Her soul? In peace? Unorna stood still. Was that to be all her vengeance
upon the woman who stood between her and happiness? Was there to be
nothing but that, nothing but the painless passing of the pure young
spirit from earth to heaven? Was no one to suffer for all Unorna's 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.
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