‘ Author .f— 'th* isaaca^ '©^
CHAPTER XXIV—Cont’Ni eu.
“Then how divinely long it all may
seem. ’ he answered. “Hut can we
not begin 1o 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 1 would have.
Snail the moment linger because it is
so sweet? Or shall it be gone quick
ly. because the next is to be sweeter
still? Love, whore is your father?”
Unornr started. The question was
suggested, perhaps, by his inclina
tion to speak of what was to be done,
but it fell suddenly upon her ears, as
a peal of tlftinder when the sky has no
clouds. Must she lie now. or break
the spe'l? Ore word, at least, she
could yet speak with truth.
“Lead.”
“Dead!” the Wanderer repeated
thoughtfully and with 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 found you, darling? Was it his?”
"It is mine,” Unorna said.
How long would he ask questions
to which she could iind truthful
answers? What question would come
next? There wore many he might
ask, and few to which she could re
ply to truthfully, even in that narrow
sense of truth which found its only
meaning in a whispered "hance. But
for a moment he asked nothing more.
“Not mine,” she said. "It is yours.
You can 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 might
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 be the
whole truth outright, and say that her
father—Beatrice’s father—had been
dead but just a week.
“It is strange, ” he said, “how lit
tle 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, 1
will not look at you—I am ashamed.”
This, at least, was true.
■•Ashamed, dear heart! Of what?”
lie had seen her face in spite of
herself, hie, or lose all, said a voice
within.
• ‘Ashamed of being glad that—that
I am free.” she stammered, strug
gling on the very verge of the preci
pice.
“You may be glad of that, and yet
be very sorry he is dead,” the Wan
derer said, stroking her hair.
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, w^th a smile.
••Indeed. I know it,” she answered,
trembling again.
‘ ‘You gave it to me, love, do you
remember? And I gave you a like
ness of myself, because you asked me
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 cry
ing? This is no day for tears.”
“I little thought 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 forever. 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 for happiness—no, dear, no.
Rest there—let me dry your dear
eyas—so and so. Again? Forever,
QUtflDias;. 'ARCWWN SW&ER'etS
il you will. While you have tears, I
have kisses to dry them—jt was so
then, on that very day. 1 an ro
member.”
Very slowly she raised her head.
She knew that his hand was c’ose to
hers, held there that she might fulfill
Beatrice’s promise. Was she not
free? Could she not give him what
he asked? Mo matter how—she tried
to say it to herself and coulu not. She
felt his breath upon her hair, lie
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, grop
ing as though she could not see. lie
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, cloved,” he said, “it
has waited long enough.”
He was beginning to wonder at her
hesitation, as she knew he would. Af
ter 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 unwit
tingly. How quickly and gladly
Beatrice would have taken it. W’hat
would she say, if they lived and met—
why should they not meet? Would
the spell endure the shock—who
would Beatrice be then? The woman
who had given him this ring? Oran
other, whom he would no longer
know. But she must be quick. He
was waiting, and Beatrice would not
have made him wait.
xier hand was like stone, numb,
motionless, immovable as though
some unseen being had taken it in an
iron grasp and held it there, in midair,
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 grasp as an iron vice.
Unorna felt a cold breath, that was
not his, upon her forehead, and she
felt as though her heavy hair was
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 wai a shadow, too, and a dark
woman, tall, queenly, with deep, flash
ing eyes, was standing beside her.
She knew before she looked; she
looked, and it was there. Her own
face was whiter than that other wo
man's.
“Have you come already?” she
asked of the shadow, in a low despair
ing 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,1’ she said, staring still, in the
same hopeless voice. “It is Beatrice.
She has come for you.”
‘ ‘Beatrice—beloved—do not speak
like that! Tor 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? Sweet
heart. look at me! Best 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 lie said, and shg
knew what it had been—a mere vision
called up by her own overtortured
brain. Keyork Arabian had a name
for it.
i Tightened 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
overwrought. You will do better the
next time.
