Beatrice was singing, too, with joined hands, and parted lips,
and upturned face.
"Let dreams be far, and phantasms of the night--bind Thou our Foe," sang
Beatrice in long, sweet notes.
Unorna heard no more. The light dazzled her, and the blood beat in
her heart. It seemed as though no prayer that was ever prayed could be
offered up more directly against herself, and the voice that sang
it, though not loud, had the rare power of carrying every syllable
distinctly in its magic tones, even to a great distance. As she knelt,
it was as if Beatrice had been even nearer, and had breathed the words
into her very ear. Afraid to look round, lest her face should betray her
emotion, Unorna glanced down at the kneeling nuns. She started. Sister
Paul, alone of them all, was looking up, her faded eyes fixed on
Unorna's with a look that implored and yet despaired, her clasped hands
a little raised from the low desk before her, most evidently offering
up the words with the whole fervent intention of her pure soul, as an
intercession for Unorna's sins.
For one moment the strong, cruel heart almost wavered, not through fear,
but under the nameless impression that sometimes takes hold of men and
women. The divine voice beside her seemed to dominate the hundred voices
below; the nun's despairing look chilled for one instant all her love
and all her hatred, so that she longed to be alone, away from it all,
and for ever.
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