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.