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.