that they do not happen naturally; but there is no evidence, not even so much as may be detected in a clever case of vegetable poisoning.  The heart has stopped beating, and death has followed.  There are wise men by the score to-day who do not ask “What made it stop?” but “Who made it stop?” But they have no evidence to bring, and the new jurisprudence, which in some countries covers the cases of thefts and frauds committed under hypnotic suggestion, cannot as yet lay down the law for cases where a man has been told to die, and dies—­from “weakness of the heart.”  And yet it is known, and well known, that by hypnotic suggestion the pulse can be made to fall to the lowest number of beatings consistent with life, and that the temperature of the body can be commanded beforehand to stand at a certain degree and fraction of a degree at a certain hour, high or low, as may be desired.  Let those who do not believe read the accounts of what is done from day to day in the great European seats of learning, accounts of which every one bears the name of some man speaking with authority and responsible to the world of science for every word he speaks, and doubly so for every word he writes.  A few believe in the antiquated doctrine of electric animal currents, the vast majority are firm in the belief that the influence is a moral one—­all admit that whatever force, or influence, lies at the root of hypnotism, the effects it can produce are practically unlimited, terrible in their comprehensiveness, and almost entirely unprovided for in the scheme of modern criminal law.

Unorna was sure of herself, and of her strength to perform what she contemplated.  There lay the dark beauty in the corner of the sofa, where she had sat and talked so long, and told her last story, the story of her life which was now to end.  A few determined words spoken in her ear, a pressure of the hand upon the brow and the heart, and she would never wake again.  She would lie there still, until they found her, hour after hour, the pulse growing weaker and weaker, the delicate hands colder, the face more set.  At the last, there would be a convulsive shiver of the queenly form, and that would be the end.  The physicians and the authorities would come and would speak of a weakness of the heart, and there would be masses sung for her soul, and she would rest in peace.

Her soul?  In peace?  Unorna stood still.  Was that to be all her vengeance upon the woman who stood between her and happiness?  Was there to be nothing but that, nothing but the painless passing of the pure young spirit from earth to heaven?  Was no one to suffer for all Unorna’s pain?  It was not enough.  There must be more than that.  And yet, what more?  That was the question.  What imaginable wealth of agony would be a just retribution for her existence?  Unorna could lead her, as she had led Israel Kafka, through the life and death of a martyr, through a life of wretchedness and a death of shame, but then, the moment must come at last, since this was to be death indeed, and her spotless soul would be beyond Unorna’s reach forever.  No, that was not enough.  Since she could not be allowed to live to be tormented, vengeance must follow her beyond the end of life.