I_f
cwthgr laaaca' '©n't
CHAPTER XVII—Continued.
The Wanderer was admitted with
out question. He found Unorna in
her accustomed place. She had
thrown aside her furs, and was sitting
in an attitude of dee;> thought. Her
dress was black, and in the soft light
of the shaded lamp 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 color.
“I come from Israel Kafka,” said
the Wanderer, standing still before
her.
■’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
__1i
“And you have brought me this
message—this warning—to save me?”
she said.
••As 1 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 lo go for safety, and
I will take you there.
"I fancy it will not be safe to hesi
tate long,” he said. “He is in earn
est.”
“I do not fear Israel Kafka, and I
fear death less,” answered Unorna, de
* liberately.
“Why, does he mean to kill me?”
“I think that in his place most very
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 murder
ing 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.”
“You do not seem surprised.” said
Unorns “You know that 1 love you.”
‘T know it.”
“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 ques
tions—why did you exercise your cru
elty upon an innocent man who loves
you?”
“Why? There are reasons
enough!” Unorna’s voice trembled
slightly. “You do not know what
happened, llow should you? You
were asleep. You may as well know,
since I may be beyond telling you in
an hour from now. You may as well
know how I love you, and 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 and not to hear your confes
sions.”
“And when you have heard you
will no longer wish to save. 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
IU Siljf.
“1 loved you from the moment
when I first' saw you,” said Unorna,
trying to speak calmly. .“But you
loved another woman. Do you re
member 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 morn
ing. 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.”
“How perfect it all was tit first!”
she exclaimed. “How smooth’ it
seemed! How easy. You slept be
fore 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 for
got today what he had suffered in the
person of the martyr. You told him
the story, and he believes you, be
cause 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 Wanderei
repeated, wondering whether she was
out of her mind.
“I did it. I said to myself that if 1
could destroy your old love, root it out
from your heart and from your mem
ory and make you as one who had
never loved at all, then you would
love me as you had loved her, with
your whole soul. I said that I was
beautiful—it is true, is it not? And
young I am, and I love as no woman
ever loved. And I said that it wai
enough and that soon you would love
me, too. A month has passed away
aince then. You are of ice—of stone
0-fl61DIttS,* H.ROMAN SLV&ER'eC:
—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 fougjit with
myself. My dreams—yes, I had
dreamed of all that can make earth
heaven, and you had waked rue. You
said that you would bo 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
mo in the face I would have kissed
your hand. But your friends ip!
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 be
loved, 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 as I felt. I fought with
myself. I would not go down to that
death. And then I said that even
that were better than your friendship,
even a false semblance of love in
spired 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 bid 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 humil
iation, my burning shame. Was I
cruel to him? He had made me suffer,
and ho suffered in his turn. All this
you did not know. You know it now.
There is nothing 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 mis
deeds, and for the chief of them all—
for loving you?”
The Wanderer had listened to her
words, but the iai* they told was be
yond the power or nia belief.
‘•You shall not die if I can help it,”
he said simply.
“And if you save me, do you think
I will leave you?” she asked with sud
den 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 desper
ate—worse than mad, with my love!”
She sank back again and hid her
face for a moment.
“You shall not die, if I can savo
you,” he said again.
She sprang to her feet very sud
denly 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
mo yet. If you save me, you save me
Dut to love you more tnan 1 already
do. Look at me! For me there is
neither God, nor heil, nor pride, nor
shame! There is nothing that I will
not do—nothing that 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, aad I can threaten with
nothing more intolerable than myself.
Your eyes will weary of thes 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 make a prisoner
of me—I shall be in your keeping,
then, and shall know it, 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 in 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, al
ways, always! I will cling to you as
I do now—and say I love jCou. 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 way spurn me—man, god, wan
derer, devil—whatever you are—be
loved always! Tread upon me, tram
ple upon 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 as he tried to free
himself—had fallen almost to her
»
length upon th* marble floor, cling
ing to his very feet, so that he could
make no step without doing her some
hurt.
