“The lady Beatrice Varanger—­I must see her instantly!” cried the little man in terrible excitement.

“She is gone out,” the portress replied.

“Gone out?  Where?  Alone?”

“With a lady who was here last night—­a lady with unlike eyes—­”

“Where?  Where?  Where are they gone?” asked Keyork hardly able to find breath.

“The lady bade the coachman drive her home—­but where she lives—­”

“Home?  To Unorna’s home?  It is not true!  I see it in your eyes.  Witch! 
Hag!  Let me in!  Let me in, I say!  May vampires get your body and the
Three Black Angels cast lots upon your soul!”

In the storm of curses that followed, the convent door was violently shut in his face.  Within, the portress stood shaking with fear, crossing herself again and again, and verily believing that the devil himself had tried to force an entrance into the sacred place.

In fearful anger Keyork drew back.  He hesitated one moment and then regained his carriage.

“To Unorna’s house!” he shouted, as he shut the door with a crash.

“This is my house, and he is here,” Unorna said, as Beatrice passed before her, under the deep arch of the entrance.

Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the small outer hall to the door of the great conservatory.

“You will find him there,” she said.  “Go on alone.”

But Beatrice took her hand to draw her in.

“Must I see it all?” Unorna asked, hopelessly.

Then from among the plants and trees a great white-robed figure came out and stood between them.  Joining their hands he gently pushed them forward to the middle of the hall where the Wanderer stood alone.

“It is done!” Unorna cried, as her heart broke.

She saw the scene she had acted so short a time before.  She heard the passionate cry, the rain of kisses, the tempest of tears.  The expiation was complete.  Not a sight, not a sound was spared her.  The strong arms of the ancient sleeper held her upright on her feet.  She could not fall, she could not close her eyes, she could not stop her ears, no merciful stupor overcame her.

“Is it so bitter to do right?” the old man asked, bending low and speaking softly.

“It is the bitterness of death,” she said.

“It is well done,” he answered.

Then came a noise of hurried steps and a loud, deep voice, calling, “Unorna!  Unorna!”

Keyork Arabian was there.  He glanced at Beatrice and the Wanderer, locked in each other’s arms, then turned to Unorna and looked into her face.

“It has killed her,” he said.  “Who did it?”

His low-spoken words echoed like angry thunder.

“Give her to me,” he said again.  “She is mine—­body and soul.”

But the great strong arms were around her and would not let her go.

“Save me!” she cried in failing tones.  “Save me from him!”