The Wanderer had sprung to his feet.  The magnitude and horror of the falsehood spoken had stabbed the slumbering soul to sudden and terrible wakefulness.  The outline of his tall figure was distinct against the gray background of ice and snow.  He was standing at his full height, his arms stretched up to heaven, his face luminously pale, his deep eyes on fire and fixed upon her face, forcing back her dominating will upon itself.  But he was not alone!

“Beatrice!” he cried in long-drawn agony.

Between him and Unorna something passed by, something dark and soft and noiseless, that took shape slowly—­a woman in black, a veil thrown back from her forehead, her white face turned towards the Wanderer, her white hands hanging by her side.  She stood still, and the face turned, and the eyes met Unorna’s, and Unorna knew that it was Beatrice.

There she stood, between them, motionless as a statue, impalpable as air, but real as life itself.  The vision, if it was a vision, lasted fully a minute.  Never, to the day of her death, was Unorna to forget that face, with its deathlike purity of outline, with its unspeakable nobility of feature.

It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.  A low broken sound of pain escaped from the Wanderer’s lips, and with his arms extended he fell forwards.  The strong woman caught him and he sank to the ground gently, in her arms, his head supported upon her shoulder, as she kneeled under the heavy weight.

There was a sound of quick footsteps on the frozen snow.  A Bohemian watchman, alarmed by the loud cry, was running to the spot.

“What has happened?” he asked, bending down to examine the couple.

“My friend has fainted,” said Unorna calmly.  “He is subject to it.  You must help me to get him home.”

“Is it far?” asked the man.

“To the House of the Black Mother of God.”

CHAPTER IX

The principal room of Keyork Arabian’s dwelling was in every way characteristic of the man.  In the extraordinary confusion which at first disturbed a visitor’s judgment, some time was needed to discover the architectural bounds of the place.  The vaulted roof was indeed apparent, as well as small portions of the wooden flooring.  Several windows, which might have been large had they filled the arched embrasures in which they were set, admitted the daylight when there was enough of it in Prague to serve the purpose of illumination.  So far as could be seen from the street, they were commonplace windows without shutters and with double casements against the cold, but from within it was apparent that the tall arches in the thick walls had been filled in with a thinner masonry in which the modern frames were set.  So far as it was possible to see, the room had but two doors; the one, masked by a heavy curtain made of a Persian carpet, opened directly upon the staircase of the house; the other, exactly opposite, gave access to the inner apartments.  On account of its convenient size, however, the sage had selected for his principal abiding place this first chamber, which was almost large enough to be called a hall, and here he had deposited the extraordinary and heterogeneous collection of objects, or, more property speaking, of remains, upon the study of which he spent a great part of his time.