•■I hoard some one come in below,”
he said, hurriedly “It must be.
Decide quickly what to do. Eithei
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 ex
claimed, dragging hor toward the end
of the hall opposite to the usual en
trance, 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 fuU lips parted in an eostncy
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 bo 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 lam 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 eod and rapid foot
steps on the marble pavement.
•‘Which is it to be?” asked the
Wanderer, pale and calm. He had
pushed her through before him aud
seemed ready to go back alone.
\\ ith 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, anx
iously.
“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
colors, blown in Bohemian glass.
Pushing aside a small curtain they
came out into a small room. The
Wanderer uttered an involuntary ex
clamation of surpriseasbe recognized
tlie vestibule and saw before him the
door of the great conservatory, open
as Israel Kafka had. left it. That the
latter was s.till 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 hail. 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 gained control of herself,
to alt appearances, and she spoke
with pex-fect calm and self-possession.
The Wanderer looked at her in sur
prise and with some suspicion. Her
hair was all falling about her should
ers, 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
been less inifferent when the curtain
fell. The Wanderer, having little
cause to trust her, found it hard to
believe that she had not been counter
feiting. It seemed impossible that
she should be the same woman, who
but a moment eariier had been drag
ging herself at his feet, in wild tears
and wilder protestation of her love.
“If you are sufficiently rested,” he
said, with a touch of sarcasm which
ho could not restrain, “I would sug
gest 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 con
servatory,
“Israel Jvafka! she cried in loud,
clear tones. “I am here—I am wait
ing—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, lie 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, al
most 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.”
“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 tb be no way out of
the terrible dilemma, and the Wanderer
stood still in deep thought.
/
“If you are In your rlgnt mind,” he
said at last, begining to walk toward
the corner, “you will see that what
you wish to do is utterly against rea
son. I will not allow you to run the
risk of meeting Israel Kafka to-night,
tut I cannot lake 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.”
The Wanderer was perplexed. He
saw, however, 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 whatl 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 in
deed. But you have forgotten that.
Will you come back to me if 1 let you
take me where I will 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, touch
ing his hand.
He could see even in the dark the
look of love she turned upon him.
“Good night,” he said, and the
next moment she had disappeared
within.
CHAPTER XVIII.
HAVING MADE
^ the necessary ex
jj planations to ac
count for her sud
, den appearance,
Li. Unorna found her
rf self installed in
I* two rooms of mod
g est dimensions, and
very simply,though
comfortably, fur
gy nished. It was a
S common thing for
W ladies to se k re
? treat and qul in
the convent du-mg
• ' 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 this the case. Her
peculiar position would have made it
hard for her to be-vr with equanimity
the quiet observation of a number of
women, 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 ac
quaintance with her while within the
convent, while not intending to pro
long th,eir intercourse with her any
further. It could not be expected,
indeed, that in a city like I'rague such
a woman as Unorna could escape no
tice, 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 amused
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 foot
ing in the most exclusive aristocracy
of 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 con
sidered dignitied for a well born
woman of fortune, and wholly with
out 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 ex
ercise had in a few months placed
her in a position from which no
escape was possible so long as she
lived in Prague, andj against those
few—chiefly men—who for her
beauty’s sake, or out of curiosity,
would gladly have made her acquain
tance she raised an impassable barrier
of pride and reserve. Nor was her
reputation altogether an evil one.
She lived in strange fashion, it is true,
but the very face of her extreme se
clusion 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 woll
known kindness to the poor, and her
charities to institutions founded for
their benefit were in reality consider
able and were said to be boundless,
fhese explanations seem necessary in
order to account for the readiness
with which she turned to the convont
when she was in danger, and for the
facilities which were then at once of
fered her for a stay long or shprt; as
she would please to make it. Some
of the more suspicious nuns looked
grave when they heard she was under
their roof, others, who had not yet
seen her, were filled with curiosity,
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.
Unorna was familiar with conve.nt
life, and was aware that the benedic
tion 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 in
clined forward, and one white hand
resting on the green baize cloth
which covered the table.
