er influence mine. If she helps you to find what you
want--so much the better for you--how much the better, and how great the
risk you run, are questions for your judgment."

"I will go," answered the Wanderer, after a moment's hesitation.

"Very good," said Keyork Arabian. "If you want to find me again, come to
my lodging. Do you know the house of the Black Mother of God?"

"Yes--there is a legend about a Spanish picture of our Lady once
preserved there--"

"Exactly, it takes its name from that black picture. It is on the corner
of the Fruit Market, over against the window at which the Princess
Windischgratz was shot. I live in the upper story. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

CHAPTER IV

After the Wanderer had left her, Unorna continued to hold in her
hand the book she had again taken up, following the printed lines
mechanically from left to right, from the top of the page to the foot.
Having reached that point, however, she did not turn over the leaf. She
was vaguely aware that she had not understood the sense of the words,
and she returned to the place at which she had begun, trying to
concentrate her attention upon the matter, moving her fresh lips to form
the syllables, and bending her brows in the effort of understanding,
so that a short, straight furrow appeared, like a sharp vertical cut
extending from between the eyes to the midst of the broad forehead. One,
two and three sentences she grasped and comprehended; then her thoughts
wandered again, and the groups of letters passed meaningless before
her sight. She was accustomed to directing her intelligence without any
perceptible effort, and she was annoyed at being thus led away from her
occupation, against her will and in spite of her determination. A third
attempt showed her that it was useless to force herself any longer, and
with a gesture and look of irritation she once more laid the volume upon
the table at her side.

During a few minutes she sat motionless in her chair, her elbow leaning
on the carved arm-piece, her chin supported upon the back of her
half-closed hand, of which the heavy, perfect fingers were turned
inwards, drooping in classic curves towards the lace about her throat.
Her strangely mismatched eyes stared vacantly towards an imaginary
horizon, not bounded by banks of flowers, nor obscured by the fantastic
foliage of exotic trees.

Presently she held up her head, her white hand dropped upon her knee,
she hesitated an instant, and t