“Is all this true?”

“Every word.”

“Swear it to me.”

“How can I?  By what shall I swear to you?  Heaven itself would laugh at any oath of mine.  With my life I will answer for every word.  With my soul—­no—­it is not mine to answer with.  Will you have my life?  My last breath shall tell you that I tell the truth.  The dying do not lie.”

“You tell me that you love that man.  You tell me that you made him think in dreams that he loved you.  You tell me that you might be man and wife.  And you ask me to believe that you turned back from such happiness as would make an angel sin?  If you had done this—­but it is not possible—­no woman could!  His words in your ear, and yet turn back?  His lips on yours, and leave him?  Who could do that?”

“One who loves him.”

“What made you do it?”

“Love.”

“No—­fear—­nothing else——­”

“Fear?  And what have I to fear?  My body is beyond the fear of death, as my soul is beyond the hope of life.  If it were to be done again I should be weak.  I know I should.  If you could know half of what the doing cost!  But let that alone.  I did it, and he is waiting for you.  Will you come?”

“If I only knew it to be true——­”

“How hard you make it.  Yet, it was hard enough.”

Beatrice touched her arm, more gently than before, and gazed into her eyes.

“If I could believe it all I would not make it hard.  I would forgive you—­and you would deserve better than that, better than anything that is mine to give.”

“I deserve nothing and ask nothing.  If you will come, you will see, and, seeing, you will believe.  And if you then forgive—­well then, you will have done far more than I could do.”

“I would forgive you freely——­”

“Are you afraid to go with me?”

“No.  I am afraid of something worse.  You have put something here—­a hope——­”

“A hope?  Then you believe.  There is no hope without a little belief in it.  Will you come?”

“To him?”

“To him.”

“It can but be untrue,” said Beatrice, still hesitating.  “I can but go.  What of him!” she asked suddenly.  “If he were living—­would you take me to him?  Could you?”

She turned very pale, and her eyes stared madly at Unorna.

“If he were dead,” Unorna answered, “I should not be here.”

Something in her tone and look moved Beatrice’s heart at last.

“I will go with you,” she said.  “And if I find him—­and if all is well with him—­then God in Heaven repay you, for you have been braver than the bravest I ever knew.”

“Can love save a soul as well as lose it?” Unorna asked.

Then they went away together.

They were scarcely out of sight of the convent gate when another carriage drove up.  Almost before it had stopped, the door opened and Keyork Arabian’s short, heavy form emerged and descended hastily to the pavement.  He rang the bell furiously, and the old portress set the gate ajar and looked out cautiously, fearing that the noisy peal meant trouble or disturbance.