The voice was like Keyork Arabi
an’s. Unstrung, almost forgetting all,
she wondered vaguely at the sound,
for it was a real sound and a real
voice to her. AN as her soul his. in
deed. and was he drawing it on slow
ly, surely, to the end? Had be been
behind her last night? Had he felt
an hour’s liberty only to come baok
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 faoe
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? NVho was
to undeceive him, if he was not yet
undeceived? NVho should ever make
him understand the truth so long as
the spell lasted? NVhy 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 confesssed all that
she had done before? He had not be
lieved ono word of it, except that she
loved him. Could she make him be
lieve it now, when he was clasping
her so fiercely to his breast, naif mad
with love for her himself?
So easy, too. She had to but for
get 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 hail but lo lie
there, passive, silent if she couid 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 couid make
his grasping 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 XXV.
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. “1 am not Beatrice.”
••Dreamed? Not Beatrice?” she
heard him cry in his bewilderment.
Something more he said, but she
couid not catch the words. She was
already gone, through the labyrinth
of the many plants to the door
through which 12 hours earlier she
had Led from Israel Kafka. Sue ran
the faster as sh - left him the farther
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. Per
haps 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 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
againt 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, hut 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 of but common stature
beside this man of other years, j>f a
forgotten generation, who now stood
erect 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 ciied at last.
‘‘One holds my soul and one my heart!
Way 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 un
doing—and I am past doing right.”
“Do you blaspheme—go! Doit.”
“What?”
“Call her—that other woman—
Beatrice. Bring her to him, and him
to her.”
“And see them meet?”
“Way I not die?” she cried, despair
ingly. “May I not die—for him—foi
her, for both? Would that not be
enough? Would they not meet? Would
they cot then be free?”
‘•Ho 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.”
Ilis great hands rested on hei
shoulders and his eyes looked down to
hers.
“Is it so bitter to do right?” he
asked.
“It is very bitter,” she answe red
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 Wan
derer 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 undet
the gentle guidance of the giant’i
hand. "
“Not Beatrice—no—you are not
she—you are Dnorna! 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 shi
walked on.
T» •
“You have dreamed what will very
soon he true,” she said. “Wait here,
and Beatrice will soon be with you."
■•I know that I am mad.” the Wan
derer 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 un
swered. “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 to
ward the Wanderer, who stood still in
the middle of the hall, confused, not
knowing whether he had dreamed or
was really mad.
“What man areyou?” ho asked, as
the white-robed figure approached.
• ‘A man, as you are, for I was once
youug—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 those many
years. She told me all her story, and
all yours, waking me from my sleep,
and asking mo what she should do.
And she is gone to do that thing of
which I told her. Wait and you will
see. She loved you well.”
“And you would help her to get my
love, as she has tried to get it before?"
the Wanderer asked, with rising
angor. “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
wouid help Unorna—let me go! This
house is cursed. I wiil not stay in
it.” The hoary giant took his arm,
and the Wanderer stared at the weight
and strength of the touch.
“You shall bless this house before
yrou leave it. In this place, here
where you stand, you shall find the
happiness you V' •• ‘ought through
all the years.’’
“In Unorna *• %mestiim was
asked scornfully.
“By Unorna."
• T do not believe ycu. a ou are
mad, as I am. Would you play the
prophet?”
The door opened in the distance, and
from behind the screen of plants Key
ork Arabian came forward into the
hall, his small eyes bright* his ivory
face set and expressionless, kit long
beard waving in the sving of hit walk.
The Wanderer saw ni^f ,-*t au- called
to him:
‘Keyork—come ^ ,4” - said.
‘Who is this man'
For a moment JSefic seemed
speechless with arna -«ht. 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,1' answered
the ancient sleeper, very calmly.
“Unorna? Again? The curse of
the Three Black Angels on her! Mad
again! bleep go back! It is not ready
yet, and you will die, and I shall lose
it all—all—all! Oh, she shall pay
this with her soul in hell!”
He threw himself upon "the giant,
in an insane frenzy, clasping his arms
around the huge limbs, and trying to
force him backward.
“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 young
and strong—together we can take
him hack—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 wrill curse you till
you die-”
“Poor Keyork!” exclaimed the
Wanderer, half-pitying him. “Your
hig thoughts have cracked your little
brain at last”
. “Poor Keyork? You call nlo poor
Kej'ork? 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 back
ward. He might as well have spent
his strength against a rock. Breath
less, 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 nad succeeded far
bey on a all hope.
