“Madame,” said the Wanderer, bending his head courteously and advancing another step, “I can neither frame excuses for having entered your house unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my intrusion, unless you are willing in the first place to hear my short story.  May I expect so much kindness?”

He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously.  Without taking her eyes from his face, and without speaking, she closed the book she had held on her knee, and laid it beside her upon a low table.  The Wanderer did not avoid her gaze, for he had nothing to conceal, nor any sense of timidity.  He was an intruder upon the privacy of one whom he did not know, but he was ready to explain his presence and to make such amends as courtesy required, if he had given offence.

The heavy odours of the flowers filled his nostrils with an unknown, luxurious delight, as he stood there, gazing into the lady’s eyes; he fancied that a gentle breath of perfumed air was blowing softly over his hair and face out of the motionless palms, and the faint plashing of the hidden fountain was like an exquisite melody in his ears.  It was good to be in such a place, to look on such a woman, to breathe such odours, and to hear such tuneful music.  A dreamlike, half-mysterious satisfaction of the senses dulled the keen self-knowledge of body and soul for one short moment.  In the stormy play of his troubled life there was a brief interlude of peace.  He tasted the fruit of the lotus, his lips were moistened in the sweet waters of forgetfulness.

The lady spoke at last, and the spell left him, not broken, as by a sudden shock, but losing its strong power by quick degrees until it was wholly gone.

“I will answer your question by another,” said the lady.  “Let your reply be the plain truth.  It will be better so.”

“Ask what you will.  I have nothing to conceal.”

“Do you know who and what I am?  Do you come here out of curiosity, in the vain hope of knowing me, having heard of me from others?”

“Assuredly not.”  A faint flush rose in the man’s pale and noble face.  “You have my word,” he said, in the tone of one who is sure of being believed, “that I have never, to my knowledge, heard of your existence, that I am ignorant even of your name—­forgive my ignorance—­and that I entered this house, not knowing whose it might be, seeking and following after one for whom I have searched the world, one dearly loved, long lost, long sought.”

“It is enough.  Be seated.  I am Unorna.”

“Unorna?” repeated the Wanderer, with an unconscious question in his voice, as though the name recalled some half-forgotten association.

“Unorna—­yes.  I have another name,” she added, with a shade of bitterness, “but it is hardly mine.  Tell me your story.  You loved—­you lost—­you seek—­so much I know.  What else?”

The Wanderer sighed.