only to whisper into his ear
that you are Beatrice and he will believe you for the rest of his life."

"Go!" said Unorna.

Though the word was not spoken above her breath it was fierce and
commanding. Keyork Arabian smiled in an evil way, shrugged his shoulders
and left her.

CHAPTER XXIV

Unorna was left alone with the Wanderer. His attitude did not change,
his eyes did not open, as she stood before him. Still he wore the look
which had at first attracted Keyork Arabian's attention and which had
amazed Unorna herself. It was the expression that had come into his face
in the old cemetery when in his sleep she had spoken to him of love.

"He is dreaming of her," Unorna said to herself again, as she turned
sadly away.

But since Keyork had been with her a doubt had assailed her which
painfully disturbed her thoughts, so that her brow contracted with
anxiety and from time to time she drew a quick hard breath. Keyork had
taken it for granted that the Wanderer's sleep was not natural.

She tried to recall what had happened shortly before dawn but it was
no wonder that her memory served her ill and refused to bring back
distinctly the words she had spoken. Her whole being was unsettled and
shaken, so that she found it hard to recognise herself. The stormy hours
through which she had lived since yesterday had left their trace; the
lack of rest, instead of producing physical exhaustion, had brought
about an excessive mental weariness, and it was not easy for her now to
find all the connecting links between her actions. Then, above all else,
there was the great revulsion that had swept over her after her last and
greatest plan of evil had failed, causing in her such a change as could
hardly have seemed natural or even possible to a calm person watching
her inmost thoughts.

And yet such sudden changes take place daily in the world of crime and
passion. In one uncalled-for confession, of which it is hard to trace
the smallest reasonable cause, the intricate wickednesses of a lifetime
are revealed and repeated; in the mysterious impulse of a moment the
murderer turns back and delivers himself to justice; under an influence
for which there is often no accounting, the woman who has sinned
securely through long years lays bare her guilt and throws herself
upon the mercy of the man whom she has so skilfully and consistently
deceived. We know the fact. The reason we cannot know. Perhaps, to
natures not wholly bad, sin is