has the faculty of hypnotising. This would be the proper time to
+use it."
+
+"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, and then
+he would be much more really unconscious than if he had been
+hypnotised."
+
+"Is it quite painless?"
+
+"Quite, if you give it gradually. If you hurry the thing, the man
+feels as though he were being smothered. But the real difficulty is
+what to do with him, as I said before."
+
+"Take him home and get a keeper from the lunatic asylum," the Wanderer
+suggested.
+
+"Then comes the whole question of an inquiry into his sanity,"
+objected Keyork. "We come back to the starting-point. We must settle
+all this before 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, and a great deal more connected with getting out. Now, I
+could not get a keeper for Kafka without going to the physician in
+charge and making a statement, and demanding an examination, and all
+the rest of it. And Israel Kafka is a person of importance among his
+own people. He comes of great Jews in Moravia, and we should have the
+whole Jews' quarter--which means nearly the whole of Prague, in a
+broad sense--about our ears in twenty-four hours. No, no, my friend.
+To avoid an enormous scandal things must be done very quietly indeed."
+
+"I cannot see anything to be done, then, unless we bring him here,"
+said the Wanderer, falling into the trap from sheer perplexity.
+Everything that 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 as gentle as he is strong, and as quick as a tiger-cat."
+
+"So far as that is concerned," said the Wanderer coolly, "I could take
+charge 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 implicitly
+to do whatever you have predetermined to do for the advantage of your
+studies, unless some one interferes with you. You have no more respect
+for human life or sympathy for human suffering than you have belief in
+the importance of anything not conducive to your researches. I am
+perfectly well aware that if you thought you could learn something by
+making experiments upon the body of Israel Kafka, you would not
+scruple to make a living mummy of him, you would do it without the
+least hesitation. I should expect to find him with his head cut off,
+living by means of a glass heart and thinking through a rabbit's
+brain. That is the reason why I do not trust you. Before I could
+deliver him into your hands, I would require of you a contract to give
+him back unhurt--and a contract of the kind you would consider
+binding."
+
+Keyork Arabian wondered whether Unorna, in the recklessness of her
+passion, had betrayed the nature of the experiment they had been
+making together, but a moment's reflection told him that he need have
+no anxiety on this score. He understood the Wanderer's nature too well
+to suspect him of wishing to convey a covert hint instead of saying
+openly what 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 the
+proffered 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 as
+Israel Kafka is here."
+
+Keyork Arabian saw no immediate escape.
+
+"My dear friend!" he exclaimed with alacrity. "If you are really in
+earnest, I am as really delighted. So far from taking your distrust
+ill, I regard it as a providentially fortunate bias of your mind,
+since it will keep us together for a time. You will be the only loser.
+You see how simply I live."
+
+"There is a simplicity which is the extremest development of refined
+sybarism," the Wanderer said, smiling again. "I know your simplicity
+of old. It consists of getting precisely what you want, and in
+producing local earthquakes and revolutions when you cannot get it.
+Moreover you want what is good--to the taste, at least."
+
+"There is something in that," answered Keyork with a merry twinkle in
+his eye. "Happiness is a matter of speculation. Comfort is a matter of
+fact. Most men are uncomfortable, because they do not know what they
+want. If you have tastes, study them. If you have intelligence, apply
+it to the question of gratifying your tastes. Consult yourself first--
+and nobody second. Consider this orange--I am fond of oranges and they
+suit my constitution admirably. Consider the difficulty I have had in
+procuring it at this time of year--not in the wretched condition in
+which they are sold in the market, plucked half green in Spain or
+Italy and ripened on the voyage in the fermenting heat of the decay of
+those which are already rotten--but ripe from the tree and brought to
+me directly by the shortest and quickest means possible. Consider this
+orange, I say. Do you vainly imagine that if I had but two or three
+like it I would offer you one?"
+
+"I would not be so rash as to imagine anything of the kind, my dear
+Keyork. I know you very well. If you offer me one it is because you
+have a week's supply at least."
+
+"Exactly," said Keyork. "And a few to spare, because they will only
+keep a week as I like them, and because I would no more run the risk
+of missing my orange a week hence for your sake, than I would deprive
+myself of it to-day."
+
+"And that is your simplicity."
+
+"That is my simplicity. It is indeed a perfectly simple matter, for
+there is only one idea in it, and in all things I carry that one idea
+out 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 you
+as poor Israel Kafka's keeper?" asked the Wanderer, with an expression
+of amusement. But Keyork did not wince.
+
+"Precisely," he answered without hesitation. "In the first place you
+will relieve me of much trouble and responsibility, and the Individual
+will not be so often called away from his manifold and important
+household duties. In the second place I shall have a most agreeable
+and intelligent companion with whom I can talk as long as I like. In
+the third place I shall undoubtedly satisfy my curiosity."
+
+"In what respect, if you please?"
+
+"I shall discover the secret of your wonderful interest in Israel
+Kafka's welfare. I always like to follow the workings of a brain
+essentially different from my own, philanthropic, of course. How could
+it be anything else? Philanthropy deals with a class of ideas wholly
+unfamiliar 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 upon all subjects are as simple as those you hold about
+oranges."
+
+"Absolutely. I make no secret of my principles. Everything I do is for
+my own advantage."
+
+"Then," observed the Wanderer, "the advantage of Unorna's life must be
+an enormous one to you, to judge by your satisfaction at her safety."
+
+Keyork stared at him a moment and then laughed, but less heartily and
+loudly than usual his companion fancied.
+
+"Very good!" he exclaimed. "Excellent! I fell into the trap like a rat
+into a basin of water. You are indeed an interesting companion, my
+dear friend--so interesting that I hope we shall never part again."
+There was a rather savage intonation in the last words.
+
+They looked at each other intently, neither wincing nor lowering his
+gaze. The Wanderer saw that he had touched upon Keyork's greatest and
+most important secret, and Keyork fancied that his companion knew more
+than he actually did. But nothing further was said, for Keyork was far
+too wise to enter into explanation, and the Wanderer knew well enough
+that if he was to learn anything it must be by observation and not by
+questioning. Keyork filled both glasses in silence and both men drank
+before speaking again.
+
+"And now that we have refreshed ourselves," he said, returning
+naturally to his former manner, "we will go and find Israel Kafka. It
+is as well that we should have given him a little time to himself. He
+may have returned to his senses without any trouble on our part. Shall
+we take the Individual?"
+
+"As you please," the Wanderer answered indifferently as he rose from
+his place.
+
+"It is very well for you not to care," observed Keyork. "You are big
+and 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 life
+very highly. It is a part of that simplicity which you despise. That
+devil of a Jew is armed, you say?"
+
+"I saw something like a knife in his hand, as we shut him in," said
+the Wanderer with the same indifference as before.
+
+"Then I will take the Individual," Keyork answered promptly. "A man's
+bare 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 of precision. I will take the Individual, decidedly."
+
+He made a few rapid signs, and the Individual disappeared, coming back
+a moment later attired in a long coat not unlike his master's except
+that the 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 charming
+conversation had almost made me forget the object of our visit!"
+
+He went back and took the various things he needed. Then the three men
+went out together.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+More than an hour had elapsed since the Wanderer and Unorna had
+finally turned the key upon Israel Kafka, leaving him to his own
+reflections. During the first moments he made desperate efforts to get
+out of the conservatory, throwing himself with all his weight and
+strength against the doors and thrusting the point of his long knife
+into the small apertures of the locks. Then, seeing that every attempt
+was fruitless, he desisted and sat down, in a state of complete
+exhaustion. A reaction began to set in after the furious excitement of
+the afternoon, and he felt all at once that it would be impossible for
+him to make another step or raise his arm to strike. A man less sound
+originally in bodily constitution would have broken down sooner, and
+it was a proof of Israel Kafka's extraordinary vigour and energy that
+he did not lose his senses in a delirious fever at the moment when he
+felt that his strength could bear no further strain.
+
+But his thoughts, such as they were, did not lack clearness. He saw
+that his opportunity was gone, and he began to think of the future,
+wondering what would take place next. Assuredly when he had come to
+Unorna's house with the fixed determination to take her life, the last
+thing that he had expected had been to be taken prisoner and left to
+his own meditations. It was clear that the Wanderer's warning had been
+conveyed without loss of time and had saved Unorna from her immediate
+fate. Nevertheless, he did not regret having given her the opportunity
+of defending herself. He had not meant that there should be any secret
+about the deed, for he was ready to sacrifice his own life in
+executing it.
+
+Yet he was not altogether brave. He had neither Unorna's innate
+indifference to physical danger, nor the Wanderer's calm superiority
+to fear. He would not have made a good soldier, and he could not have
+faced another man's pistol at fifteen paces without experiencing a
+mental and bodily commotion not unlike terror, which he might or might
+not have concealed from others, but which would in any case have been
+painfully apparent to himself.
+
+It is a noticeable fact in human nature that a man of even ordinary
+courage will at any time, when under excitement, risk his life rather
+than his happiness. Moreover, an immense number of individuals,
+naturally far from brave, destroy their own lives yearly in the moment
+when all chances of happiness are temporarily eclipsed. The inference
+seems to be that mankind, on the whole, values happiness more highly
+than life. The proportion of suicides from so-called "honourable
+motives" 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
+been made to play a part which to him seemed at once blasphemous and
+ignoble had indeed turned the scale, but was not the motive. In all
+things, the final touch which destroys the balance is commonly
+mistaken for the force 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 of himself afterwards, was to be an expiation
+of the outrage Unorna had put upon his faith in his own person. He had
+merely seized upon the first excuse which presented itself for ending
+all, because he was in reality past hope.
+
+We have, as yet, no absolute test of sanity, as we have of fever in
+the body and of many other unnatural conditions of the human organism.
+The only approximately accurate judgments in the patient's favour are
+obtained from examinations into the relative consecutiveness and
+consistency of thought in the individual examined, when the whole
+tendency of that thought is towards an end conceivably approvable by a
+majority of men. A great many philosophers and thinkers have
+accordingly been pronounced insane at one period of history and have
+been held up as models of sanity at another. The most immediately
+destructive consequences of individual reasoning on a limited scale,
+murder and suicide, have been successively regarded as heroic acts, as
+criminal deeds, and as the deplorable but explicable actions of
+irresponsible beings in consecutive ages of violence, strict law and
+humanitarianism. It seems to be believed that the combination of
+murder and suicide is more commonly observed under the last of the
+three reigns than it was under the first; it was undoubtedly least
+common under the second. In other words it appears probable that the
+practice of considering certain crimes as the result of insanity has a
+tendency to make those crimes increase in number, as they undoubtedly
+increase in barbarity, from year to year. Meanwhile, however, no
+definite conclusion has been reached as to the state of mind of a man
+who murders the woman he loves and then ends his own life.
+
+Israel Kafka may therefore be regarded as mad or sane. In favour of
+the theory of his madness the total uselessness of the deed he
+contemplated may be adduced; on the other hand the extremely
+consecutive and consistent nature of his thoughts and actions gives
+evidence of his sanity.
+
+When he found himself a prisoner in Unorna's conservatory, his
+intention underwent no change though his body was broken with fatigue
+and his nerves with the long continued strain of a terrible
+excitement. His determination was as cool and as fixed as ever.
+
+These somewhat dry reflections seem necessary to the understanding of
+what followed.
+
+The key turned in the lock and the bolt was slipped back. Instantly
+Israel Kafka's energy returned. He rose quickly and hid himself in the
+shrubbery, in a position from which he could observe the door. He had
+seen Unorna enter before and had of course heard her cry before the
+Wanderer had carried her away, and he had believed that she had wished
+to face him, either with the intention of throwing herself upon his
+mercy or in the hope of dominating him with her eyes as she had so
+often done before. Of course, he had no means of knowing that she had
+already left the house. He imagined that the Wanderer had gone and
+that Unorna, being freed from his restraint, was about to enter the
+place again. The door opened and the three men came in. Kafka's first
+idea, on seeing himself 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
+glance of his deep eyes alone betraying that he was looking for some
+one. Next came Keyork Arabian, muffled still in his furs, turning his
+head sharply from side to side in the midst of the sable collar that
+half buried it, and evidently nervous. Last of all the Individual, who
+had divested himself of his outer coat and whose powerful proportions
+did not escape Israel Kafka's observation. It was clear that if there
+were a struggle it could have but one issue. Kafka would be
+overpowered. His knowledge of 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 the door before they noticed him,
+he could lock it upon them, as it had been locked upon himself. He
+could hear their footsteps on the marble pavement very near him, and
+he caught glimpses of their moving figures through the thick leaves.
+
+With cat-like tread he glided along in the shadows of the foliage
+until he could see the door. From the entrance an open way was left in
+a straight line towards the middle of the hall, down which his
+pursuers were still slowly walking. He must cross an open space in the
+line of their vision in order to get out, and he calculated the
+distance to be traversed, while listening to their movements, until he
+felt sure that they were so far from the door as not to be able to
+reach him. Then he made his attempt, darting across the smooth
+pavement with his knife in his hand. There was no one in the way.
