There is time yet, you have not lost him, for he thinks you mad.  The voice spoke once more.

And at the same moment the strong dear arms were again around her, again her head was on that restful shoulder of his, again her pale face was turned up to his, and kisses were raining on her tired eyes, while broken words of love and tenderness made music through the tempest.

Again the vast temptation rose.  How could he ever know?  Who was to undeceive him, if he was not yet undeceived?  Who should ever make him understand the truth so long as the spell lasted?  Why not then take what was given her, and when the end came, if it came, then tell all boldly?  Even then, he would not understand.  Had he understood last night, when she had confessed all that she had done before?  He had not believed one word of it, except that she loved him.  Could she make him believe it now, when he was clasping her so fiercely to his breast, half mad with love for her himself?

So easy, too.  She had but to forget that passing vision, to put her arms about his neck, to give kiss for kiss, and loving word for loving word.  Not even that.  She had but to lie there, passive, silent if she could not speak, and it would be still the same.  No power on earth could undo what she had done, unless she willed it.  Neither man nor woman could make his clasping hands let go of her and give her up.

Be still and wait, whispered the voice, you have lost nothing yet.

But Unorna would not.  She had spoken and acted her last lie.  It was over.

CHAPTER XXVII

Unorna struggled for a moment.  The Wanderer did not understand, but loosed his arms, so that she was free.  She rose to her feet and stood before him.

“You have dreamed all this,” she said.  “I am not Beatrice.”

“Dreamed?  Not Beatrice?” she heard him cry in his bewilderment.

Something more he said, but she could not catch the words.  She was already gone, through the labyrinth of the many plants, to the door through which twelve hours earlier she had fled from Israel Kafka.  She ran the faster as she left him behind.  She passed the entrance and the passage and the vestibule beyond, not thinking whither she was going, or not caring.  She found herself in that large, well-lighted room in which the ancient sleeper lay alone.  Perhaps her instinct led her there as to a retreat safer even than her own chamber.  She knew that if she would there was something there which she could use.

She sank into a chair and covered her face, trembling from head to foot.  For many minutes after that she could neither see nor hear—­she would hardly have felt a wound or a blow.  And yet she knew that she meant to end her life, since all that made it life was ended.

After a time, her hands fell in a despairing gesture upon her knees and she stared about the room.  Her eyes rested on the sleeper, then upon his couch, lying as a prophet in state, the massive head raised upon a silken pillow, the vast limbs just outlined beneath the snow-white robe, the hoary beard flowing down over the great breast that slowly rose and fell.