Beatrice’s calmness was not only of the outward kind at the present moment.  She felt that she was alone in the world, and that she had taken her life into her own hands.  Fate had lent her the clue of her happiness at last and she would hold it firmly to the end.  It would be time enough then to open the flood-gates.  It would have been unlike her to dwell long upon the thought of Unorna or to give way to any passionate outbreak of hatred.  Why should Unorna not love him?  The whole world loved him, and small wonder.  She feared no rival.

But he was near her now.  Her heart leaped as she realised how very near he might well be, then sank again to its calm beating.  He had been near her a score of times in the past years, and yet they had not met.  But she had not been free, then, as she was now.  There was more hope than before, but she could not delude herself with any belief in a certainty.

So thinking, and so saying to herself, she fell asleep, and slept soundly without dreaming as most people do who are young and strong, and who are clear-headed and active when they are awake.

It was late when she opened her eyes, and the broad cold light filled the room.  She lost no time in thinking over the events of the night, for everything was fresh in her memory.  Half dressed, she wrapped about her a cloak that came down to her feet, and throwing a black veil over her hair she went down to the portress’s lodge.  In five minutes she had found Keyork’s address and had despatched one of the convent gardeners with the note.  Then she leisurely returned to her room and set about completing her toilet.  She naturally supposed that an hour or two must elapse before she received an answer, certainly before Keyork appeared in person, a fact which showed that she had forgotten something of the man’s characteristics.

Twenty minutes had scarcely passed, and she had not finished dressing when Sister Paul entered the room, evidently in a state of considerable anxiety.  As has been seen, it chanced to be her turn to superintend the guest’s quarters at that time, and the portress had of course informed her immediately of Keyork’s coming, in order that she might tell Beatrice.

“He is there!” she said, as she came in.

Beatrice was standing before the little mirror that hung upon the wall, trying, under no small difficulties, to arrange her hair.  He turned her head quickly.

“Who is there?  Keyork Arabian?”

Sister Paul nodded, glad that she was not obliged to pronounce the name that had for her such an unChristian sound.

“Where is he?  I did not think he could come so soon.  Oh, Sister Paul, do help me with my hair!  I cannot make it stay.”

“He is in the parlour, down stairs,” answered the nun, coming to her assistance.  “Indeed, child, I do not see how I can help you.”  She touched the black coils ineffectually.  “There!  Is that better?” she asked in a timid way.  “I do not know how to do it—­”