“Her evil arts, her evil arts,” repeated the nun, shaking her head.  “Come, my dear child, let us see if all is in order there, upon the altar.  If these things are to be known they must be told in the right quarter.  The sacristan must not see that any one has been in the church.”

Sister Paul took up the lamp, but Beatrice laid a hand upon her arm.

“You must help me to find him,” she said firmly.  “He is not far away.”

Her companion looked at her in astonishment.

“Help you to find him?” she stammered.  “But I cannot—­I do not know—­I am afraid it is not right—­an affair of love—­”

“An affair of life, Sister Paul, and of death too, perhaps.  This woman lives in Prague.  She is rich and must be well known—­”

“Well known, indeed.  Too well known—­the Witch they call her.”

“Then there are those who know her.  Tell me the name of one person only—­it is impossible that you should not remember some one who is acquainted with her, who has talked with you of her—­perhaps one of the ladies who have been here in retreat.”

The nun was silent for a moment, gathering her recollections.

“There is one, at least, who knows her,” she said at length.  “A great lady here—­it is said that she, too, meddles with forbidden practices and that Unorna has often been with her—­that together they have called up the spirits of the dead with strange rappings and writings.  She knows her, I am sure, for I have talked with her and she says it is all natural, and that there is a learned man with them sometimes, who explains how all such things may happen in the course of nature—­a man—­let me see, let me see—­it is George, I think, but not as we call it, not Jirgi, nor Jegor—­no—­it sounds harder—­Ke-Keyrgi—­no, Keyork—­Keyork Aribi——­”

“Keyork Arabian!” exclaimed Beatrice.  “Is he here?”

“You know him?” Sister Paul looked almost suspiciously at the young girl.

“Indeed I do.  He was with us in Egypt once.  He showed us wonderful things among the tombs.  A strange little man, who knew everything, but very amusing.”

“I do not know.  But that is his name.  He lives in Prague.”

“How can I find him?  I must see him at once—­he will help me.”

The nun shook her head with disapproval.

“I should be sorry that you should talk with him,” she said.  “I fear he is no better than Unorna, and perhaps worse.”

“You need not fear,” Beatrice answered, with a scornful smile.  “I am not in the least afraid.  Only tell me how I am to find him.  He lives here, you say—­is there no directory in the convent?”

“I believe the portress keeps such a book,” said Sister Paul still shaking her head uneasily.  “But you must wait until the morning, my dear child, if you will do this thing.  Of the two, I should say that you would do better to write to the lady.  Come, we must be going.  It is very late.”