To her there was a dreadful irony in that useless life, prolonged in sleep beyond the limits of human age.  Yet she had thought it worth the labour and care and endless watchfulness it had cost for years.  And now her own, strong, young and fresh, seemed not only useless but fit only to be cut off and cast away, as an existence that offended God and man and most of all herself.

But if she died then, there, in that secret chamber where she and her companion had sought the secret of life for years, if she died now—­how would all end?  Was it an expiation—­or a flight?  Would one short moment of half-conscious suffering pay half her debt?

She stared at the old man’s face with wide, despairing eyes.  Many a time, unknown to Keyork and once to his knowledge, she had roused the sleeper to speak, and on the whole he had spoken truly, wisely, and well.  She lacked neither the less courage to die, nor the greater to live.  She longed but to hear one honest word, not of hope, but of encouragement, but one word in contrast to those hideous whispered promptings that had come to her in Keyork Arabian’s voice.  How could she trust herself alone?  Her evil deeds were many—­so many, that, although she had turned at last against them, she could not tell where to strike.

“If you would only tell me!” she cried leaning over the unconscious head.  “If you would only help me.  You are so old that you must be wise, and if so very wise, then you are good!  Wake, but this once, and tell me what is right!”

The deep eyes opened and looked up to hers.  The great limbs stirred, the bony hands unclasped.  There was something awe-inspiring in the ancient strength renewed and filled with a new life.

“Who calls me?” asked the clear, deep voice.

“I, Unorna——­”

“What do you ask of me?”

He had risen from his couch and stood before her, towering far above her head.  Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature beside this man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now stood erect and filled with a mysterious youth.

“Tell me what I should do——­”

“Tell me what you have done.”

Then in one great confession, with bowed head and folded hands, she poured out the story of her life.

“And I am lost!” she cried at last.  “One holds my soul, and one my heart!  May not my body die?  Oh, say that it is right—­that I may die!”

“Die?  Die—­when you may yet undo?”

“Undo?”

“Undo and do.  Undo the wrong and do the right.”

“I cannot.  The wrong is past undoing—­and I am past doing right.”

“Do not blaspheme—­go!  Do it.”

“What?”

“Call her—­that other woman—­Beatrice.  Bring her to him, and him to her.”

“And see them meet!”

She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her lips.

“May I not die?” she cried despairingly.  “May I not die—­for him—­for her, for both?  Would that not be enough?  Would they not meet?  Would they not then be free?”