it was no
longer a part of her. The spectre of her humiliation rose up and tried
to taunt her with her shame--she almost smiled at the thought that she
could still remember it. He lived, she lived, and he should yet be hers.
As her physical weariness began to disappear in the absolute quiet and
rest, her determination revived. Her power was not all gone yet. On the
morrow she would see him again. She might still fix her eyes on his, and
in an unguarded moment cast him into a deep sleep. She remembered that
look on his face in the old cemetery. She had guessed rightly; it had
been for the faint memory of Beatrice. But she would bring it back
again, and it should be for her, for he should never wake again. Had she
not done as much with the ancient scholar who for long years had lain in
her home in that mysterious state, who obeyed when she commanded him to
rise, and walk, to eat, to speak? Why not the Wanderer, then? To outward
eyes he would be alive and awake, calm, natural, happy. And yet he would
be sleeping. In that condition, at least, she could command his actions,
his thoughts, and his words. How long could it be made to last? She did
not know. Nature might rebel in the end and throw off the yoke of the
heavily-imposed will. An interval might follow, full again of storm and
passion and despair; but it would pass, and he would again fall under
her influence. She had read, and Keyork Arabian had told her, of the
marvels done every day by physicians of common power in the great
hospitals and universities of the Empire, and elsewhere throughout
Europe. None of them appeared to be men of extraordinary natural gifts.
Their powers were but weakness compared with hers. Even with miserable,
hysteric women they often had to try again and again before they could
produce the hypnotic sleep for the first time. When they had got as far
as that, indeed, they could bring their learning, their science, and
their experience to bear--and they could make foolish experiments,
familiar to Unorna from her childhood as the sights and sounds of
her daily life. Few, if any of them, had even the power necessary to
hypnotise an ordinarily strong man in health. She, on the contrary,
had never failed in that, and at the first trial, except with Keyork
Arabian, a man of whom she said in her heart, half in jest and half
superstitiously, that he was not a man at all, but a devil or a monster
over whom earthly influences had no control.

All her e