They were almost the words she had spoken to him that night when they were watching together by Israel Kafka’s side. She recognised them and a strange thrill of triumph ran through her. What matter how? What matter where? The old reckless questions came to her mind again. If he loved her, and if he would but call her Unorna, what could it matter, indeed? Was she not herself? She smiled unconsciously. “I see it pleases you,” he said tenderly. “Let it be as you wish. What name will you choose for your dear self?” She hesitated. She could not tell how far he might remember what was past. And yet, if he had remembered he would have seen where he was in the long time that had passed since his awakening. “Did you ever--in your long travels--hear the name Unorna?” she asked with a smile and a little hesitation. “Unorna? No. I cannot remember. It is a Bohemian word--it means ‘she of February.’ It has a pretty sound--half familiar to me. I wonder where I have heard it.” “Call me Unorna, then. It will remind us that you found me in February.” CHAPTER XXV After carefully locking and bolting the door of the sacristy Sister Paul turned to Beatrice. She had set down her lamp upon the broad, polished shelf which ran all round the place, forming the top of a continuous series of cupboards, as in most sacristies, used for the vestments of the church. At the back of these high presses rose half way to the spring of the vault. The nun seemed a little nervous and her voice quavered oddly as she spoke. If she had tried to take up her lamp her hand would have shaken. In the moment of danger she had been brave and determined, but now that all was over her enfeebled strength felt the reaction from the strain. She turned to Beatrice and met her flashing black eyes. The young girl’s delicate nostrils quivered and her lips curled fiercely. “You are angry, my dear child,” said Sister Paul. “So am I, and it seems to me that our anger is just enough. ‘Be angry and sin not.’ I think we can apply that to ourselves.” “Who is that woman?” Beatrice asked. She was certainly angry, as the nun had said, but she felt by no means sure that she could resist the temptation of sinning if it presented itself as the possibility of tearing Unorna to pieces. “She was once with us,” the nun answered. “I knew her when she was a mere girl--and I loved her then, in spite of her strange ways. But she has changed. They call her a Witch--and indeed I think it is the only name for her.” “I do not believe in witches,” said Beatrice, a little scornfully. “But whatever she is, she is bad. I do not know what it was that she wanted me to do in the church, upon the altar there--it was something horrible. Thank God you came in time! What could it have been, I wonder?”