+
+Then came a violent shock and he was held as in a vice, so tightly
+that he could not believe himself in the arms of a human being. His
+captors had anticipated that he would try to escape and has posted the
+Individual in the shadow of a tree near the doorway. The deaf and dumb
+man had received his instructions by means of a couple of quick signs,
+and not a whisper had betrayed the measures taken. Kafka struggled
+desperately, for he was within three feet of the door and still
+believed an escape possible. He tried to strike behind him with his
+sharp blade of which a single touch would have severed muscle and
+sinew like silk threads, but the bear-like embrace seemed to confine
+his whole body, his arms and even his wrists. Then he felt himself
+turned round and the Individual pushed him towards the middle of the
+hall. The Wanderer was advancing quickly, and Keyork Arabian, who had
+again fallen behind, peered at Kafka from behind his tall companion
+with a grotesque expression in which bodily fear and a desire to laugh
+at the captive were strongly intermingled.
+
+"It is of no use to resist," said the Wanderer quietly. "We are too
+strong for you."
+
+Kafka said nothing, but his bloodshot eyes glared up angrily at the
+tall man's face.
+
+"He looks dangerous, and he still has that thing in his hand," said
+Keyork Arabian. "I think I will give him ether at once while the
+Individual holds him. Perhaps you could do it."
+
+"You will do nothing of the kind," the Wanderer answered. "What a
+coward you are, Keyork!" he added contemptuously.
+
+Going to Kafka's side he took him by the wrist of the hand which held
+the 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 Wanderer
+unclasped the fingers by quiet force and took the weapon away. He
+handed it to Keyork, who breathed a sigh of relief as he looked at it,
+smiling at last, and holding his head on one side.
+
+"To think," he soliloquised, "that an inch of such pretty stuff as
+Damascus steel, in the right place, can draw the sharp red line
+between time and eternity!"
+
+He put the knife tenderly away in the bosom of his fur coat. His whole
+manner 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 for you 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 the
+word 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
+staggered a little. The Wanderer took him kindly by the arm,
+supporting his steps and leading him to a seat. Kafka glanced
+suspiciously at him and at the other two, but seemed unable to make
+any further effort and sank back with 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 not
+very dangerous now." Then he went in search of what was needed. The
+Individual retired to a distance and stood looking on with folded
+arms.
+
+"Do you hear me?" asked the Wanderer, speaking gently. "Do you
+understand what I say?"
+
+Israel Kafka nodded, but said nothing.
+
+"You are very ill. This foolish idea that has possessed you this
+evening comes from your illness. Will you go away quietly with me, and
+make no resistance, 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 of
+quiet encouragement. "You have been feverish and excited, and I
+daresay you have been too much alone of late. If you will come with
+me, I will take 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 prevent you
+from attempting it, and as soon as you are well you will see the
+absurdity of the idea."
+
+Israel Kafka made an impatient gesture, feeble but sufficiently
+expressive. Then all at once his limbs relaxed, and his head fell
+forward upon his breast. The Wanderer started to his feet and moved
+him into a more comfortable position. There were one or two quickly
+drawn breaths and the breathing ceased altogether. At that moment
+Keyork returned 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. "The
+Individual squeezed him a little too hard, I suppose," he added,
+applying his ear to the region of the heart, and moving his head about
+a little 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 expression
+of satisfaction. "He is no more dead than you are--the greater pity!
+It would have been so convenient. It is nothing but a slight syncope--
+probably the result of poorness of blood and an over-excited state of
+the nervous system. Help me to lay him on his back. You ought to have
+known that was the only thing to do. Put a cushion under his head.
+There--he will come to himself presently, but he will not be so
+dangerous as he was."
+
+The Wanderer drew a long breath of relief as he helped Keyork to make
+the necessary arrangements.
+
+"How long will it last?" he inquired.
+
+"How can I tell?" returned Keyork sharply. "Have you never heard of a
+syncope? Do you know nothing about anything?"
+
+He had produced a bottle containing some very strong salt and was
+applying it to the unconscious man's nostrils. The Wanderer paid no
+attention to his irritable temper and stood looking on. A long time
+passed 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,"
+the Wanderer 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, he ought 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 proceedings
+keenly. He was by no means past suspecting that Keyork might apply
+some medicine the very reverse of reviving, if left to himself. For
+the present there seemed to be no danger. The pungent smell of salts
+of ammonia pervaded the place; but the Wanderer knew that Keyork had a
+bottle of ether in the pocket of his coat, and he rightly judged that
+a very little of that would put an end to the life that was hanging in
+the balance. Nearly half an hour passed before either spoke again.
+Then Keyork looked up. This time his voice was smooth and persuasive.
+His irritability had all disappeared.
+
+"You must be tired," he said. "Why do you not go home? Or else go to
+my house and wait for us. The Individual and I can take care of him
+very well."
+
+"Thanks," replied the Wanderer with a slight smile. "I am not in the
+least tired, and I prefer to stay where I am. I am not hindering you,
+I believe."
+
+Now Keyork Arabian had no interest in allowing Israel Kafka to die,
+though the Wanderer half believed that he had, though he could not
+imagine what that interest might be. The little man was in reality on
+the track of an experiment, and he knew very well that so long as he
+was so narrowly watched it would be quite impossible to try it. In
+spite of his sneers at his companion's ignorance, he was aware that
+the latter knew enough to make every effort conducive to reviving the
+patient if left to himself, and he submitted with a bad grace to doing
+what he would rather have left undone.
+
+He would have wished to let the flame of life sink yet lower before
+making it brighten again, for he had with him a preparation which he
+had been carrying in his pocket for months in the hope of accidentally
+happening upon just such a case as the present, and he longed for an
+opportunity of trying it. But to give it a fair trial he wished to
+apply it at the precise point when, according to all previous
+experience, the moment of death was past--the moment when the
+physician usually puts his watch in his pocket and looks about for his
+hat. Possibly if Kafka, being left without any assistance, had shown
+no further signs of sinking, Keyork would have helped him to sink a
+little lower. To produce this much-desired result, he had nothing with
+him but the ether, of which the Wanderer of course knew the smell and
+understood the effects. He saw the chances of making the experiment
+upon an excellent subject slipping away before his eyes and he grew
+more angry in proportion as they seemed farther removed.
+
+"He is a little better," he said discontentedly, after another long
+interval of silence.
+
+The Wanderer bent down and saw that the eyelids were quivering and
+that the face was less deathly livid than before. Then the eyes opened
+and stared dreamily at the glass roof.
+
+"And I will," said the faint, weak voice, as though completing a
+sentence.
+
+"I think not," observed Keyork, as though answering. "The people who
+do what they mean to do are not always talking about will." But Kafka
+had closed his eyes again.
+
+This time, however, his breathing was apparent and he was evidently
+returning to a conscious state. The Wanderer arranged the pillow more
+comfortably under his head and covered him with his own furs. Keyork,
+relinquishing all hopes of trying the experiment at present, poured a
+little 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 Keyork
+actually said. The little man got upon his feet and coolly buttoned
+his coat.
+
+"I think not," he replied. "There is nothing to be done but to keep
+him quiet. Good-night. I am tired of all this nonsense, and I do not
+mean to lose my night's rest for all the Israels in Jewry--or all the
+Jews in Israel. You can stay with him if you please."
+
+Thereupon he turned on his heel, making a sign to the Individual, who
+had not moved from his place since Kafka had lost consciousness, and
+who immediately followed his master.
+
+"I will come and see to him in the morning," said Keyork carelessly,
+as he disappeared from sight among the plants.
+
+The Wanderer's long-suffering temper was roused and his eyes gleamed
+angrily 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 his
+friend. Keyork had behaved no worse than an ordinary doctor, for he
+had stayed until the danger was over and had promised to come again in
+the morning. It was his cool way of disclaiming all further
+responsibility and of avoiding all further trouble which elicited the
+Wanderer's resentment, as well as the unpleasant position in which the
+latter found himself.
+
+He had certainly not anticipated being left in charge of a sick man--
+and that sick man Israel Kafka--in Unorna's house for the whole night,
+and he did not enjoy the prospect. The mere detail of having to give
+some explanation to the servants, who would doubtless come before long
+to extinguish the lights, was far from pleasant. Moreover, though
+Keyork had declared the patient out of danger, there seemed no
+absolute certainty that a relapse would not take place before morning,
+and Kafka might actually lay in the certainty--delusive enough--that
+Unorna could not return until the following day.
+
+He did not dare to take upon himself the responsibility of calling
+some one to help him and of removing the Moravian in his present
+condition. The man was still very weak and either altogether
+unconscious, or sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. The weather, too,
+was bitterly cold, and the exposure to the night air might bring on
+immediate and fatal consequences. He examined Kafka closely and came
+to the conclusion that he was really asleep. To wake him would be
+absolutely cruel as well as dangerous. He looked kindly at the weary
+face and then began to walk up and down between the plants, coming
+back at the end of every turn to look 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 the
+conservatory impressed itself upon him for the first time. It was
+strange, he thought, that no one came to put out the lamps. He thought
+of looking out into the vestibule beyond, to see whether the lights
+were still burning there. To his great surprise he found the door
+securely fastened. Keyork Arabian had undoubtedly locked him in, and
+to all intents and purposes he was a prisoner. He suspected some
+treachery, but in this he was mistaken. Keyork's sole intention had
+been to insure himself from being disturbed in the course of the night
+by a second visit from the Wanderer, accompanied perhaps by Kafka. It
+immediately occurred to the Wanderer that he could ring the bell. But
+disliking the idea of entering into an explanation, he reserved that
+for an emergency. Had he attempted it he would have been still further
+surprised to find that it would have produced no result. In going
+through the vestibule Keyork had used Kafka's sharp knife to cut one
+of the slender silk-covered copper wires which passed out of the
+conservatory on that side, communicating with the servants' quarters.
+He was perfectly acquainted with all such details of the household
+arrangement.
+
+Keyork's precautions were in reality useless and they merely
+illustrate the ruthlessly selfish character of the man. The Wanderer
+would in all probability neither have attempted to leave the house
+with Kafka that night, nor to communicate with the servants, even if
+he had been left free to do either, and if no one had disturbed him in
+his watch. He was disturbed, however, and very unexpectedly, between
+half-past one and a quarter to two in the morning.
+
+More than once he had remained seated for a long time, but his eyes
+were growing heavy and he roused himself and walked again until he was
+thoroughly awake. It was certainly true that of all the persons
+concerned in the events of the day, except Keyork, he had undergone
+the least bodily fatigue and mental excitement. But even to the
+strongest, the hours of the night spent in watching by a sick person
+seem endless when there is no really strong personal anxiety felt. He
+was undoubtedly interested in Kafka's fate, and was resolved to
+protect him as well as to hinder him from committing any act of folly.
+But he had only met him for the first time that very afternoon, and
+under circumstances which had not in the first instance suggested even
+the possibility of a friendship between the two. His position towards
+Israel Kafka was altogether unexpected, and what he felt was no more
+than pity for his sufferings and indignation against those who had
+caused them.
+
+When the door was suddenly opened, he stood still in his walk and
+faced it. He hardly recognised Unorna in the pale, dishevelled woman
+with circled eyes who came towards him under the bright light. She,
+too, stood still when she saw him, starting suddenly. She seemed to be
+very cold, for she shivered visibly and her teeth were chattering.
+Without the least protection against the bitter night air she had fled
+bareheaded and cloakless through the open streets from the church to
+her home.
+
+"You here!" she exclaimed, in an unsteady voice.
+
+"Yes, I am still here," answered the Wanderer. "But I hardly expected
+you to come back to-night," he added.
+
+At the sound of his voice a strange smile came into her wan face and
+lingered there. She had not thought to hear him speak again, kindly or
+unkindly, for she had come with the fixed determination to meet her
+death at Israel Kafka's hands and to let that be the end. Amid all the
+wild thoughts that had whirled through her brain as she ran home in
+the dark, 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
+a thick carpet, wrapped in furs, his pale head supported by a cushion.
+
+"He is very ill," she said, almost under her breath. "Tell me what has
+happened."
+
+It was like a dream to her. The tremendous excitement of what had
+happened in the convent had cut her off from the realisation of what
+had gone before. Strange as it seemed even to herself, she scarcely
+comprehended the intimate connection between the two series of events,
+nor the bearing of the one upon the other. Israel Kafka sank into such
+insignificance that she had began to pity his condition, and it was
+hard to remember that the Wanderer was the man whom Beatrice had
+loved, and of whom she had spoken so long and so passionately. She
+found, too, an unreasoned joy in being once more by his side, no
+matter under what conditions. In that happiness, one-sided and
+unshared, she forgot everything else. Beatrice had been a dream, a
+vision, an unreal shadow. Kafka was nothing to her, and yet
+everything, as she suddenly saw, since he constituted a bond between
+her and the man she loved, which would at least outlast the night. In
+a flash she saw that the Wanderer would not leave her alone with the
+Moravian, and that the latter could not be moved for the present
+without danger to his life. They must watch together by his side
+through the long hours. Who could tell what the night would bring
+forth?
+
+As the new development of the situation presented itself, the colour
+rose again to her cheeks. The warmth of the conservatory, too,
+dispelled the chill that had penetrated her, and the familiar odours
+of the flowers 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
+occurred up to the moment of her coming, not omitting the detail of
+the locked door.
+
+"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 I
+have known him so long."
+
+"It was mere selfishness," said Unorna scornfully. "I know him better
+than you do. He was afraid you would disturb him again in the night."
+
+The Wanderer said nothing, wondering how any man could be so
+elaborately thoughtful 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, and
+took one himself, wondering at the strange situation, and yet not
+caring to ask Unorna what had brought her back, so breathless and so
+pale, at such an hour. He believed, not unnaturally, that her motive
+had been either anxiety for himself, or the irresistible longing to
+see him again, coupled with a distrust of his promise to return when
+she should send for him. It seemed best to accept her appearance
+without question, lest an inquiry should lead to a fresh outburst,
+more unbearable now than before, since there seemed to be no way of
+leaving the house without exposing her to danger. A nervous man like
+Israel Kafka might spring 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
+well enough with his total disbelief of the story Unorna had told him.
