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diff --git a/3816.txt b/3816.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac3ed1a --- /dev/null +++ b/3816.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14793 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Witch of Prague, by F. Marion Crawford + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Witch of Prague + +Author: F. Marion Crawford + +Release Date: April 13, 2006 [EBook #3816] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WITCH OF PRAGUE *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers + + + + + +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 of Project Gutenberg's The Witch of Prague, by F. 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