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.”