power is not of good," she said,
slowly and softly.

Then she quietly turned to Beatrice, and took her hand.

"Come with me, my daughter," she said. "I have a light and will take
you to a place where you will be safe. She will not trouble you any more
to-night. Say a prayer, my child, and do not be afraid."

"I am not afraid," said Beatrice. "But where is she?" she asked
suddenly.

Unorna had glided away while they were speaking. Sister Paul held the
lamp high and looked in all directions. Then she heard the heavy door of
the sacristy swing upon its hinges and strike with a soft thud against
the small leathern cushion. Both women followed her, but as they opened
the door again a blast of cold air almost extinguished the lamp. The
night wind was blowing in from the street.

"She is gone out," said Sister Paul. "Alone and at this hour--Heaven
help her!" It was as she said, Unorna had escaped.

CHAPTER XXI

After leaving Unorna at the convent, the Wanderer had not hesitated as
to the course he should pursue. It was quite clear that the only person
to whom he could apply at the present juncture was Keyork Arabian. Had
he been at liberty to act in the most natural and simple way, he would
have applied to the authorities for a sufficient force with which to
take Israel Kafka into custody as a dangerous lunatic. He was well
aware, however, that such a proceeding must lead to an inquiry of a more
or less public nature, of which the consequences might be serious, or
at least extremely annoying, to Unorna. Of the inconvenience to which he
might himself be exposed, he would have taken little account, though his
position would have been as difficult to explain as any situation could
be. The important point was to prevent the possibility of Unorna's name
being connected with an open scandal. Every present circumstance in
the case was directly or indirectly the result of Unorna's unreasoning
passion for himself, and it was clearly his duty, as a man of honour, to
shield her from the consequences of her own acts, as far as lay in his
power.

He did not indeed believe literally all that she had told him in her mad
confession. Much of that, he was convinced, was but a delusion. It might
be possible, indeed, for Unorna to produce forgetfulness of such a dream
as she impressed upon Kafka's mind in the cemetery that same afternoon,
or even, perhaps, of some real circumstance of merely relative
importance in a man's life; but