+But he did not answer her immediately, for he found himself in a very
+difficult position. He would neither do anything in the least
+discourteous beyond admitting frankly that he had not believed her,
+when she taxed him with incredulity; nor would say anything which
+might serve her as a stepping-stone for returning to the original
+situation. He was, perhaps, inclined to blame her somewhat less than
+at first, and her changed manner in speaking of Kafka somewhat
+encouraged his leniency. A man will forgive, or at least condone, much
+harshness to others when he is thoroughly aware that it has been
+exhibited out of love for himself; and a man of the Wanderer's
+character cannot help feeling a sort of chivalrous respect and
+delicate forbearance for a woman who loves him sincerely, though
+against his will, while he will avoid with an almost exaggerated
+prudence the least word which could be interpreted as an expression of
+reciprocal tenderness. He runs the risk, at the same time, of being
+thrust into the ridiculous position of the man who, though young,
+assumes the manner and speech of age and delivers himself of grave,
+paternal advice to one who looks upon him, not as an elder, but as her
+chosen mate.
+
+After Unorna had spoken, the Wanderer, therefore, held his peace. He
+inclined his head a little, as though to admit that her plea of
+madness might not be wholly imaginary; but he said nothing. He sat
+looking at Israel Kafka's sleeping face and outstretched form,
+inwardly wondering whether the hours would seem very long before
+Keyork Arabian returned in the morning and put an end to the
+situation. Unorna waited in vain for some response, and at last spoke
+again.
+
+"Yes," she said, "I was mad. You cannot understand it. I daresay you
+cannot even understand how I can speak of it now, and yet I cannot
+help speaking."
+
+Her manner was more natural and quiet than it had been since the
+moment of Kafka's appearance in the cemetery. The Wanderer noticed the
+tone. There was an element of real sadness in it, with a leaven of
+bitter disappointment and a savour of heartfelt contrition. She was in
+earnest now, as she had been before, but in a different way. He could
+hardly refuse 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 you wish to say, I must hear. But it would be much better to
+say nothing about what has happened this evening--better for you and
+for me. Neither men nor women always mean exactly what they say. We
+are not angels. Is it 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,
+after a 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 of friendship with him, Beatrice and the scene in the church
+seemed to be very 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. There
+was a scarcely perceptible smile on his face, brought there not by any
+feeling of satisfaction, but by his sense of his own almost laughable
+perplexity. He saw that he was very near being driven to the
+ridiculous necessity of giving her some advice of the paternal kind.
+"It is not for me, either, to talk to you of what you have done to
+Israel Kafka to-day," he confessed. "Do not oblige me to say anything
+about it. It will be much safer. You know it all better than I do, and
+you understand your own reasons, as I never can. If you are sorry for
+him now, so much the better--you will not hurt him any more if you can
+help it. If you will 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 ask
+it?" Unorna asked very earnestly.
+
+"I do not know," the Wanderer answered, trying to seem to ignore the
+meaning conveyed by her tone. "Some things are harder to do than
+others----"
+
+"Ask me the hardest!" she exclaimed. "Ask me to tell you the whole
+truth----"
+
+"No," he said firmly, in the hope of checking an outburst of
+passionate speech. "What you have thought and done is no concern of
+mine. If you have done anything that you are sorry for, without my
+knowledge, I do not wish to know of it. I have seen you do many good
+and kind acts during the last month, and I would rather leave those
+memories untouched as far as possible. You may have had an object in
+doing them which in itself was bad. I do not care. The deeds were
+good. Take credit for them and let me give you credit for them. That
+will do neither of us any harm."
+
+"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.
+Do you not see that? Besides, I am myself the cause of it in a measure
+--unwilling enough, Heaven knows!"
+
+"The only cause," said Unorna bitterly.
+
+"Then I am in some way responsible. I am not quite without blame--we
+men never are in such cases. If I reproach you, I must reproach myself
+as well--"
+
+"Reproach yourself!--ah no! What can you say against yourself?" she
+could not keep the love out of her voice, if she would; her bitterness
+had been for herself.
+
+"I will not go into that," he answered. "I am to blame in one way or
+another. 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 were
+this morning?" she asked, with a ray of hope.
+
+The Wanderer was silent for a few seconds. His difficulties were
+increasing. A while ago he had told her, as an excuse for herself,
+that men and women did not always mean exactly what they said, and
+even now he 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
+principles in regard to truth and honour. Their instinctively brave
+actions and naturally noble truthfulness make those principles which
+are held up to the unworthy for imitation, by those whose business is
+the teaching of what is good. The Wanderer's only hesitation lay
+between answering the question 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
+as she understood Keyork Arabian. She had believed that he would at
+least hold out some hope.
+
+"You might have spared me that!" she said, turning her face away.
+There were tears in her voice.
+
+A few hours earlier his answer would have brought fire to her eyes and
+anger 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
+that followed.
+
+"I cannot change myself," he answered, almost wishing that he could.
+"I ought, perhaps," he added, as though speaking to himself. "I have
+done enough harm as it is."
+
+"Harm? To whom?" She looked round suddenly and he saw the moisture in
+her eyes.
+
+"To him," he replied, glancing at Kafka, "and to you. You loved him
+once. I have ruined his life."
+
+"Loved him? No--I never loved him." She shook her head, wondering
+whether she spoke the truth.
+
+"You must have made him think so."
+
+"I? No--he is mad." But she shrank before his honest look, and
+suddenly broke down. "No--I will not lie to you--you are too true--
+yes, I loved him, or I thought I did, until you came, and I saw that
+there was no one----"
+
+But she checked herself, as she felt the blood rising to her cheeks.
+She could blush still, and still be ashamed. Even she was not all bad,
+now that 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
+have you 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 me tell you. Blame Kafka for his mad belief in me and Keyork
+Arabian for the 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. "If
+you knew what justice means for me--you would not ask me to be just.
+You would 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 is
+only one man living who could imagine such things as I have done--and
+tried 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
+horrible sacrilege that was to have been done. Her face grew dark with
+fear of her own soul. The Wanderer went so far as to try and distract
+her from her gloomy thoughts, out of pure kindness of heart.
+
+"I am no theologian," he said, "but I fancy that in the long reckoning
+the intention goes for more than the act."
+
+"The intention!" she cried, looking back with a start. "If that be
+true----"
+
+With a shudder she buried her face in her two hands, pressing them to
+her eyes as though to blind them to some awful sight. Then, with a
+short struggle, she turned to him again.
+
+"There is no forgiveness for me in Heaven," she said. "Shall there be
+none on earth! Not even a little, from you to me?"
+
+"There is no question of forgiveness between you and me. You have not
+injured me, but Israel Kafka. Judge for yourself which of us two, he
+or I, has anything to forgive. I am to-day what I was yesterday and
+may be to-morrow. He lies there, dying of his love for you, if ever a
+man died for love. And as though that were not enough, you have
+tortured him--well, I will not speak of it. But that is all. I know
+nothing of the deeds, or intentions, of which you accuse yourself. You
+are tired, overwrought, worn out with all this--what shall I say? It
+is natural enough, I suppose--"
+
+"You say there is no question of forgiveness," she said, interrupting
+him, but speaking more calmly. "What is it then? What is the real
+question? If you have nothing to forgive why can we not be friends as
+we were before?"
+
+"There is something besides that needed. It is not enough that of two
+people 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 seen
+what I saw to-day. We should be where we were this morning--and he
+perhaps would not be here."
+
+"It must have come some day," Unorna said. "He must have seen that I
+loved--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
+he did, and I should have been angry and cruel--for it is my nature to
+be cruel when I am angry, and to be angry easily, at that. Men talk so
+easily 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. I am sorry for what I did, and I would undo it, if deeds were
+knots and wishes deeds. I am sorry, beyond all words to tell you. How
+poor it sounds 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
+you believed me, you would forgive me. If you forgave me, your
+friendship would 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, each truer than the last."
+
+"I have nothing to forgive," the Wanderer said, almost wearily. "I
+have told 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--but
+if it cost you nothing, but the little breath that can carry the three
+words--would you say it? Is it much to say? Is it like saying, I love
+you, or, I honour you, respect you? It is so little, and would mean so
+much."
+
+"To me it can mean nothing, unless you ask me to forgive you deeds of
+which 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,
+to him, meant less.
+
+Unorna bent her head and was silent. It was something to have heard
+him say it though he could not guess the least of the sins which she
+made it include. She herself hardly knew why she had so insisted.
+Perhaps it was only the longing to hear words kind in themselves, if
+not in tone, nor in his meaning of them. Possibly, too, she felt a dim
+presentiment of her coming end, and would take with her that
+infinitesimal grain of pardon 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 their
+own way. Suddenly Israel Kafka stirred in his sleep. The Wanderer went
+quickly forward and knelt down beside him and arranged the silken
+pillow as best he could. Unorna was on the other side almost as soon.
+With a tenderness of expression and touch which nothing can describe
+she moved the sleeping head into a comfortable position and smoothed
+the cushion, and drew up the furs disturbed by the nervous hands. The
+Wanderer let her have her way. When she had finished their eyes met.
+He could not tell 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 my
+word. 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 he
+was 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.
+"He is 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 his
+eyes 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!"
+she exclaimed. "You have no need of such civil forbearance with me. If
+you bid me go, I will go. If you bid me stay, I will not move. Only
+speak frankly. Say which you would prefer."
+
+"Then stay," said the Wanderer simply.
+
+She bowed her head slightly and was silent again. A distant clock
+chimed the hour. The morning was slowly drawing near.
+
+"And you," said Unorna, looking up at the sound. "Will you not rest?
+Why should you not sleep?"
+
+"I am not tired."
+
+"You do not trust me, I think," she answered sadly. "And yet you might
+--you might." Her voice died away dreamily.
+
+"Trust you to watch that poor man? Indeed I do. You were not acting
+just now, when you touched him so tenderly. You are in earnest. You
+will be kind to him, and I thank you for it."
+
+"And you yourself? Do you fear nothing from me, if you should sleep
+before my eyes? Do you not fear that in your unconsciousness I might
+touch you and make you more unconscious still and make you dream
+dreams and see visions?"
+
+The Wanderer looked at her and smiled incredulously, partly out of
+scorn for the imaginary danger, and partly because something told him
+that she had 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
+evil is sufficient. Do as you will. If you can sleep, then sleep in
+peace. If you 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 of
+the high carved chair, his eyes directed towards the place where
+Israel Kafka lay. The air was warm, the scent of the flowers sweet but
+not heavy. The silence was intense, for even the little fountain was
+still. He had watched almost all night and his eyelids drooped. He
+forgot Unorna and thought only of the sick man, trying to fix his
+attention on the pale head as it lay under the bright light.
+
+When Unorna looked up at last she saw that he was asleep. At first she
+was surprised, in spite of what she had said to him half an hour
+earlier, for she herself could not have closed her eyes, and felt that
+she could never close them again. Then she sighed. It was but one
+proof more 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 they had passed together he would perhaps have been sleeping
+long before now.
+
+And yet she feared to wake him and was almost glad that he was
+unconscious. In the solitude she could gaze on him to her heart's
+desire, she could let her eyes look their fill, and no one could say
+her nay. He must be very tired, she thought, and she vaguely wondered
+why she 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 she
+thought 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 really
+seen which she could tell clearly? There were terrible possibilities
+in the future if all were known. Such deeds, and even the attempt at
+such deeds 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, and held up to the execration of the world in all her shame
+and guilt. But death 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 first entered her brain.
+
+Then she was conscious that she was again looking at the Wanderer as
+he lay back asleep in his tall chair. The pale and noble face
+expressed the stainless soul and the manly character. She saw in it
+the peace she had lost, and yet knew that through him she had lost her
+peace for ever.
+
+It was perhaps the last time. Never again, perhaps, after the morning
+had broken, should she look on what she loved best on earth. She would
+be gone, ruined, dead perhaps. And he? He would be still himself. He
+would remember her half carelessly, half in wonder, as a woman who had
+once been almost his friend. That would be all that would be left in
+him of 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 hopelessly
+if 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 in his mind. But the mere thought was horrible to her, though
+a few hours before she had hardly trembled at the doing of a frightful
+sacrilege. In that short time the humiliation of failure, the
+realisation of what she had almost done, above all the ever-rising
+tide of a real and passionate love, had swept away many familiar
+landmarks in her thoughts, and had turned much to lead which had once
+seemed brighter than gold. She hated the very idea of using again
+those arts which had so directly wrought her utter destruction. But
+she longed to know that in the world whither he would doubtless go
+to-morrow he would bear with him one kind memory of her, one natural
+friendly thought not grafted upon his mind by her power, but growing
+of its own self in his inmost heart. Only a friendly memory--nothing
+more than that.
+
+She rose noiselessly and came to his side and looked down into his
+face. Very long she stood there, motionless as a statue, beautiful as
+a mourning angel.
+
+It was so little that she asked. It was so little compared with all
+she had hoped, or in comparison with all she had demanded, so little
+in respect of what she had given. For she had given her soul. And in
+return she 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 and
+sadly.
+
+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
+seemed to sleep more deeply still. He must be very tired, she thought,
+to sleep like 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.
