nsciously she herself, by force of old habit, joined in the
first verse. Then, suddenly, she stopped, not realising, indeed, the
horrible gulf that lay between the words that passed her lips, and the
thoughts that were at work in her heart, but silenced by the near sound
of a voice less rich and full, but far more exquisite and tender than
her own. Beatrice was singing, too, with joined hands, and parted lips,
and upturned face.

"Let dreams be far, and phantasms of the night--bind Thou our Foe," sang
Beatrice in long, sweet notes.

Unorna heard no more. The light dazzled her, and the blood beat in
her heart. It seemed as though no prayer that was ever prayed could be
offered up more directly against herself, and the voice that sang
it, though not loud, had the rare power of carrying every syllable
distinctly in its magic tones, even to a great distance. As she knelt,
it was as if Beatrice had been even nearer, and had breathed the words
into her very ear. Afraid to look round, lest her face should betray her
emotion, Unorna glanced down at the kneeling nuns. She started. Sister
Paul, alone of them all, was looking up, her faded eyes fixed on
Unorna's with a look that implored and yet despaired, her clasped hands
a little raised from the low desk before her, most evidently offering
up the words with the whole fervent intention of her pure soul, as an
intercession for Unorna's sins.

For one moment the strong, cruel heart almost wavered, not through fear,
but under the nameless impression that sometimes takes hold of men and
women. The divine voice beside her seemed to dominate the hundred voices
below; the nun's despairing look chilled for one instant all her love
and all her hatred, so that she longed to be alone, away from it all,
and for ever. But the hymn ended, the voice was silent, and Sister
Paul's glance turned again towards the altar. The moment was passed and
Unorna was again what she had been before.

Then followed the canticle, the voice of the prioress in the versicles
after that, and the voices of the nuns, no longer singing, as they made
the responses; the Creed, a few more versicles and responses, the short,
final prayers, and all was over. From the church below came up the soft
sound that many women make when they move silently together. The nuns
were passing out in their appointed order.

Beatrice remained kneeling a few moments longer, crossed herself and
then rose. At the same moment Unorna was