“To Unorna’s house!” he shouted, as he shut the door with a crash. “This is my house, and he is here,” Unorna said, as Beatrice passed before her, under the deep arch of the entrance. Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the small outer hall to the door of the great conservatory. “You will find him there,” she said. “Go on alone.” But Beatrice took her hand to draw her in. “Must I see it all?” Unorna asked, hopelessly. Then from among the plants and trees a great white-robed figure came out and stood between them. Joining their hands he gently pushed them forward to the middle of the hall where the Wanderer stood alone. “It is done!” Unorna cried, as her heart broke. She saw the scene she had acted so short a time before. She heard the passionate cry, the rain of kisses, the tempest of tears. The expiation was complete. Not a sight, not a sound was spared her. The strong arms of the ancient sleeper held her upright on her feet. She could not fall, she could not close her eyes, she could not stop her ears, no merciful stupor overcame her. “Is it so bitter to do right?” the old man asked, bending low and speaking softly. “It is the bitterness of death,” she said. “It is well done,” he answered. Then came a noise of hurried steps and a loud, deep voice, calling, “Unorna! Unorna!” Keyork Arabian was there. He glanced at Beatrice and the Wanderer, locked in each other’s arms, then turned to Unorna and looked into her face. “It has killed her,” he said. “Who did it?” His low-spoken words echoed like angry thunder. “Give her to me,” he said again. “She is mine--body and soul.” But the great strong arms were around her and would not let her go. “Save me!” she cried in failing tones. “Save me from him!” “You have saved yourself,” said the solemn voice of the old man. “Saved?” Keyork laughed. “From me?” He laid his hand upon her arm. Then his face changed again, and his laughter died dismally away, and he hung back. “Can you forgive her?” asked the other voice. The Wanderer stood close to them now, drawing Beatrice to his side. The question was for them. “Can you forgive me?” asked Unorna faintly, turning her eyes towards them. “As we hope to find forgiveness and trust in a life to come,” they answered. There was a low sound in the air, unearthly, muffled, desperate as of a strong being groaning in awful agony. When they looked, they saw that Keyork Arabian was gone. The dawn of a coming day rose in Unorna’s face as she sank back. “It is over,” she sighed, as her eyes closed. Her question was answered; her love had saved her. End of Project Gutenberg’s The Witch of Prague, by F. Marion Crawford