+Sleep on, you have the right to rest, and I can never rest again. You
+have forgiven--forget, too, then, unless you can remember better
+things of me than I have deserved in your memory. Let her take her
+kingdom back. It was 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 some day. Ah, love--I love you so--dream but one
+dream, and let me think I take her place. She never loved you more
+than I, she never can. She would not have done what I have done. Dream
+only that I am Beatrice for this 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 for one day in thought and word, in deed and
+voice, in face and soul! Dear love--you would never know it, yet I
+should know that you had had one loving thought for me. You would
+forget. It would not matter then to you, for you would have only
+dreamed, and I should have the certainty--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
+sleeping face. But Unorna could not see it. She had turned suddenly
+away, burying her face in her hands upon the back of her own chair.
+
+"Are there no miracles left in Heaven?" she moaned, half whispering
+lest she should wake him. "Is there no miracle of deeds undone again
+and of forgiveness given--for me? God! God! That we should be for ever
+what we make 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
+apt to overflow, was dried up and scorched with pain. And, for the
+time at least, worse things were gone from her, though she suffered
+more. As though some portion of her passionate wish had been
+fulfilled, she felt that she could never do again what she had done;
+she felt that she was truthful now as he was, and that she knew evil
+from good even as Beatrice knew it. The horror of her sins took new
+growth in her changed vision.
+
+"Was I lost from the first beginning?" she asked passionately. "Was I
+born to be all I am, and fore-destined to do all I have done? Was she
+born an angel and I a devil from hell? What is it all? What is this
+life, and what is that other beyond it?"
+
+Behind her, in his chair, the Wanderer still slept. Still his face
+wore the radiant look of joy that had so suddenly come into it as she
+turned away. He scarcely breathed, so calmly he slept. But Unorna did
+not raise her head nor look at him, and on the carpet near her feet
+Israel Kafka lay as still and as deeply unconscious as the Wanderer
+himself. By a strange destiny she sat there, between the two men in
+whom her whole life had been wrecked, and she alone was waking.
+
+When she at last raised her eyes the dawn was breaking. Through the
+transparent roof of glass a cold gray light began to descend upon the
+warm, still brightness of the lamps. The shadows changed, the colours
+grew more cold, the dark nooks among the heavy foliage less black.
+Israel Kafka's face was ghostly and livid--the Wanderer's had the
+alabaster 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
+of the sun with rose-tipped fingers and grey, liquid eyes, but hard,
+cruel, sullen, and less darkness following upon a greater and going
+before a dull, sunless and heavy day.
+
+The door opened somewhat noisily and a brisk step fell upon the marble
+pavement. Unorna rose noiselessly to her feet and hastening along the
+open space came face to face with Keyork Arabian. He stopped and
+looked up at her from beneath his heavy brows, with surprise and
+suspicion. She raised one finger to her lips.
+
+"You here already?" he asked, obeying her gesture and speaking in a
+low voice.
+
+"Hush! Hush!" she whispered, not satisfied. "They are asleep. You will
+wake them."
+
+Keyork came forward. He could move quietly enough when he chose. He
+glanced at the Wanderer.
+
+"He looks comfortable enough," he whispered, half contemptuously.
+
+Then he bent down over Israel Kafka and carefully examined his face.
+To him the ghastly pallor meant nothing. It was but the natural result
+of excessive exhaustion.
+
+"Put him into a lethargy," said he under his breath, but with
+authority in 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
+his temperature 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, you know."
+
+"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.
+"I cannot 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 applied
+his pocket-thermometer and looked at his watch. Unorna had risen to
+her feet, disdaining to defend herself against the imputation
+expressed in his face. Some minutes passed in silence.
+
+"He has no fever," said Keyork looking at the little instrument. "I
+will call the Individual and we will take him away."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"To his lodging, of course. Where else?" He turned and went towards
+the door.
+
+In a moment, Unorna was kneeling again by Kafka's side, her hand upon
+his 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 you understand 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 has
+happened, but you will never love me again. I forbid you ever to love
+me again! 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
+hours of yourself, without pain or sickness."
+
+Again she touched his forehead and then sprang to her feet. Keyork was
+coming back with his dumb servant. At a sign, the Individual lifted
+Kafka from the floor, taking from him the Wanderer's furs and wrapping
+him in others which Keyork had brought. The strong man walked away
+with his burden as though he were carrying a child. Keyork Arabian
+lingered a moment.
+
+"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
+ear that 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 and
+commanding. Keyork Arabian smiled in an evil way, shrugged his
+shoulders and 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 look
+which had at first attracted Keyork Arabian's attention and which had
+amazed Unorna herself. It was the expression that had come into his
+face in 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 turned
+sadly away.
+
+But since Keyork had been with her a doubt had assailed her which
+painfully disturbed her thoughts, so that her brow contracted with
+anxiety and from time to time she drew a quick hard breath. Keyork had
+taken it for granted that the Wanderer's sleep was not natural.
+
+She tried to recall what had happened shortly before dawn but it was
+no wonder that her memory served her ill and refused to bring back
+distinctly the words she had spoken. Her whole being was unsettled and
+shaken, so that she found it hard to recognise herself. The stormy
+hours through which she had lived since yesterday had left their
+trace; the lack of rest, instead of producing physical exhaustion, had
+brought about an excessive mental weariness, and it was not easy for
+her now to find all the connecting links between her actions. Then,
+above all else, there was the great revulsion that had swept over her
+after her last and greatest plan of evil had failed, causing in her
+such a change as could hardly have seemed natural or even possible to
+a calm person watching her inmost thoughts.
+
+And yet such sudden changes take place daily in the world of crime and
+passion. In one uncalled-for confession, of which it is hard to trace
+the smallest reasonable cause, the intricate wickednesses of a
+lifetime are revealed and repeated; in the mysterious impulse of a
+moment the murderer turns back and delivers himself to justice; under
+an influence for which there is often no accounting, the woman who has
+sinned securely through long years lays bare her guilt and throws
+herself upon the mercy of the man whom she has so skilfully and
+consistently deceived. We know the fact. The reason we cannot know.
+Perhaps, to natures not wholly bad, sin is a poison of which the moral
+organization can only bear a certain fixed amount, great or small,
+before rejecting it altogether and with loathing. We do not know. We
+speak of the workings of conscience, not understanding what we mean.
+It is like that subtle something which we call electricity; we can
+play with it, command it, 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 absolutely ignorant of its nature. We are no nearer to
+a definition of it than the Greek who rubbed a bit of amber and lifted
+with it a tiny straw, and from amber, Elektron called the something
+electricity. Are we even as near as that to a definition of the human
+conscience?
+
+The change that had come over Unorna, whether it was to be lasting or
+not, was profound. The circumstances under which it took place are
+plain enough. The reasons must be left to themselves--it remains only
+to tell the consequences which thereon followed.
+
+The first of these was a hatred of that extraordinary power with which
+nature had endowed her, which brought with it a determination never
+again to make use of it for any evil purpose, and, if possible, never
+even for good.
+
+But as though her unhappy fate were for ever fighting against her good
+impulses, that power of hers had exerted itself unconsciously, since
+her resolution had been formed. Keyork Arabian's words, and his
+evident though unspoken disbelief in her denial, showed that he at
+least was convinced of the fact that the Wanderer was not sleeping a
+natural sleep. Unorna tried to recall what she had done and said, but
+all was vague and indistinct. Of one thing she was sure. She had not
+laid her hand upon his forehead, and she had not intentionally done
+any of those things which she had always believed necessary for
+producing the results of hypnotism. She had not willed him to do
+anything, she thought and she felt sure that she had pronounced no
+words of the nature of a command. Step by step she tried to
+reconstruct for her comfort a detailed recollection of what had
+passed, but every effort in that direction was fruitless. Like many
+men far wiser than herself, she believed in the mechanics of hypnotic
+science, in the touches, in the passes, in the fixed look, in the will
+to fascinate. More than once Keyork Arabian had scoffed at what he
+called her superstitions, and had maintained that all the varying
+phenomena of hypnotism, all the witchcraft of the darker ages, all the
+visions undoubtedly shown to wondering eyes by mediaeval sorcerers,
+were traceable to moral influence, and to no other cause. Unorna could
+not accept his reasoning. For her there was a deeper and yet a more
+material mystery in it, as in her own life, a mystery which she
+cherished as an inheritance, which impressed her with a sense of her
+own strange destiny and of the gulf which separated her from other
+women. She could not detach herself from the idea that the
+supernatural played a part in all her doings, and she clung to the use
+of gestures and passes and words in the exercise of her art, in which
+she fancied a hidden and secret meaning to exist. Certain things had
+especially impressed her. The not uncommon answer of hypnotics to the
+question concerning their identity, "I am the image in your eyes," is
+undoubtedly elicited by the fact that their extraordinarily acute and,
+perhaps, magnifying vision, perceives the image of themselves in the
+eyes of the operator with abnormal distinctness, and, not impossibly,
+of a size quite incompatible with the dimensions of the pupil. To
+Unorna the answer meant something more. It suggested the actual
+presence of the person she was influencing, in her own brain, and
+whenever she was undertaking anything especially difficult, she
+endeavoured to obtain the reply relating to the image as soon as
+possible.
+
+In the present case, she was sure that she had done none of the things
+which she considered necessary to produce a definite result. She was
+totally unconscious of having impressed upon the sleeper any
+suggestion of her will. Whatever she had said, she had addressed the
+words to herself without any intention that they should be heard and
+understood.
+
+These reflections comforted her as she paced the marble floor, and yet
+Keyork's remark rang in her ears and disturbed her. She knew how vast
+his experience was and how much he could tell by a single glance at a
+human face. He had been familiar with every phase of hypnotism long
+before she had known him, and might reasonably be supposed to know by
+inspection whether the sleep were natural or not. That a person
+hypnotised may appear to sleep as naturally as one not under the
+influence is certain, but the condition of rest is also very often
+different, to a practised eye, from that of ordinary slumber. There is
+a fixity in the expression of the face, and in the attitude of the
+body, which cannot continue under ordinary circumstances. He had
+perhaps noticed both signs in the Wanderer.
+
+She went back to his side and looked at him intently. She had scarcely
+dared 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
+were still burning. Yet, even now, she could not tell. Her judgment of
+what she 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 the sleeping 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 eyes she 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 lying there, so happy in his sleep, so loving, so peaceful.
+She could make it all to last, too, if she would, and she realised
+that with a sudden pang. The woman of whom he dreamed, whom he had
+loved so faithfully and sought so long, was very near him. A word from
+Unorna and Beatrice could come 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 the
+expiation of her sins? Fate could not be so very cruel--and yet the
+mere idea was an added suffering. The longer she looked at him the
+more the possibility grew and tortured her.
+
+After all, it was almost certain that they would meet now, and at the
+meeting she felt sure that all his memory would return. Why should she
+do 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 both in the same city together, and that she had vowed neither to
+hurt nor hinder them? If it was their destiny to be joined together it
+would so happen surely in the natural course; if not, was it her part
+to join them? 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, and
+her thoughts came back to the point from which they had started. The
+suspense became unbearable when she realised that she did not know in
+what condition the Wanderer would wake, nor whether, if left to
+nature, he would wake at all. She could not endure it any longer. She
+touched his 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 would not believe that she had made him sleep. She drew back and
+looked at him. 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. Then
+they grew wide and deep and fixed themselves in a great wonder of many
+seconds. Then Unorna saw no more.
+
+Strong arms lifted her suddenly from her feet and pressed her fiercely
+and carried her, and she hid her face. A voice she knew sounded, as
+she had 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
+was helpless. She had no power of thought left in her, as she felt
+herself borne along, body and soul, in the rush of a passion more
+masterful than her own.
+
+Then she was on her feet again, but his arms were round her still, and
+hers, whether she would or not, were clasped about his neck. Dreams,
+truth, faith kept or broken, hell and Heaven itself were swept away,
+all wrecked together in the tide of love. And through it all his voice
+was in her ear.
+
+"Love, love, at last! From all the years, you have come back--at last
+--at last!"
+
+Broken and almost void of sense the words came then, through the storm
+of his kisses and the tempest of her tears. She could no more resist
+him nor draw herself away than the frail ship, wind-driven through
+crashing waves, can turn and face the blast; no more than the long dry
+grass can turn and quench the roaring flame; no more than the drooping
+willow bough can dam the torrent and force it backwards up the steep
+mountain side.
+
+In those short, false moments, Unorna knew what happiness could mean.
+Torn from herself, lifted high above the misery and the darkness of
+her real life, it was all true to her. There was no other Beatrice but
+herself, no other woman whom he had ever loved. An enchantment greater
+than her own was upon her and held her in bonds she could neither bend
+nor 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
+nothing else. For him her hair was black as night; for him the unlike
+eyes were dark and fathomless; for him the heavy marble hand was
+light, responsive, delicate; for him her face was the face of
+Beatrice, as he had last seen it long ago. The years had passed,
+indeed, and he had sought her through many lands, but she had come
+back to him the same, in the glory of her youth, in the strength of
+her love, in the divinity of her 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
+failed of utterance, as the first mist of early morning is drawn
+heavenwards to vanish in the rising sun. The long-drawn breath could
+have made no sound of sweeter meaning than the unspoken speech that
+rose in the deep gray eyes. Nature's grand organ, touched by hands
+divine, can yield no chord more moving than a lover's sigh.
