was trembling, as she was weeping, with
the joy of it all.

She felt the ring, though she dared not look at it. She drew it a little
and felt that it would come off easily. She felt the fingers she loved
so well, straight, strong and nervous, and she touched them lovingly.
The ring was not tight, it would pass easily over the joint that alone
kept it in its place.

"Take it, beloved," he said. "It has waited long enough."

He was beginning to wonder at her hesitation as she knew he would. After
wonder would come suspicion--and then? Very slowly--it was just upon the
joint of his finger now. Should she do it? What would happen? He would
have broken his vow--unwittingly. How quickly and gladly Beatrice would
have taken it. What would she say, if they lived and met--why should
they not meet? Would the spell endure that shock--who would Beatrice be
then? The woman who had given him this ring? Or another, whom he would
no longer know? But she must be quick. He was waiting and Beatrice would
not have made him wait.

Her hand was like stone, numb, motionless, immovable, as though some
unseen being had taken it in an iron grasp and held it there, in
mid-air, just touching his. Yes--no--yes--she could not move--a hand
was clasped upon her wrist, a hand smaller than his, but strong as fate,
fixed in its grip as an iron vice.

Unorna felt a cold breath, that was not his, upon her forehead, and she
felt as though her heavy hair were rising of itself upon her head. She
knew that horror, for she had been overtaken by it once before. She was
not afraid, but she knew what it was. There was a shadow, too, and a
dark woman, tall, queenly, with deep flashing eyes was standing beside
her. She knew, before she looked; she looked, and it was there. Her own
face was whiter than that other woman's.

"Have you come already?" she asked of the shadow, in a low despairing
tone.

"Beatrice--what has happened?" cried the Wanderer. To him, she seemed to
be speaking to the empty air and her white face startled him.

"Yes," she said, staring still, in the same hopeless voice. "It is
Beatrice. She has come for you."

"Beatrice--beloved--do not speak like that! For God's sake--what do you
see? There is nothing there."

"Beatrice is there. I am Unorna."

"Unorna, Beatrice--have we not said it should be all the same!
Sweetheart--look at me! Rest here--shut those dear eyes of yours. It is
gone now whatever it was--you are tired, dear--you must