She was very tired, and the abso
lute stillness was refreshing and re
storing after the long drawn-out emo
tions of the stormy day. Never in her
short and passionate life, had so
many events oeen crowaea 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 speakiug of brother
ly 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 been forced against
her will to live through the
storms of years in the
lethargy of an hour. And yet, de
spite 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 it all. She
could recall each look on the Wander
er’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 lit
tle comfort to be derived from the
certainty that she had not been
dreaming, and that everything had
taken place precisely as she re
membered 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 un
derstood 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 realized 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 re
turn.
rur awmie, mueeu, xne pride oi a
woman at once youg, beautiful and
accustomed to authority, had kept her
firm in the determination to be loved
for herself, as she believed she de
served to be loved: and just so long
as that remained, she had held
her head high, confidently ex.
pecting that the mask of in
difference would soon bo 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 degre
dation 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 de
termination 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 10 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 comforted herself with the
thought that the Wanderer would
come to her once, at least, when she
was pleased to send for him. Unor
na’s confidence was not misplaced.
The man whose promise she had re
ceived 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. She might still fix her
eyes on his, and in an unguarded mo
ment cast him into deep sleep. She
remembered that look on his face in
the old cemetery. She had guessed
rightly; it had been for the faint mem
ory 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 house in that mysterious state,
who obeyed when she comminded
him to rise, and walk, to . to
speak? Why not tho Wanderer, then?
To outward eyes ho would, ho ullvo
and awake, calm, natural, happy.
And yet he would he sleeping. In
that condition, at least, she could
command his actions, his thoughts,
and his words. Ilow long could it be
made to last? She did not know.
Nature might rebel in the eid and
throw off tho yoko of the heavily im
posed will. An intorval might fol
low, full again of storm and passion
and despair: but it would pass, and
he would fall again under her influ
ence.
All her energy returned. Tho
color 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 be
come warmer, and she had forgotten
to lay aside her furs. She longed for
more air, and, rising, walked across
tho room. It occurred to her that
the great corridor would ho deserted
and as quiet as her own apartni nt,
and she went out and began to pace
the stone Hags, her head high, looking
straight before her.
She paced the corridor, passing and
repas9ing beneath the light of the
single lamp that hung in the middle,
walking quickly, with a sensation of
pleasure in the movement and the cold
draught that fanned her cheek.
•‘Sister Paul!” Unorna exclaimed,
recognizing her as her face came
under the glare of the lamp, and hold
ing out her hands.
“Unorna!” cried the nun, with an
intonation of surprise and pleasure.
“I did not know that you wore here.
What brings you back to us? ’
“A caprice, Sister Paul—nothing
but a caprice. 1 shall, perhaps, be
gone to-morrow.”
“I am sorry,” answered the sister.
“One night is but a short retreat
from the world.” She shoolc 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? Como into iny 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 hero?”
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
groat ladies come to us, and then we
have often not a room free.”
The nun smiled sadly, shaking liei
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 order
ing of it, Sister Paul, ” observed Unor
na with a little laugh.
“Ah, well! I dare say 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 in
deed, I am glad that I do not know
more
“You know almost as much as 1
do.”
The sister looked long and earnest
ly into Unorna’s face, as though
searching for something.
“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.
•nhat are they? Tell me one o*
them, as an instance.”
“I should fear to offend you—in
deed, I am sure 1 should, though wo
were good friends once.”
‘•And arc still. The more reason
why you should tell me what is said.
Of course, I am alone in the world and
Ijeoplo will always tell vile tales of
women who have no one to protect
them.”
•0»o, no, ” Sister Paul hastened to
assure her. “As a woman, no word
has reached us that touches your fair
name. On the contrary, I nave 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 curi
osity.
“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—cf
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.
“It is not said in earnest. Do you
know why they call me the Witch? %
It is very simple. It is because I caD
mane people sleep—people who are
suffering, or mad. or in great sor
row—and then they rest. That i
all my magic.”
1 "7 ‘