“Unorna has done this!” he cried,
boating 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, oi
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—”
******
Unorna waited in the parlor 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
dene,” Unorna said, not waiting tot
the cold inquiry which she knew
would come it eh* were silent.
“That will be hard indie].”
Beatrice answered.
“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.”
“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 como here.
But if I were dead, you might never
have found him, nor ho 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 mo 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?”
“Uf 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 toll?” 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 tho thing he saw, be
lieving the lips yours.”
“More—more—is it not done yet?
Can’t you sting again? What else?”
“Nothing—save last night I tried
to kill your body and soul.”
“And why did you not kill me?”
“Because you awoke. Then the
nun saved you. If she had not come,
you would have slept again, and slept
forever. And I would have let his
dream last, and made it last—for him,
I should have been th> ODly
Beatrice.”
“You have done all this—a*d you
ask me to forgive you?”
‘Task 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. Und kl*s
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 sa^ you
there beside me and you held my
hand. I broke away and left him.”
“Left him of your own free will?”
‘ I could not lie again. It was too
much. He would have broken a
great promise, if I had stayed. I
love him so—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 an oath of mine. 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 lov« that
man. You tell me that you made him
think in dreams that he loved you.
You tell mo that you might b« man
and wife. And you ask me to believe
that you turned back from such happi
ness 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?”
“Une 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 bard you make it. Yet, it j
was hard enough.”
Beatrice touched her arm, more j
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 anythin" that is
mine to give.”
‘ T 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. 1 am afraid of something
worse. You have put something hero
—a hope-”
“A hope. Then you believe. There
is no hope without a little belief in it.
Will vou coma?'’
“To him?"
‘To him.”
“It can bo hut untrue,” said Heat
rice, still hesitating. cun but go.
VV hat of him?” she asked, suddenly.
“If he were living—would you lake
me to him? Could you?”
She turned very pale, and her eyes
stared madly at Unorna.
“If he were dead,” Unorna an
swered, “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 (iod iu heaven repay
you. for you have been braver than
the bravest I ever knew."
“Can love save a soul as well as
l03e it?” Unorna tisked.
Then they went away together.
* ♦ m *
They were scarcely out of sight of
tiio convent gate, when another car
riage drove up. Almost before it had
stopped the door opened and Koyork
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 tho
noisy peal meant trouble or disturb
ance.
“The lady. Beatrice Varanger—I
must see her Instantly!” cried the
little mm in terrible excitement.
“She has gone out,” tho portress
replied.
“broneoutr Wnerer Aloner
‘•With a lady who was here last
night—the lady with unlike eyes-”
“Where? Where? Where have
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 tho storm of curses that followed
the convent door was shut violently 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 re
gained 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 W
fore her, under the deep arch of tho
entrance.
Then she led tho way up to the
broad staircase, and through the
small outer hall to the door of tho
great conservatory.
“You will find him there,” she
said. “Go on alone.”
But Beatrice took her han ’ to draw
her in.
•Must I see it all?” Unorga asked
hopelessly.
Then from among the pltnts and
trees a great white-robed ligui-e came
out and stood between the®. Join
ing their hands, he gently pushed
them forward to tho middle of tho
hall, where the W’anderer 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 ki$-es, 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, slig could
not stop her ears, no merciful stupor
overcame her.
‘!ls 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 aloud, deep voice, calling:
“Unorna! Unorna!”
Keyork Arabian was there. Ho
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 eehojd like
angry thunder.
“Give her to me,” he said again.
“She is mine—body and soul.”
But the great strong arm® were
around her, and would not let her
SO
• Save me,” she cried, in Jailing
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 upcn he? arm.
Then his face changed again, and the
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 wa-s for
them.
• Can jou forgive me?'1 asked
Unorna faintly, turning her eyes to
ward them.
“As we hope to find forgiveness and
trust in a lfe to come,11 they answered.
There was a low sound in the air,
unearthly, muified, desperate, as of a
strong being groaning in awful agony.
When they looked they saw that Ke
york Arabian was gone.
Thq 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.
[THE END.]
Richard Boyle, third eafl of Burling*
ton and fourth earl of Cork. Recon
structed Burlington House, Piecadily,
after his own ideas