“Take it, beloved,” he said.  “It has waited long enough.”

He was beginning to wonder at her hesitation as she knew he would.  After wonder would come suspicion—­and then?  Very slowly—­it was just upon the joint of his finger now.  Should she do it?  What would happen?  He would have broken his vow—­unwittingly.  How quickly and gladly Beatrice would have taken it.  What would she say, if they lived and met—­why should they not meet?  Would the spell endure that shock—­who would Beatrice be then?  The woman who had given him this ring?  Or another, whom he would no longer know?  But she must be quick.  He was waiting and Beatrice would not have made him wait.

Her hand was like stone, numb, motionless, immovable, as though some unseen being had taken it in an iron grasp and held it there, in mid-air, just touching his.  Yes—­no—­yes—­she could not move—­a hand was clasped upon her wrist, a hand smaller than his, but strong as fate, fixed in its grip as an iron vice.

Unorna felt a cold breath, that was not his, upon her forehead, and she felt as though her heavy hair were rising of itself upon her head.  She knew that horror, for she had been overtaken by it once before.  She was not afraid, but she knew what it was.  There was a shadow, too, and a dark woman, tall, queenly, with deep flashing eyes was standing beside her.  She knew, before she looked; she looked, and it was there.  Her own face was whiter than that other woman’s.

“Have you come already?” she asked of the shadow, in a low despairing tone.

“Beatrice—­what has happened?” cried the Wanderer.  To him, she seemed to be speaking to the empty air and her white face startled him.

“Yes,” she said, staring still, in the same hopeless voice.  “It is Beatrice.  She has come for you.”

“Beatrice—­beloved—­do not speak like that!  For God’s sake—­what do you see?  There is nothing there.”

“Beatrice is there.  I am Unorna.”

“Unorna, Beatrice—­have we not said it should be all the same!  Sweetheart—­look at me!  Rest here—­shut those dear eyes of yours.  It is gone now whatever it was—­you are tired, dear—­you must rest.”

Her eyes closed and her head sank.  It was gone, as he said, and she knew what it had been—­a mere vision called up by her own over-tortured brain.  Keyork Arabian had a name for it.

Frightened by your own nerves, laughed the voice, when, if you had not been a coward, you might have faced it down and lied again, and all would have been well.  But you shall have another chance, and lying is very easy, even when the nerves are over-wrought.  You will do better the next time.

The voice was like Keyork Arabian’s.  Unstrung, almost forgetting all, she wondered vaguely at the sound, for it was a real sound and a real voice to her.  Was her soul his, indeed, and was he drawing it on slowly, surely to the end?  Had he been behind her last night?  Had he left an hour’s liberty only to come back again and take at last what was his?