+
+Words came at last, as after the welcome shower in summer's heat the
+song of birds rings through the woods, and out across the fields, upon
+the clear, earth-scented air--words fresh from their long rest within
+his heart, unused in years of loneliness but unforgotten and familiar
+still--untarnished jewels from the inmost depths; rich treasures from
+the storehouse of a deathless faith; diamonds of truth, rubies of
+passion, pearls of devotion studding the golden links of the chain of
+love.
+
+"At last--at last--at last! Life of my life, the day is come that is
+not day without you, and now it will always be day for us two--day
+without end and sun for ever! And yet, I have seen you always in my
+night, just as I see you now. As I hold your dear hands, I have held
+them--day by day and year by year--and I have smoothed that black hair
+of yours that I love, and kissed those dark eyes of yours many and
+many a thousand times. It has been so long, love, so very long! But I
+knew it would come some 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 have wandered through it all and taken you with me
+and made every place yours with the thought of you, and the love of
+you and the worship of you. For me, there is not an ocean nor a sea
+nor a river, nor rock nor island nor broad continent of earth, that
+has not known Beatrice and loved her name. Heart of my heart, soul of
+my soul--the nights and the days without you, the lands and the oceans
+where you were not, the endlessness of this little world that hid you
+somewhere, the littleness of the whole universe without you--how can
+you ever know what it has been to me? And so it is gone at last--gone
+as a dream of sickness in the morning of health; gone as the blackness
+of storm-clouds in the sweep of the clear west wind; gone as the
+shadow of evil before the face of 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 at last--and you have waited--and there
+has been no other, not the thought of another, not the passing image
+of another between us. For I know there has not been that and I should
+have known it anywhere in all these years, the chill of it would have
+found me, the sharpness of it would have 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 a
+low, 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 the
+high chair, her eyelids wet and drooping, her lips still parted, her
+hand in his. Small wonder if he had loved her for herself, she was so
+beautiful. Small wonder it would have been if she had taken Beatrice's
+place in his heart during those weeks of close and daily converse. But
+that first great love had left no fertile ground in which to plant
+another seed, no warmth of kindness under which the tender shoot might
+grow to strength, no room beneath its heaven for other branches than
+its own. Alone it had stood in majesty as a lordly tree, straight,
+tall, and ever green, on a silent mountain top. Alone it had borne the
+burden of grief's heavy snows; unbent, for all its loneliness, it had
+stood against the raging tempest; and green still, in all its giant
+strength of stem and branch, in all its kingly robe of unwithered
+foliage. Unscathed, unshaken, it yet stood. Neither storm nor
+lightning, wind nor rain, sun nor snow had prevailed against it to dry
+it up and cast it down that another might grow in its place.
+
+Yet this love was not for her to whom he spoke, and she knew it as she
+answered him, though she answered truly, from the fulness of her
+heart. She had cast an enchantment over him unwittingly, and she was
+taken in the toils of her own magic even as she had sworn that she
+would never again put forth her powers. She shuddered as she realised
+it all. In a few short moments she had felt his kisses, and heard his
+words, and been clasped to his heart, as she had many a time madly
+hoped. But in those moments, too, she had known the truth of her
+woman's instinct when it had told her that love must be for herself
+and for her own sake, or not be love at all.
+
+The falseness, the fathomless untruth of it, would have been bad
+enough alone. But the truth that was so strong made it horrible. Had
+she but inspired in him a burning love for herself, however much
+against his will, it would have been very different. She would have
+heard her name from his lips, she would have known that all, however
+false, however artificial, was for herself, while it might last. To
+know that it was real, and not for her, was intolerable. To see this
+love of his break out at last--this other love which she had dreaded,
+against which she had fought, which she had met with a jealousy as
+strong as itself, and struggled with and buried under an imposed
+forgetfulness--to feel its great waves surging around her and beating
+up against her heart, was more 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 say that her fair hair was black and that
+he loved those deep dark eyes of hers.
+
+There had been one moment of happiness, in that first kiss, in the
+first pressure of those strong arms. Then night descended. The hands
+that held her 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
+softened echo, and her punishment was upon her. His words were lashes,
+his touch poison, his eyes avenging fires. As in nature's great
+alchemy the diamond and the blackened coal are one, as nature with the
+same elements pours life and death from the same vial with the same
+hand, so now the love which would have been life to Unorna was made
+worse than death because it was not for her.
+
+Yet the disguise was terribly perfect. The unconscious spell had done
+its work thoroughly. He took her for Beatrice, and her voice for
+Beatrice's there in the broad light, in the familiar place where he
+had so often talked with her for hours and known her for Unorna. But a
+few paces away was the very spot where she had fallen at his feet last
+night and wept and abused herself before him. There was the carpet on
+which Israel Kafka had lain throughout the long hours while they had
+watched together. Upon that table at her side a book lay which they
+had read together but two days ago. In her own chair she sat, Unorna
+still, unchanged, unaltered save for him. She doubted her own senses
+as she heard him speak, and ever and again the name of Beatrice rang
+in her ears. 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
+his love--kneeling, then standing, then sitting at her side, drawing
+her head to his shoulder and smoothing her fair hair--so black to him
+--with a gentle hand. She was passive through it all, as yet. There
+seemed to be no other way. He paused sometimes, then spoke again.
+Perhaps, in the dream that possessed him, he heard her speak.
+Possibly, he was unconscious of her silence, borne along by the
+torrent of his own long pent-up speech. She could not tell, she did
+not care to know. Of one thing 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.
+As he was now, she could not tell what effect her words would have if
+she spoke. It might be but a passing state after all. What would the
+awakening be? Would his forgetfulness of Beatrice and his coldness to
+herself return with the subsidence of his passion? Far better that
+than to see him and hear him as he was now.
+
+And yet there were moments now and then when he pronounced no name,
+when he recalled no memory of the past, when there was only the
+tenderness of love itself in his words, and then, as she listened, she
+could almost think it was for her. It was bitter joy, unreal and
+fantastic, but it was a relief. Had she loved him less, such a
+conflict between sense and senses would have been impossible even in
+imagination. But she loved him greatly and the deep desire to be loved
+in turn was in her still, shaming her better thoughts, but sometimes
+ruling her in spite of herself and of the pain she suffered with each
+word self-applied. All the vast contradictions, all the measureless
+inconsistency, all the enormous selfishness of which human hearts are
+capable, had met in hers as in a battle-ground, fighting each other,
+rending what they found of herself amongst them, sometimes uniting to
+throw their whole weight together against the deep-rooted passion,
+sometimes taking side with it to drive out every other rival.
+
+It was shameful, base, despicable, and she knew it. A moment ago she
+had longed to tear herself away, to silence him, to stop her ears,
+anything not 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 the happiness they brought. More and more she despised
+herself as the intervals between one pang of suffering and the next
+grew longer, and the illusion deeper and more like reality.
+
+After all, it was he, and no other. It was the man she loved who was
+pouring out his own love into her ears, and smoothing her hair and
+pressing 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
+had received the fulfilment of her wish. He loved her now. Under
+another name, in a vision, with another face and another voice, yet,
+still, she was herself.
+
+As in a storm the thunder-claps came crashing through the air,
+deafening and appalling at first, then rolling swiftly into a far
+distance, fainter and fainter, till all is still and only the plash of
+the fast-falling rain is heard, so, as she listened, the tempest of
+her pain was passing away. Easier and easier it became to hear herself
+called Beatrice, easier and easier it grew to take the other's place,
+to accept the kiss, the touch, the word, the pressure of the hand that
+were all another's due, and given to herself only for the mask she
+wore in his dream.
+
+And the tide of the great temptation rose, and fell a little, and rose
+higher again each time, till it washed the fragile feet of the last
+good thought that lingered, taking refuge on the highest point above
+the waves. 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 was over, when she could still feel all the shame, and blush for
+all the abasement, 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 of it had no more terror for her. It was very high now.
+Presently it would climb higher and close above her head.
+
+There were long intervals of silence now. The first rush of his speech
+had 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
+silent she 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 cold indifference--now each vibration roused high harmonies in her
+heart, each note was a full chord, and all the chords made but one
+great progression. She longed to hear it all again, wondering greatly
+how it could 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? She
+trembled as she thought of speaking. Would she still have Beatrice's
+voice? 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
+and he had not been undeceived.
+
+"Beloved--" she said at last, lingering on the single word and then
+hesitating.
+
+He looked into her face as he drew her to him, with happy eyes. She
+might speak, then, for he would hear tones not hers.
+
+"Beloved, I am tired of my name. Will you not call me by another?" She
+spoke very softly.
+
+"By another name?" he exclaimed, surprised, but smiling at what seemed
+a strange caprice.
+
+"Yes. It is a sad name to me. It reminds me of many things--of a time
+that is better forgotten since it is gone. Will you do it for me? It
+will make it seem as though that time had never been."
+
+"And yet I love your own name," he said, thoughtfully. "It is so much
+--or has been so much in all these years, when I had nothing but your
+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 is
+anything that I would not do if you asked it of me?"
+
+They were almost the words she had spoken to him that night when they
+were watching together by Israel Kafka's side. She recognised them and
+a strange thrill of triumph ran through her. What matter how? What
+matter where? The old reckless questions came to her mind again. If he
+loved her, 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. What
+name will you choose for your dear self?"
+
+She hesitated. She could not tell how far he might remember what was
+past. And yet, if he had remembered he would have seen where he was in
+the long time that had passed since his awakening.
+
+"Did you ever--in your long travels--hear the name Unorna?" she asked
+with a smile and a little hesitation.
+
+"Unorna? No. I cannot remember. It is a Bohemian word--it means 'she
+of February.' It has a pretty sound--half familiar to me. I wonder
+where I have 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
+Paul turned to Beatrice. She had set down her lamp upon the broad,
+polished shelf which ran all round the place, forming the top of a
+continuous series of cupboards, as in most sacristies, used for the
+vestments of the church. At the back of these high presses rose half
+way to the spring of the vault.
+
+The nun seemed a little nervous and her voice quavered oddly as she
+spoke. 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 that all was over her enfeebled strength felt the reaction from
+the strain. She turned to Beatrice and met her flashing black eyes.
+The young girl's delicate nostrils quivered and her lips curled
+fiercely.
+
+"You are angry, my dear child," said Sister Paul. "So am I, and it
+seems to me that our anger is just enough. 'Be angry and sin not.' I
+think we can apply that to ourselves."
+
+"Who is that woman?" Beatrice asked. She was certainly angry, as the
+nun had said, but she felt by no means sure that she could resist the
+temptation of sinning if it presented itself as the possibility of
+tearing Unorna to pieces.
+
+"She was once with us," the nun answered. "I knew her when she was a
+mere girl--and I loved her then, in spite of her strange ways. But she
+has changed. They call her a Witch--and indeed I think it is the only
+name for her."
+
+"I do not believe in witches," said Beatrice, a little scornfully.
+"But whatever she is, she is bad. I do not know what it was that she
+wanted me 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 knew no
+more than Beatrice of Unorna's intention, but she believed in the
+existence of a Black Art, full of sacrilegious practices, and credited
+Unorna vaguely with the worst designs which she could think of, though
+in her goodness she was not able to imagine anything much worse than
+the saying of a /Pater Noster/ backwards in a consecrated place. But
+she preferred to say nothing, lest she should judge Unorna unjustly.
+After all, she did not know. What she had seen had seemed bad enough
+and strange enough, but apart from the fact that Beatrice had been
+found upon the altar, where she certainly had no business to be, and
+that Unorna had acted like a guilty woman, there was little to lay
+hold of in the way of fact.
+
+"My child," she said at last, "until we know more of the truth, and
+have better advice than we can give each other, let us not speak of it
+to any one of the sisters. In the morning I will tell all I have seen
+in confession, and then I shall get advice. Perhaps you should do the
+same. I know nothing of what happened before you left your room.
+Perhaps you have something to reproach yourself with. It is not for me
+to ask. Think it over."
+
+"I will tell you the whole truth," Beatrice answered, resting her
+elbow upon the polished shelf and supporting her head in her hand,
+while she looked earnestly into Sister Paul's faded eyes.
+
+"Think well, my daughter. I have no right to any confession from you.
+If there is anything----"
+
+"Sister Paul--you are a woman, and I must have a woman's help. I have
+learned something to-night which will change my whole life. No--do not
+be afraid--I have done nothing wrong. At least, I hope not. While my
+father lived, I submitted. I hoped, but I gave no sign. I did not even
+write, as I once might have done. I have often wished that I had--was
+that wrong?"
+
+"But you have told me nothing, dear child. How can I answer you?" The
+nun 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 years
+ago--I was only eighteen then--I was with my father as I have been
+ever since. My mother had not been dead long then--perhaps that is the
+reason why I seemed to be everything to my father. But they had not
+been happy together, and I had loved her best. We were travelling--no
+matter where--and then I met the man I have loved. He was not of our
+country--that is, of my father's. He was of the same people as my
+mother. Well--I loved him. How dearly you must guess, and try to
+understand. 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 a hundred reasons which were nothing to me. I would
+have loved him had he been a cripple, poor, ignorant, despised,
+instead of being what he was--the grandest, noblest man God ever made.
+For I did not love him for his face, nor for his courtly ways, nor for
+such gifts as other men might have, but for himself and for his heart
+--do you understand?"
+
+"For his goodness," said Sister Paul, nodding in approval. "I
+understand."
+
+"No," Beatrice answered, half impatiently. "Not for his goodness
+either. Many men are good, and so was he--he must have been, of
+course. No matter. I loved him. That is enough. He loved me, too. And
+one day we were alone, in the broad spring sun, upon a terrace. There
+were lemon trees there--I can see the place. Then we told each other
+that we loved--but neither of us could find the words--they must be
+somewhere, those strong beautiful words that could tell how we loved.
