Between him and Unorna something passed by, something dark and soft and
noiseless, that took shape slowly--a woman in black, a veil thrown back
from her forehead, her white face turned towards the Wanderer, her white
hands hanging by her side. She stood still, and the face turned, and the
eyes met Unorna's, and Unorna knew that it was Beatrice.
There she stood, between them, motionless as a statue, impalpable as
air, but real as life itself. The vision, if it was a vision, lasted
fully a minute. Never, to the day of her death, was Unorna to forget
that face, with its deathlike purity of outline, with its unspeakable
nobility of feature.
It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. A low broken sound of pain
escaped from the Wanderer's lips, and with his arms extended he fell
forwards. The strong woman caught him and he sank to the ground gently,
in her arms, his head supported upon her shoulder, as she kneeled under
the heavy weight.
There was a sound of quick footsteps on the frozen snow. A Bohemian
watchman, alarmed by the loud cry, was running to the spot.
"What has happened?" he asked, bending down to examine the couple.
"My friend has fainted," said Unorna calmly. "He is subject to it. You
must help me to get him home."
"Is it far?" asked the man.
"To the House of the Black Mother of God."
CHAPTER IX
The principal room of Keyork Arabian's dwelling was in every way
characteristic of the man.
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