The great limbs stirred, the
bony hands unclasped. There was something awe-inspiring in the ancient
strength renewed and filled with a new life.
"Who calls me?" asked the clear, deep voice.
"I, Unorna----"
"What do you ask of me?"
He had risen from his couch and stood before her, towering far above her
head. Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature beside
this man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now stood erect
and filled with a mysterious youth.
"Tell me what I should do----"
"Tell me what you have done."
Then in one great confession, with bowed head and folded hands, she
poured out the story of her life.
"And I am lost!" she cried at last. "One holds my soul, and one my
heart! May not my body die? Oh, say that it is right--that I may die!"
"Die? Die--when you may yet undo?"
"Undo?"
"Undo and do. Undo the wrong and do the right."
"I cannot. The wrong is past undoing--and I am past doing right."
"Do not blaspheme--go! Do it."
"What?"
"Call her--that other woman--Beatrice. Bring her to him, and him to
her."
"And see them meet!"
She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her
lips.
"May I not die?" she cried despairingly. "May I not die--for him--for
her, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would they
not then be free?"
"Do you love him still?"
"With all my broken heart----"
"Then do not leave his happiness to chance alone, but go at once.
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