pain?
It was not enough. There must be more than that. And yet, what more?
That was the question. What imaginable wealth of agony would be a just
retribution for her existence? Unorna could lead her, as she had led
Israel Kafka, through the life and death of a martyr, through a life
of wretchedness and a death of shame, but then, the moment must come at
last, since this was to be death indeed, and her spotless soul would be
beyond Unorna's reach forever. No, that was not enough. Since she could
not be allowed to live to be tormented, vengeance must follow her beyond
the end of life.

Unorna stood still and an awful light of evil came into her face. A
thought of which the enormity would have terrified a common being had
entered her mind and taken possession of it. Beatrice was in her power.
Beatrice should die in mortal sin, and her soul would be lost for ever.

For a long time she did not move, but stood looking down at the calm and
lovely face of her sleeping enemy, devising a crime to be imposed upon
her for her eternal destruction. Unorna was very superstitious, or the
hideous scheme could never have presented itself to her. To her mind
the deed was everything, whatever it was to be, and the intention or
the unconsciousness in doing it could have nothing to do with
the consequences to the soul of the doer. She made no theological
distinctions. Beatrice should commit some terrible crime and should die
in committing it. Then she would be lost, and devils would do in
hell the worst torment which Unorna could not do on earth. A crime--a
robbery, a murder--it must be done in the convent. Unorna hesitated,
bending her brows and poring in imagination over the dark catalogue of
all imaginable evil.

A momentary and vague terror cast its shadow on her thoughts. By some
accident of connection between two ideas, her mind went back a month,
and reviewed as in a flash of light all that she had thought and done
since that day. She had greatly changed since then. She could think
calmly now of deeds which even she would not have dared then. She
thought of the evening when she had cried aloud that she would give her
soul to know the Wanderer safe, of the quick answer that had followed,
and of Keyork Arabian's face. Was he a devil, indeed, as she sometimes
fancied, and had there been a reality and a binding meaning in that
contract?

Keyork Arabian! He, indeed, possessed the key to all evil. What would
he have done with Beatrice