irst, and then more heavily. She moved his arm.
It was passive in her hand and lay where she placed it. Yet she would
not believe that she had made him sleep. She drew back and looked at
him. Then her anxiety overcame her.

"Wake!" she cried, aloud. "For God's sake, wake! I cannot bear it!"

His eyes opened at the sound of her voice, naturally and quietly. Then
they grew wide and deep and fixed themselves in a great wonder of many
seconds. Then Unorna saw no more.

Strong arms lifted her suddenly from her feet and pressed her fiercely
and carried her, and she hid her face. A voice she knew sounded, as she
had never heard it sound, nor hoped to hear it.

"Beatrice!" it cried, and nothing more.

In the presence of that strength, in the ringing of that cry, Unorna was
helpless. She had no power of thought left in her, as she felt herself
borne along, body and soul, in the rush of a passion more masterful than
her own.

Then she was on her feet again, but his arms were round her still, and
hers, whether she would or not, were clasped about his neck. Dreams,
truth, faith kept or broken, hell and Heaven itself were swept away, all
wrecked together in the tide of love. And through it all his voice was
in her ear.

"Love, love, at last! From all the years, you have come back--at
last--at last!"

Broken and almost void of sense the words came then, through the storm
of his kisses and the tempest of her tears. She could no more resist him
nor draw herself away than the frail ship, wind-driven through crashing
waves, can turn and face the blast; no more than the long dry grass
can turn and quench the roaring flame; no more than the drooping willow
bough can dam the torrent and force it backwards up the steep mountain
side.

In those short, false moments, Unorna knew what happiness could mean.
Torn from herself, lifted high above the misery and the darkness of
her real life, it was all true to her. There was no other Beatrice but
herself, no other woman whom he had ever loved. An enchantment greater
than her own was upon her and held her in bonds she could neither bend
nor break.

She was sitting in her own chair now and he was kneeling before her,
holding her hands and looking up to her. For him the world held nothing
else. For him her hair was black as night; for him the unlike eyes
were dark and fathomless; for him the heavy marble hand was light,
responsive, delicate; for him her face was the face of Beatrice, as