During the short silence which followed, and while the two were still standing opposite to each other, the unhappy man’s look did not change. Unorna saw that he was sure of what he said, and a thrill of triumph, as jubilant as his despair was profound ran through her. If she had cared to reason with herself and to examine into her own sincerity, she would have seen that nothing but genuine passion, good or bad, could have lent the assurance of her rival’s death such power to flood the dark street with sunshine. But she was already long past doubt upon that question. The enchanter had bound her heart with his spells at the first glance, and the wild nature was already on fire. For one instant the light shot from her eyes, and then sank again as quickly as it had come. She had other impulses than those of love, and subtle gifts of perception that condemned her to know the truth, even when the delusion was most glorious. He was himself deceived, and she knew it. Beatrice might, indeed, have died long ago. She could not tell. But as she sought in the recesses of his mind, she saw that he had no certainty of it, she saw the black presentiment between him and the image, for she could see the image too. She saw the rival she already hated, not receiving a vision of the reality, but perceiving it through his mind, as it had always appeared to him. For one moment she hesitated still, and she knew that her whole life was being weighed in the trembling balance of that hesitation. For one moment her face became an impenetrable mask, her eyes grew dull as uncut jewels, her breathing ceased, her lips were set like cold marble. Then the stony mask took life again, the sight grew keen, and a gentle sigh stirred the chilly air. “She is not dead.” “Not dead!” The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she had spoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness of the shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation. “She is not dead. You have dreamed it,” said Unorna, looking at him steadily. He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as though brushing away something that troubled him. “Not dead? Not dead!” he repeated, in changing tones. “Come with me. I will show her to you.” He gazed at her and his senses reeled. Her words sounded like rarest music in his ear; in the darkness of his brain a soft light began to diffuse itself. “Is it possible? Have I been mistaken?” he asked in a low voice, as though speaking to himself. “Come!” said Unorna again very gently. “Whither? With you? How can you bring me to her? What power have you to lead the living to the dead?” “To the living. Come.” “To the living--yes. I have dreamed an evil dream--a dream of death. She is not--no, I see it now. She is not dead. She is only very far from me, very, very far. And yet it was this morning--but I was mistaken, deceived by some faint likeness. Ah, God! I thought I knew her face! What is it that you want with me?”