And then, all at once the words came to her lips which could be
restrained no longer. For years she had kept silence, for there had been
no one to whom she could speak. For years she had sought him, as best
she could, as he had sought her, fruitlessly and at last hopelessly. And
she had known that her father was seeking him also, everywhere, that
he might drag her to the ends of the earth at the mere suspicion of the
Wanderer's presence in the same country. It had amounted to a madness
with him of the kind not seldom seen. Beatrice might marry whom she
pleased, but not the one man she loved. Day by day and year by year
their two strong wills had been silently opposed, and neither the one
nor the other had ever been unconscious of the struggle, nor had either
yielded a hair's-breadth. But Beatrice had been at her father's mercy,
for he could take her whither he would, and in that she could not resist
him. Never in that time had she lost faith in the devotion of the man
she sought, and at last it was only in the belief that he was dead that
she could discover an explanation of his failure to find her. Still she
would not change, and still, through the years, she loved more and more
truly, and passionately, and unchangingly.

The feeling that she was in the presence of a passion as great, as
unhappy, and as masterful as her own, unloosed her tongue. Such things
happen in this strange world. Men and women of deep and strong feedings,
outwardly cold, reserved, taciturn and proud, have been known, once in
their lives, to pour out the secrets of their hearts to a stranger or a
mere acquaintance, as they could never have done to a friend.

Beatrice seemed scarcely conscious of what she was saying, or of
Unorna's presence. The words, long kept back and sternly restrained,
fell with a strange strength from her lips, and there was not one of
them from first to last that did not sheathe itself like a sharp knife
in Unorna's heart. The enormous jealousy of Beatrice which had been
growing within her beside her love during the last month was reaching
the climax of its overwhelming magnitude. She hardly knew when Beatrice
ceased speaking, for the words were still all ringing in her ears, and
clashing madly in her own breast, and prompting her fierce nature to do
some violent deed. But Beatrice looked for no sympathy and did not see
Unorna's face. She had forgotten Unorna herself at the last, as she sat
staring at the opposite wall.