+We told each other--"
+
+"Without your father's consent?" asked the nun almost severely.
+
+Beatrice's eyes flashed. "Is a woman's heart a dog that must follow at
+heel?" she asked fiercely. "We loved. That was enough. My father had
+the power, but not the heart, to come between. We told him, then, for
+we were not cowards. We told him boldly that it must be. He was a
+thoughtful man, who spoke little. He said that we must part at once,
+before we loved each other better--and that we should soon forget. We
+looked at each other, the man I loved and I. We knew that we should
+love better yet, parted or together, though we could not tell how that
+could be. 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 my mother's nation. Of course we met again. I remember that I could
+cry in those days. My father had not learned to part us then. Perhaps
+he was not 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 been touched, though little touched him at the best. Then,
+one day, suddenly and 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 that it had seized him--the man I loved. "He is
+free to follow us if he pleases," said my father. But he never came.
+Then followed a journey, and another, and another, until I knew that
+my father was travelling to avoid him. When I saw that I grew silent,
+and never spoke his name again. 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 he was 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 tale
+of love.
+
+"The strange thing is this," Beatrice answered. "That woman--what is
+her name? 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
+to him, but she deceived me utterly. She told me a strange story of
+her own life. I was lonely. In all those years I have never spoken of
+what has filled me. I cannot tell how it was. I began to speak, and
+then I forgot that she was there, and told all."
+
+"She made you tell her, by her secret arts," said Sister Paul in a low
+voice.
+
+"No--I was lonely and I believed that she was good, and I felt that I
+must speak. Then--I cannot think how I could have been so mad--but I
+thought that we should never meet again, and I showed her a likeness
+of him. She turned on me. I shall not forget her face. I heard her say
+that she 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 the
+altar. If these things are to be known they must be told in the right
+quarter. The sacristan must not see that any one has been in the
+church."
+
+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--I
+am afraid it is not right--an affair of love--"
+
+"An affair of life, Sister Paul, and of death too, perhaps. This woman
+lives 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 person
+only--it is impossible that you should not remember some one who is
+acquainted with her, who has talked with you of her--perhaps one of
+the ladies 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 great
+lady here--it is said that she, too, meddles with forbidden practices
+and that Unorna has often been with her--that together they have
+called up the spirits of the dead with strange rappings and writings.
+She knows her, I am sure, for I have talked with her and she says it
+is all natural, and that there is a learned man with them sometimes,
+who explains how all such things may happen in the course of nature--a
+man--let me see, let me see--it is George, I think, but not as we call
+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 young
+girl.
+
+"Indeed I do. He was with us in Egypt once. He showed us wonderful
+things among the tombs. A strange little man, who knew everything, but
+very 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
+he is no better than Unorna, and perhaps worse."
+
+"You need not fear," Beatrice answered, with a scornful smile. "I am
+not in 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 still
+shaking her head uneasily. "But you must wait until the morning, my
+dear child, if you will do this thing. Of the two, I should say that
+you would do better to write to the lady. Come, we must be going. It
+is very late."
+
+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 more
+could be done at present. The two women went back into the church, and
+going round the high altar began to examine everything carefully. The
+only trace of disorder they could discover was the fallen candlestick,
+so massive and strong that it was not even bent or injured. They
+climbed the 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 itself easily enough. Then they got down again and Sister
+Paul took away the steps. For a few moments both women knelt down
+before the altar.
+
+They left the church by the nuns' staircase, bolting the door behind
+them, and ascended to the corridors and reached Beatrice's room.
+Unorna's door was open, as the nun had left it, and the yellow light
+streamed upon the pavement. She went in and extinguished the lamp, and
+then 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
+and kissed 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
+needed no light in the familiar way to her cell.
+
+Beatrice searched among her numerous belongings and at last brought
+out a writing-case. Then she sat down to her table by the light of the
+lamp that had illuminated so many strange sights that night.
+
+She wrote the name of the convent clearly upon the paper, and then
+wrote a 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
+  parlour of the convent as soon after receiving this as possible.
+  The matter is very important."
+
+
+She had reasons of her own for believing that Keyork had not forgotten
+her 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,
+and she 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 not
+ascertain until the morning. She could do nothing more. It was nearly
+two 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 was
+amazed at her own calm. Strong natures, in great tests, often surprise
+themselves far more than they surprise others. Others see the results,
+always simpler in proportion as they are greater. But the actors
+themselves alone know how hard the great and simple can seem.
+
+Beatrice's calmness was not only of the outward kind at the present
+moment. She felt that she was alone in the world, and that she had
+taken her life into her own hands. Fate had lent her the clue of her
+happiness at last and she would hold it firmly to the end. It would be
+time enough then to open the flood-gates. It would have been unlike
+her to dwell long upon the thought of Unorna or to give way to any
+passionate outbreak of hatred. Why should Unorna not love him? The
+whole world loved him, and small wonder. She feared no rival.
+
+But he was near her now. Her heart leaped as she realised how very
+near he might well be, then sank again to its calm beating. He had
+been near her a score of times in the past years, and yet they had not
+met. But she had not been free, then, as she was now. There was more
+hope than before, but she could not delude herself with any belief in
+a certainty.
+
+So thinking, and so saying to herself, she fell asleep, and slept
+soundly without dreaming as most people do who are young and strong,
+and who are clear-headed and active when they are awake.
+
+It was late when she opened her eyes, and the broad cold light filled
+the room. She lost no time in thinking over the events of the night,
+for everything was fresh in her memory. Half dressed, she wrapped
+about her a cloak that came down to her feet, and throwing a black
+veil over her hair she went down to the portress's lodge. In five
+minutes she had found Keyork's address and had despatched one of the
+convent gardeners with the note. Then she leisurely returned to her
+room and set about completing her toilet. She naturally supposed that
+an hour or two must elapse before she received an answer, certainly
+before Keyork appeared in person, a fact which showed that she had
+forgotten something of the man's characteristics.
+
+Twenty minutes had scarcely passed, and she had not finished dressing
+when Sister Paul entered the room, evidently in a state of
+considerable anxiety. As has been seen, it chanced to be her turn to
+superintend the guest's quarters at that time, and the portress had of
+course informed her immediately of Keyork's coming, in order that she
+might tell Beatrice.
+
+"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 her head quickly.
+
+"Who is there? Keyork Arabian?"
+
+Sister Paul nodded, glad that she was not obliged to pronounce the
+name that had for her such an unChristian sound.
+
+"Where is he? I did not think he could come so soon. Oh, Sister Paul,
+do help me with my hair! I cannot make it stay."
+
+"He is in the parlour, down stairs," answered the nun, coming to her
+assistance. "Indeed, child, I do not see how I can help you." She
+touched the black coils ineffectually. "There! Is that better?" she
+asked in a timid way. "I do not know how to do it--"
+
+"No, no!" Beatrice exclaimed. "Hold that end--so--now turn it that
+way--no, the other way--it is in the glass--so--now keep it there
+while I put in a pin--no, no--in the same place, but the other way--
+oh, Sister Paul! 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
+wanting in the element of novelty.
+
+"Are you not afraid to go alone?" asked Sister Paul with evident
+preoccupation, as Beatrice put a few more touches to her toilet.
+
+But the young girl only laughed and made the more haste. Sister Paul
+walked with her to the head of the stairs, wishing that the rules
+would allow her to accompany Beatrice into the parlour. Then as the
+latter went down the nun stood at the top looking after her and
+audibly repeating prayers for her preservation.
+
+The convent parlour was a large, bare room, lighted by a high and
+grated window. Plain, straight, modern chairs were ranged against the
+wall at regular intervals. There was no table, but a square piece of
+green carpet lay upon the middle of the stone pavement. A richly
+ornamented glazed earthenware stove, in which a fire had just been
+lighted, occupied one corner, a remnant of former aesthetic taste and
+strangely out of place since the old carved furniture was gone. A
+crucifix of inferior workmanship and realistically painted hung
+opposite the door. The place was reserved for the use of ladies in
+retreat and was situated outside the constantly closed door which shut
+off the cloistered part of the convent from the small portion
+accessible to outsiders.
+
+Keyork Arabian was standing in the middle of the parlour waiting for
+Beatrice. When she entered at last he made two steps forward, bowing
+profoundly, and then smiled in a deferential manner.
+
+"My dear lady," he said, "I am here. I have lost no time. It so
+happened that I received your note just as I was leaving my carriage
+after a morning 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
+follow her example.
+
+"And your dear father--how is he?" inquired Keyork with suave
+politeness, 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. "I
+am deeply grieved," he said, moderating his huge voice to a soft and
+purring sub-bass. "He was an old and valued friend."
+
+There was a moment's silence. Keyork, who knew many things, was well
+aware that a silent feud, of which he also knew the cause, had existed
+between father and daughter when he had last been with them, and he
+rightly judged from his knowledge of their obstinate characters that
+it had lasted to the end. He thought therefore that his expression of
+sympathy had been sufficient and could pass muster.
+
+"I asked you to come," said Beatrice at last, "because I wanted your
+help in a matter of importance to myself. I understand that you know a
+person who calls herself Unorna, and who lives here."
+
+Keyork's bright blue eyes scrutinized her face. He wondered how much
+she knew.
+
+"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 a
+surprise with indifference.
+
+"But will you answer me truly?"
+
+"My dear lady, I pledge you my sacred word of honour," Keyork answered
+with immense gravity, meeting her eyes and laying his hand upon his
+heart.
+
+"Does she love that man--or not?" Beatrice asked, suddenly showing him
+the little miniature of the Wanderer, which she had taken from its
+case and had hitherto concealed in her hand.
+
+She watched every line of his face for she knew something of him, and
+in reality put very little more faith in his word of honour than he
+did himself, which was not saying much. But she had counted upon
+surprising him, and she succeeded, to a certain extent. His answer did
+not come as glibly 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 his self-
+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 deal
+together at one time. I fancy he was consulting her. You have heard
+that she is a clairvoyant, I daresay."
+
+He made the last remark quite carelessly, as though he attached no
+importance to the fact.
+
+"Then you do not know whether she loves him?"
+
+Keyork indulged himself with a little discreet laughter, deep and
+musical.
+
+"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 nothing about it in others."
+
+Not knowing how matters might turn out, he was willing to leave
+Beatrice with 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
+not in the least in love."
+
+"I did not ask that question," said Beatrice rather haughtily. "I knew
+he was not."
+
+"Of course, of course. I beg your pardon!"
+
+Keyork was learning more from her than she from him. It was true that
+she took no trouble to conceal her interest in the Wanderer and his
+doings.
+
+"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 the
+slightest hesitation. "We met at first by chance in the Teyn Kirche,
+one afternoon--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 my
+maid. 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
+of them. "I was looking at Tycho Brahe's monument. You know how it
+annoys me to forget anything--there was a word in the inscription
+which I could not recall. I turned round and saw him sitting just at
+the end of the pew nearest to the monument."
+
+"The old red slab with a figure on it, by the last pillar?" Beatrice
+asked eagerly.
+
+"Exactly. I daresay you know the church very well. You remember that
+the pew runs very near to the monument so that there is hardly room to
+pass."
+
+"I know--yes."
+
+She was thinking that it could hardly have been a mere accident which
+had led the Wanderer to take the very seat she had occupied on the
+morning of that day. He must have seen her during the Mass, but she
+could not imagine how he could have missed her. They had been very
+near then. And now, a whole month had passed, and Keyork Arabian
+professed not 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
+understand it?" said Keyork going back to the main point.
+
+"Yes--what happened on that day?" Beatrice asked, for she wished to
+hear more.
+
+"Oh, on that day? Yes. Well, nothing happened worth mentioning. We
+talked a little and went out of the church and walked a little way
+together. I forget when we met next, but I have seen him at least a
+dozen times since then, I am sure."
+
+Beatrice began to understand that Keyork had no intention of giving
+her any further information. She reflected that she had learned much
+in this interview. The Wanderer had been, and perhaps still was, in
+Prague. Unorna loved him and they had been frequently together. He had
+been in the Teyn Kirche on the day she had last been there herself,
+and in all probability he had seen her, since he had chosen the very
+seat in which she had sat. Further, she gathered that Keyork had some
+interest in not speaking more frankly. She gave up the idea of
+examining him any further. He was a man not easily surprised, and it
+was only by means of a surprise that he could be induced to betray
+even by a passing expression what he meant to conceal. Her means of
+attack were exhausted for the present. She determined at least to
+repeat her request clearly before dismissing him, in the hope that it
+might suit his plans to fulfil it, but without the least trust in his
+sincerity.
+
+"Will you be so kind as to make some inquiry, and let me know the
+result to-day?" she asked.
+
+"I will do everything to give you an early answer," said Keyork. "And
+I shall be the more anxious to obtain one without delay in order that
+I may have the very great pleasure of visiting you again. There is
+much that 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
+exchanged few--very few--confidences this morning. May I come again
+to-day? It would be an immense privilege to talk of old times with
+you, of our friends in Egypt and of our many journeys. For you have no
+doubt travelled much since then. Your dear father," he lowered his
+voice reverentially, "was a great traveller, as well as a very learned
+man. Ah, well, my dear lady--we must all make up our minds to
+undertake that great journey one of these days. But I pain you. I was
+very much attached to your dear father. Command all my service. I will
+come again in 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 a
+loving accent from the Wanderer's lips. Surely the bitterness of
+despair was past since she was loved and not called Beatrice. The sigh
+that came then was of relief already felt, the forerunner, as she
+fancied, too, of a happiness no longer dimmed by shadows of fear and
+mists of rising remorse. Gazing into his eyes, she seemed to be
+watching in their reflection a magic change. She had been Beatrice to
+him, Unorna to herself, but now the transformation was at hand--now it
+was to come. For him she loved, and who loved her, she was Unorna even
+to the name, in her own thoughts she had taken the dark woman's face.
