But Beatrice had been at her father’s mercy, for he could take her whither he would, and in that she could not resist him.  Never in that time had she lost faith in the devotion of the man she sought, and at last it was only in the belief that he was dead that she could discover an explanation of his failure to find her.  Still she would not change, and still, through the years, she loved more and more truly, and passionately, and unchangingly.

The feeling that she was in the presence of a passion as great, as unhappy, and as masterful as her own, unloosed her tongue.  Such things happen in this strange world.  Men and women of deep and strong feedings, outwardly cold, reserved, taciturn and proud, have been known, once in their lives, to pour out the secrets of their hearts to a stranger or a mere acquaintance, as they could never have done to a friend.

Beatrice seemed scarcely conscious of what she was saying, or of Unorna’s presence.  The words, long kept back and sternly restrained, fell with a strange strength from her lips, and there was not one of them from first to last that did not sheathe itself like a sharp knife in Unorna’s heart.  The enormous jealousy of Beatrice which had been growing within her beside her love during the last month was reaching the climax of its overwhelming magnitude.  She hardly knew when Beatrice ceased speaking, for the words were still all ringing in her ears, and clashing madly in her own breast, and prompting her fierce nature to do some violent deed.  But Beatrice looked for no sympathy and did not see Unorna’s face.  She had forgotten Unorna herself at the last, as she sat staring at the opposite wall.

Then she rose quickly, and taking something from the jewel-box, thrust it into Unorna’s hands.

“I cannot tell why I have told you—­but I have.  You shall see him too.  What does it matter?  We have both loved, we are both unhappy—­we shall never meet again.”

“What is it?” Unorna tried to ask, holding the closed case in her hands.  She knew what was within it well enough, and her self-command was forsaking her.  It was almost more than she could bear.  It was as though Beatrice were wreaking vengeance on her, instead of her destroying her rival as she had meant to do, sooner or later.

Beatrice took the thing from her, opened it, gazed at it a moment, and put it again into Unorna’s hands.  “It was like him,” she said, watching her companion as though to see what effect the portrait would produce.  Then she shrank back.

Unorna was looking at her.  Her face was livid and unnaturally drawn, and the extraordinary contrast in the colour of her two eyes was horribly apparent.  The one seemed to freeze, the other to be on fire.  The strongest and worst passions that can play upon the human soul were all expressed with awful force in the distorted mask, and not a trace of the magnificent beauty so lately there was visible.  Beatrice shrank back in horror.