in contrast to those hideous whispered
promptings that had come to her in Keyork Arabian's voice. How could she
trust herself alone? Her evil deeds were many--so many, that, although
she had turned at last against them, she could not tell where to strike.

"If you would only tell me!" she cried leaning over the unconscious
head. "If you would only help me. You are so old that you must be wise,
and if so very wise, then you are good! Wake, but this once, and tell me
what is right!"

The deep eyes opened and looked up to hers. The great limbs stirred, the
bony hands unclasped. There was something awe-inspiring in the ancient
strength renewed and filled with a new life.

"Who calls me?" asked the clear, deep voice.

"I, Unorna----"

"What do you ask of me?"

He had risen from his couch and stood before her, towering far above her
head. Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature beside
this man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now stood erect
and filled with a mysterious youth.

"Tell me what I should do----"

"Tell me what you have done."

Then in one great confession, with bowed head and folded hands, she
poured out the story of her life.

"And I am lost!" she cried at last. "One holds my soul, and one my
heart! May not my body die? Oh, say that it is right--that I may die!"

"Die? Die--when you may yet undo?"

"Undo?"

"Undo and do. Undo the wrong and do the right."

"I cannot. The wrong is past undoing--and I am past doing right."

"Do not blaspheme--go! Do it."

"What?"

"Call her--that other woman--Beatrice. Bring her to him, and him to
her."

"And see them meet!"

She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her
lips.

"May I not die?" she cried despairingly. "May I not die--for him--for
her, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would they
not then be free?"

"Do you love him still?"

"With all my broken heart----"

"Then do not leave his happiness to chance alone, but go at once. There
is one little act of Heaven's work still in your power. Make it all
yours."

His great hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes looked down to
hers.

"Is it so bitter to do right?" he asked.

"It is very bitter," she answered.

Very slowly she turned, and as she moved he went beside her, gently
urging her and seeming to support her. Slowly, through vestibule
and passage, they went on and entered together the great hall of the