+She had risked all upon the chances of one throw and she had won. So
+long as he had called her by another's name the bitterness had been as
+gall mingled in the wine of love. But now that too was gone. She felt
+that it was complete at last. Her golden head sank peacefully upon his
+shoulder in the morning 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 nothing
+wanting 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 is
+Heaven? The meeting of those who love--as we have met. I have
+forgotten what 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
+for you----"
+
+Unorna scarcely knew that it had not been she who had parted from him
+so long ago. Yet she was playing a part, and in the semi-consciousness
+of her deep self-illusion it all seemed as real as a vision in a dream
+so often dreamed that it has become part of the dreamer's life. Those
+who fall by slow degrees under the power of the all-destroying opium
+remember yesterday as being very far, very long past, and recall faint
+memories of last year as though a century had lived and perished since
+then, seeing confusedly in their own lives the lives of others, and
+other existences in their own, until identity is almost gone in the
+endless transmigration of their souls from the shadow in one dream-
+tale to the wraith of themselves that dreams the next. So, in that
+hour, Unorna drifted through the changing scenes that a word had power
+to call up, scarce able, and wholly unwilling, to distinguish between
+her real and her imaginary self. What matter how? What matter where?
+The very questions which at first she had asked herself came now but
+faintly as out of an immeasurable distance, and always more faintly
+still. They died away in her ears, as when, after long waiting, and
+false starts, and turnings back and anxious words exchanged, the great
+race is at last begun, the swift long limbs are gathered and stretched
+and strained and gathered again, the thunder of flying hoofs is in the
+air, and the rider, with low hands, and head inclined and eyes bent
+forward, hears the last anxious word of parting counsel tremble and
+die in the rush of the wind behind.
+
+She had really loved him throughout all those years; she had really
+sought 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
+hour since; there was no Beatrice but Unorna and no Unorna but
+Beatrice, for they were one and indivisible and interchangeable as the
+glance of a man's two eyes that look on one fair sight; each sees
+alone, the same--but seeing together, the sight grows doubly fair.
+
+"And all the sadness, where is it now?" she asked. "And all the
+emptiness of that long time? It never was, my love--it was yesterday
+we met. We parted yesterday, to meet to-day. Say it was yesterday--the
+little 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 of stars--
+each star was a thought of you, that burned softly and showed me where
+heaven was. And darkest night, they say, means coming morning--so when
+the stars went out I knew the sun must rise."
+
+The words fell from her lips naturally. To her it seemed true that she
+had indeed waited long and hoped and thought of him. And it was not
+all false. Ever since her childhood she had been told to wait, for her
+love would come and would come only once. And so it was true, and the
+dream grew 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 and the shadowy leaves. And still the day rose higher, but
+still the lamps burned 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
+to her simple answer.
+
+"You are the sun, beloved, and when you shine, my eyes can see nothing
+else in heaven."
+
+"And what are you yourself--Beatrice--no, Unorna--is that the name you
+chose? 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
+you are you, and we two love! Both, neither, anything--do the blessed
+souls in 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 I prayed for you--and it served to tell me that my heart was gold
+while you were there, as the goldsmith's mark upon his jewel stamps
+the pure metal, that all men may know it."
+
+"You need no sign like that to show me what you are," said she, with a
+long glance.
+
+"Nor I to tell me you are in my heart," he answered. "It was a foolish
+speech. 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
+I shall 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 itself
+folly, and madness, and unreason. Dear, do not speak of this not
+lasting. Die, you say? Worse, far worse; as much as eternal death is
+worse 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 its
+blackness white. We wounded the devil, parting, with one kiss, we
+killed him with the next--this buries him--ah, love, how sweet----"
+
+There was neither resistance nor the thought of resisting. Their lips
+met and were withdrawn only that their eyes might drink again the
+draught the lips had tasted, long draughts of sweetness and liquid
+light and love unfathomable. And in the interval of speech half false,
+the truth of what was all true welled up from the clear depths and
+overflowed the falseness, till it grew falser and more fleeting still
+--as a thing lying deep in a bright water casts up a distorted image
+on refracted rays.
+
+Glance and kiss, when two love, are as body and soul, supremely human
+and 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
+knowing all the bitterness of both. The kiss without the glance? The
+body without the soul? The mortal thing without the undying thought?
+Draw down the thick veil and hide the sight, lest devils sicken at it,
+and lest man should loathe himself for what man can be.
+
+Truth or untruth, their love was real, hers as much as his. She
+remembered only what her heart had been without it. What her goal
+might be, 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, who turned back, for love perhaps, if not for fear, and said
+that for love's sake life still was sweet, and brought a milk-white
+dove to Aphrodite's altar, 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 the next year, or after many years, that youth or
+maid took heart to bear a Christian's death, was there then no
+forgiveness, no sign of holy cross upon the sandstone in the deep
+labyrinth of graves, no crown, no sainthood, and no reverent memory of
+his name or hers among those of men and women worthier, perhaps, but
+not more suffering?
+
+No one can kill Self. No one can be altogether another, save in the
+passing passion of a moment's acting. I--in that syllable lies the
+whole history of each human life; in that history lives the
+individuality; in the clear and true conception of that individuality
+dwells such joint foreknowledge of the future as we can have, such
+vague solution as to us is possible of that vast equation in which all
+quantities are unknown save 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 the
+thought--bury it with all others of its kind, with change, and old
+age, and stealing indifference, and growing coldness, and all that
+cankers love--bury them all, together, in one wide deep grave--then
+build on it the 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 was
+enough to pain him. She was silent, and again her head lay upon his
+shoulder. She found there still the rest and the peace. Knowing her
+own life, the immensity of his faith and trust in that other woman
+were made clear 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, the seven years' separation, the utter loneliness, the
+hopelessness, the despair, could she have been as true as he? In the
+stillness that followed she asked herself the question which was so
+near a greater and a deadlier one. But the answer came quickly. That,
+at least, she could have done. She could have been true to him, even
+to death. It must be so easy to be faithful when life was but one
+faith. In that chord at least no note rang false.
+
+"Change in love--indifference to you!" she cried, all at once, hiding
+her 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, by men 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 that
+to us? Let it come, since come it must. It is good to be young and
+fair and 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 wrinkle
+here and there, a slower step, perhaps a dimmer glance. That is all it
+is--the quiet, sunny channel between the sea of earthly joy and the
+ocean of heavenly happiness. The breeze of love still fills the sails,
+wafting us softly onward through the narrows, never failing, though it
+be softer and softer, till we glide out, scarce knowing it, upon the
+broader water and are borne swiftly away from the lost land by the
+first breath of heaven."
+
+His words brought peace and the mirage of a far-off rest, that soothed
+again the little half-born doubt.
+
+"Yes," she said. "It is better to think so. Then we need think of no
+other change."
+
+"There is no other possible," he answered, gently pressing the
+shoulder upon which his hand was resting. "We have not waited and
+believed, and trusted and loved, for seven years, to wake at last--
+face to face as we are to-day--and to find that we have trusted vainly
+and loved two shadows, I yours, and you mine, to find at the great
+moment of all that we are not ourselves, the selves we knew, but
+others of like passions but of less endurance. Have we, beloved? And
+if we could love, and trust, and believe without each other, each
+alone, is it not all the more sure that we shall be unchanging
+together? It must be so. The whole is greater than its parts, two
+loves together are greater and stronger than each could be of itself.
+The strength of two strands close twined together is more than twice
+the strength of each."
+
+She said nothing. By merest chance he had said words that had waked
+the doubt again, so that it grew a little and took a firmer hold in
+her unwilling heart. To love a shadow, he had said, to wake and find
+self not 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?
+The question came again, vaguely, faintly as a mere memory, but
+confidently as though knowing its own answer. Had she not rested in
+his arms, and felt his kisses and heard his voice? What matter how,
+indeed? It matters greatly, said the growing doubt, rearing its head
+and finding speech at last. It matters greatly, it said, for love lies
+not alone in voice, and kiss, and gentle touch, but in things more
+enduring, which to endure must 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? Do I not love him with my whole strength?
+Does he not love this very self of mine, here as it is, my head upon
+his shoulder, my hand within his hand? And if he once loved another,
+have I not her place, to have and hold, that I may be loved in her
+stead? Go, said the doubt, growing black and strong; go, for you are
+nothing to him but a figure in his dream, disguised in the lines of
+one he really loved and loves; go quickly, before it is too late,
+before that real Beatrice comes and wakes 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 had
+Beatrice's foot been on the threshold, she would not have been driven
+away by fear. But the fight had begun.
+
+"Speak to me, dear," she said. "I must hear your voice--it makes me
+know that 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
+had passed or but a second.
+
+Though love be swifter than the fleeting hours, doubt can outrun a
+lifetime in one beating of the heart.
+
+"Then how divinely long it all may seem," he answered. "But can we not
+begin to think, and to make plans for to-morrow, and the next day, and
+for the years before us? That will make more time for us, for with the
+present we shall have the future, too. No--that is foolish again. And
+yet it is so hard to say which I would have. Shall the moment linger
+because it is so sweet? Or shall it be gone quickly, because the next
+is to be sweeter still? Love, where is your father?"
+
+Unorna started. The question was suggested, perhaps, by his
+inclination to speak of what was to be done, but it fell suddenly upon
+her ears, as a peal of thunder when the sky has no clouds. Must she
+lie now, or break the 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 as
+though fearing to wake some painful memory.
+
+"Yes," she answered. The great doubt was taking her heart in its
+strong hands now and tearing it, and twisting it.
+
+"And whose house is this in which I have found you, darling? Was it
+his?"
+
+"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 few
+to which she could reply so truthfully even in that narrow sense of
+truth which found its only meaning in a whim of chance. But for a
+moment he asked nothing more.
+
+"Not mine," she said. "It is yours. You cannot take me and yet call
+anything mine."
+
+"Ours, then, beloved. What does it matter? So he died long ago--poor
+man! And yet, it seems but a little while since some one told me--but
+that was a mistake, of course. He did not know. How many years may it
+be, 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
+years ago."
+
+She bent her head. It was but a poor attempt at truth, a miserable
+lying truth to deceive herself with, but it seemed better than to lie
+the whole truth outright, and say that her father--Beatrice's father--
+had been dead but just a week. The blood burned in her face. Brave
+natures, good and bad alike, hate falsehood, not for its wickedness,
+perhaps, but for its cowardice. She could do things as bad, far worse.
+She could lay her 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, she was ashamed and hid her face.
+
+"It is strange," he said, "how little men know of each other's lives
+or deaths. They told me he was alive last year. But it has hurt you to
+speak 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 the
+other 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."
+That at least was true.
+
+"Ashamed, dear heart! Of what?"
+
+He had seen her face in spite of herself. Lie, or lose all, said a
+voice within.
+
+"Ashamed of being glad that--that I am free," she stammered,
+struggling on the very verge of the precipice.
+
+"You may be glad of that, and yet be very sorry he is dead," the
+Wanderer said, stroking her hair.
+
+It was true, and seemed quite simple. She wondered that she had not
+thought of that. Yet she felt that the man she loved, in all his
+nobility and honesty, was playing the tempter to her, though he could
+not know it. Deeper and deeper she sank, yet ever more conscious that
+she was sinking. Before him she felt no longer as loving woman to
+loving man--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
+glanced at 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
+of myself, because you asked for it, though I would rather have given
+you something better. Have you it still?"
+
+She was silent. Something was rising in her throat. Then she choked it
+down.
+
+"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
+his hand. She was weeping for joy, he thought. What else could any man
+think in such a case? He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with
+his hand as 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 not
+cry--that long ago is over now and gone for ever. Do you remember that
+day, sweetheart, in the broad spring sun upon the terrace among the
+lemon trees. No, dear--your tears hurt me always, even when they are
+shed in happiness--no, dear, no. Rest there, let me dry your dear eyes
+--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 can
+remember. I can see it all--and you. You have not changed, love, in
+all those 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--that it should never leave its place until you took it back--
+and you--how well I remember your face--you said that you would take
+it from my hand some day, when all was well, when you should be free
+to give me another in 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. It is heavy with the burden of lonely years. Take
+it and give me that other which 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, or
+lose all, the voice said.
+
+Very slowly she raised her head. She knew that his hand was close to
+hers, held there that she might fulfil Beatrice's promise. Was she not
+free? Could she not give him what he asked? No matter how--she tried
+to say it to herself and could not. She felt his breath upon her hair.
+He was waiting. If she did not act soon or speak he would wonder what
+held her back--wonder--suspicion next and then? She put out her hand
+to touch his fingers, half blinded, groping as though she could not
+see. He made it easy for her. He fancied she was trembling, as she was
+weeping, with the joy of it all.
+
+She felt the ring, though she dared not look at it. She drew it a
+little and felt that it would come off easily. She felt the fingers
+she loved so well, straight, strong and nervous, and she touched them
+lovingly. The ring was not tight, it would pass easily over the joint
+that alone kept 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.
+After wonder would come suspicion--and then? Very slowly--it was just
+upon the joint of his finger now. Should she do it? What would happen?
