once,
he was face to face with some one. A woman stood still in the way, a
woman wrapped in rich furs, her features covered by a dark veil which
could not hide the unequal fire of the unlike eyes so keenly fixed on
his.

"Have you found her?" asked the soft voice.

"She is dead," answered the Wanderer, growing very white.

CHAPTER VIII

During the short silence which followed, and while the two were still
standing opposite to each other, the unhappy man's look did not change.
Unorna saw that he was sure of what he said, and a thrill of triumph, as
jubilant as his despair was profound ran through her. If she had cared
to reason with herself and to examine into her own sincerity, she would
have seen that nothing but genuine passion, good or bad, could have lent
the assurance of her rival's death such power to flood the dark street
with sunshine. But she was already long past doubt upon that question.
The enchanter had bound her heart with his spells at the first glance,
and the wild nature was already on fire. For one instant the light shot
from her eyes, and then sank again as quickly as it had come. She had
other impulses than those of love, and subtle gifts of perception
that condemned her to know the truth, even when the delusion was most
glorious. He was himself deceived, and she knew it. Beatrice might,
indeed, have died long ago. She could not tell. But as she sought in the
recesses of his mind, she saw that he had no certainty of it, she saw
the black presentiment between him and the image, for she could see the
image too. She saw the rival she already hated, not receiving a vision
of the reality, but perceiving it through his mind, as it had always
appeared to him. For one moment she hesitated still, and she knew
that her whole life was being weighed in the trembling balance of that
hesitation. For one moment her face became an impenetrable mask, her
eyes grew dull as uncut jewels, her breathing ceased, her lips were set
like cold marble. Then the stony mask took life again, the sight grew
keen, and a gentle sigh stirred the chilly air.

"She is not dead."

"Not dead!" The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she had
spoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness of
the shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation.

"She is not dead. You have dreamed it," said Unorna, looking at him
steadily.

He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as thoug