+He would have broken his vow--unwittingly. How quickly and gladly
+Beatrice would have taken it. What would she say, if they lived and
+met--why should they not meet? Would the spell endure that shock--who
+would Beatrice be then? The woman who had given him this ring? Or
+another, whom he would no longer know? But she must be quick. He was
+waiting and Beatrice would not have made him wait.
+
+Her hand was like stone, numb, motionless, immovable, as though some
+unseen being had taken it in an iron grasp and held it there, in mid-
+air, just touching his. Yes--no--yes--she could not move--a hand was
+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
+she felt as though her heavy hair were rising of itself upon her head.
+She knew that horror, for she had been overtaken by it once before.
+She was not afraid, but she knew what it was. There was a shadow, too,
+and a dark woman, tall, queenly, with deep flashing eyes was standing
+beside her. She knew, before she looked; she looked, and it was there.
+Her own face was whiter than that other woman's.
+
+"Have you come already?" she asked of the shadow, in a low despairing
+tone.
+
+"Beatrice--what has happened?" cried the Wanderer. To him, she seemed
+to be speaking to the empty air and her white face startled him.
+
+"Yes," she said, staring still, in the same hopeless voice. "It is
+Beatrice. She has come for you."
+
+"Beatrice--beloved--do not speak like that! For God's sake--what do
+you see? 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
+is gone 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 she
+knew what it had been--a mere vision called up by her own over-
+tortured brain. Keyork Arabian had a name for it.
+
+Frightened by your own nerves, laughed the voice, when, if you had not
+been a coward, you might have faced it down and lied again, and all
+would have been well. But you shall have another chance, and lying is
+very easy, even when the nerves are over-wrought. You will do better
+the next 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 real
+voice 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 an hour'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. The
+voice spoke once more.
+
+And at the same moment the strong dear arms were again around her,
+again her head was on that restful shoulder of his, again her pale
+face was turned up to his, and kisses were raining on her tired eyes,
+while broken words of love and tenderness made music through the
+tempest.
+
+Again the vast temptation rose. How could he ever know? Who was to
+undeceive him, if he was not yet undeceived? Who should ever make him
+understand the truth so long as the spell lasted? Why not then take
+what was 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, when she had confessed all that she had done before? He had not
+believed one word of it, except that she loved him. Could she make him
+believe it now, when he was clasping her so fiercely to his breast,
+half mad with love for her himself?
+
+So easy, too. She had but to forget that passing vision, to put her
+arms about 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
+could not speak, and it would be still the same. No power on earth
+could undo what she had done, unless she willed it. Neither man nor
+woman could make 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 was
+over.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII
+
+Unorna struggled for a moment. The Wanderer did not understand, but
+loosed his arms, so that she was free. She rose to her feet and stood
+before 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 was
+already gone, through the labyrinth of the many plants, to the door
+through which twelve hours earlier she had fled from Israel Kafka. She
+ran the faster as she left him behind. She passed the entrance and the
+passage and the vestibule beyond, not thinking whither she was going,
+or not caring. She found herself in that large, well-lighted room in
+which the ancient sleeper lay alone. Perhaps her instinct led her
+there as to a retreat safer even than her own chamber. She knew that
+if she would there 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
+would hardly have felt a wound or a blow. And yet she knew that she
+meant to end her life, since all that made it life was ended.
+
+After a time, her hands fell in a despairing gesture upon her knees
+and she stared about the room. Her eyes rested on the sleeper, then
+upon his couch, lying as a prophet in state, the massive head raised
+upon a silken pillow, the vast limbs just outlined beneath the snow-
+white robe, the hoary beard flowing down over the great breast that
+slowly rose and fell.
+
+To her there was a dreadful irony in that useless life, prolonged in
+sleep beyond the limits of human age. Yet she had thought it worth the
+labour and care and endless watchfulness it had cost for years. And
+now her own, strong, young and fresh, seemed not only useless but fit
+only to be cut off and cast away, as an existence that offended God
+and man and most of all herself.
+
+But if she died then, there, in that secret chamber where she and her
+companion had sought the secret of life for years, if she died now--
+how would all end? Was it an expiation--or a flight? Would one short
+moment of half-conscious suffering pay half her debt?
+
+She stared at the old man's face with wide, despairing eyes. Many a
+time, unknown to Keyork and once to his knowledge, she had roused the
+sleeper to speak, and on the whole he had spoken truly, wisely, and
+well. She lacked neither the less courage to die, nor the greater to
+live. She longed but to hear one honest word, not of hope, but of
+encouragement, but one word in contrast to those hideous whispered
+promptings that had come to her in Keyork Arabian's voice. How could
+she trust herself alone? Her evil deeds were many--so many, that,
+although she had turned at last against them, she could not tell where
+to strike.
+
+"If you would only tell me!" she cried leaning over the unconscious
+head. "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 me what is right!"
+
+The deep eyes opened and looked up to hers. The great limbs stirred,
+the bony hands unclasped. There was something awe-inspiring in the
+ancient strength 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
+her head. Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature
+beside this man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now
+stood erect and 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, she
+poured out the story of her life.
+
+"And I am lost!" she cried at last. "One holds my soul, and one my
+heart! 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 to
+her."
+
+"And see them meet!"
+
+She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her
+lips.
+
+"May I not die?" she cried despairingly. "May I not die--for him--for
+her, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would
+they not 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.
+There is one little act of Heaven's work still in your power. Make it
+all yours."
+
+His great hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes looked down to
+hers.
+
+"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, gently
+urging her and seeming to support her. Slowly, through vestibule and
+passage, they went on and entered together the great hall of the
+flowers. The Wanderer was there alone.
+
+He uttered a short cry and sprang to meet her, but stepped back in awe
+of 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
+look at him, moving still forward under the gentle guidance of the
+giant's hand.
+
+"Not Beatrice--no--you are not she--you are Unorna! Have I dreamed all
+this?"
+
+She had passed him now, and still she would not turn her head. But her
+voice 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 follow
+her, then stopping short. Unorna was already at the door. The ancient
+sleeper 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 made
+you 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
+the middle of the hall, confused, not knowing whether he had dreamed
+or was really 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
+very old, and yet like you, for I am young again."
+
+"You speak in riddles. What are you doing here, and where have you
+sent Unorna?"
+
+"When I was old, in that long time between, she took me in, and I have
+slept beneath her roof these many years. She came to me to-day. She
+told me all her story and all yours, waking me from my sleep, and
+asking me what she should do. And she is gone to do that thing of
+which I told her. Wait and you will see. She loves you well."
+
+"And you would help her to get my love, as she had tried to get it
+before?" the Wanderer asked with rising anger. "What am I to you, or
+you to 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
+is cursed. I will not stay in it." The hoary giant took his arm, and
+the Wanderer started at the weight and strength of the touch.
+
+"You shall bless this house before you leave it. In this place, here
+where you stand, you shall find the happiness you have sought through
+all 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 the
+prophet?"
+
+The door opened in the distance, and from behind the screen of plants
+Keyork Arabian came forward into the hall, his small eyes bright, his
+ivory face set and expressionless, his long beard waving in the swing
+of his 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 anger
+that 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
+lose it 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
+arms round the huge limbs and trying to force him backwards.
+
+"Go! go!" he cried frantically. "It may not be too late! You may yet
+sleep and live! Oh, my Experiment, my great Experiment! All lost----"
+
+"What is this madness?" asked the Wanderer. "You cannot carry him, and
+he will not go. Let him alone."
+
+"Madness?" yelled Keyork, turning on him. "You are the madman, you the
+fool, who cannot understand! Help me to move him--you are strong and
+young--together we can take him back--he may yet sleep and live--he
+must and shall! I say it! Lay your hands on him--you will not help me?
+Then I will curse you till you do----"
+
+"Poor Keyork!" exclaimed the Wanderer, half pitying him. "Your big
+thoughts 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
+me mad 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 and
+staring at me?"
+
+Again Keyork threw himself upon the huge old man, and stamped and
+struggled and tried to move him backwards. He might as well have spent
+his strength against a rock. Breathless but furious still, he desisted
+at last, too much beside himself to see that he whose sudden death he
+feared was stronger than he, because the great experiment had
+succeeded far 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 for my help! Trust a woman when she loves? Trust angels to curse
+God, or Hell to save a sinner! But she shall pay, too--I have her
+still. Why do you stare at me? Wait, fool! You shall be happy now.
+What are you to me that I should even hate you? You shall have what
+you want. I will bring you the woman you love, the Beatrice you have
+seen in dreams--and then Unorna's heart will break and she will die,
+and her soul--her soul----"
+
+Keyork broke into a peal of laughter, deep, rolling, diabolical in its
+despairing, frantic mirth. He was still laughing as he reached the
+door.
+
+"Her soul, her soul!" they heard him cry, between one burst and
+another as he went out, and from the echoing vestibule, and from the
+staircase beyond, the great laughter rolled back to them when they
+were left alone.
+
+"What is it all? I cannot understand," the Wanderer said, looking up
+to the grand calm face.
+
+"It is not always given to evil to do good, even for evil's sake,"
+said the old man. "The thing that he would is done already. The wound
+that he would 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 a
+sort of reverence to his companion.
+
+"She is not dead."
+
+Unorna waited in the parlour of the convent. Then Beatrice came in,
+and stood before her. Neither feared the other, and each looked into
+the other's eyes.
+
+"I have come to undo what I have done," Unorna said, not waiting for
+the cold 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
+do it."
+
+"And do you think I will believe you, or trust you?" asked the dark
+woman.
+
+"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 in
+such abundance as you need."
+
+"You will find it for me. You are not bad, as I am, but you can
+understand what I have done, nevertheless, for you know what you
+yourself would do for the sake of him we love. No--do not be angry
+with me 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
+care to 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 own
+free 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 is
+another matter. I cannot ask it. God knows how much easier it would
+have been to die than to come here. But if I were dead you might never
+have found him, nor he you, though you are so very near together. Do
+you think it is easier for me to come to you, whom he loves, than it
+is for you to hear me say I love him, when I come to give him to you?
+If you had found it all, not as it is, but otherwise--if you had found
+that in these years he had known me and loved me, as he once loved
+you, if he turned from you coldly and bid you forget him, because he
+would be happy with me, and because he had utterly forgotten you--
+would it be easy for you to give him up?"
+
+"He loved me then--he loves me still," Beatrice said. "It is another
+case."
+
+"A much more bitter case. Even then you would have the memory of his
+love, which I can never have--in true reality, though I have much to
+remember, 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!"
+she cried. "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 you
+in that dream of his--do not tell me he did that--no, tell me--tell me
+all!"
+
+"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, you
+would have slept again, and slept for ever. And I would have let his
+dreams last, and made it last--for him, I should have been the only
+Beatrice."
+
+"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 and
+grasped 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 months
+and years. He would have had me take from his finger that ring you put
+there. I tried--I tell you the whole truth--but I could not. I saw you
+there 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
+promise if 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 at
+any oath of mine. With my life I will answer for every word. With my
+soul--no--it is not mine to answer with. Will you have my life? My
+last breath 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
+think in 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
+happiness as would make an angel sin? If you had done this--but it is
+not possible--no woman could! His words in your ear, and yet turn
+back? His lips 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,
+as my soul is beyond the hope of life. If it were to be done again I
+should be 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 her
+eyes.
+
+"If I could believe it all I would not make it hard. I would forgive
+you--and you would deserve better than that, better than anything that
+is 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
+will have 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--a
+hope----"
+
+"A hope? Then you believe. There is no hope without a little belief in
+it. 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 me to 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 well
+with him--then God in Heaven repay you, for you have been braver than
+the 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 another
+carriage drove up. Almost before it had stopped, the door opened and
+Keyork Arabian's short, heavy form emerged and descended hastily to
+the pavement. He rang the bell furiously, and the old portress set the
+gate ajar and looked out cautiously, fearing that the noisy peal meant
+trouble or disturbance.
+
+"The lady Beatrice Varanger--I must see her instantly!" cried the
+little man 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 find
+breath.
+
+"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 the
+Three Black Angels cast lots upon your soul!"
+
+In the storm of curses that followed, the convent door was violently
+shut in his face. Within, the portress stood shaking with fear,
+crossing herself again and again, and verily believing that the devil
+himself had tried to force an entrance into the sacred place.
+
+In fearful anger Keyork drew back. He hesitated one moment and then
+regained 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 passed
+before her, under the deep arch of the entrance.
+
+Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the small
+outer 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 came
+out and stood between them. Joining their hands he gently pushed them
+forward 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 the
+passionate cry, the rain of kisses, the tempest of tears. The
+expiation was complete. Not a sight, not a sound was spared her. The
+strong arms of 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 merciful stupor overcame her.
+
+"Is it so bitter to do right?" the old man asked, bending low and
+speaking 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 her
+face.
+
+"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.
+Then his face changed again, and his laughter died dismally away, and
+he hung back.
+
+"Can you forgive her?" asked the other voice.
+
+The Wanderer stood close to them now, drawing Beatrice to his side.
+The question was for them.
+
+"Can you forgive me?" asked Unorna faintly, turning her eyes towards
+them.
+
+"As we hope to find forgiveness and trust in a life to come," they
+answered.
+
+There was a low sound in the air, unearthly, muffled, desperate as of
+a strong being groaning in awful agony. When they looked, they saw
+that Keyork 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.
+
+
+
+End Project Gutenberg Etext of The Witch of Prague by F. Marion Crawford
+
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