The lips twisted themselves, and the face was as gray as the gray snow. “There is--no--Beatrice.” The words came out slowly, and yet not distinctly, as though wrung from the heart by torture. Unorna smiled at last, but the smile had not faded from her lips when the air was rent by a terrible cry. “By the Eternal God of Heaven!” cried the ringing voice. “It is a lie!--a lie!--a lie!” She who had never feared anything earthly or unearthly shrank back. She felt her heavy hair rising bodily upon her head. The Wanderer had sprung to his feet. The magnitude and horror of the falsehood spoken had stabbed the slumbering soul to sudden and terrible wakefulness. The outline of his tall figure was distinct against the gray background of ice and snow. He was standing at his full height, his arms stretched up to heaven, his face luminously pale, his deep eyes on fire and fixed upon her face, forcing back her dominating will upon itself. But he was not alone! “Beatrice!” he cried in long-drawn agony. Between him and Unorna something passed by, something dark and soft and noiseless, that took shape slowly--a woman in black, a veil thrown back from her forehead, her white face turned towards the Wanderer, her white hands hanging by her side. She stood still, and the face turned, and the eyes met Unorna’s, and Unorna knew that it was Beatrice. There she stood, between them, motionless as a statue, impalpable as air, but real as life itself. The vision, if it was a vision, lasted fully a minute. Never, to the day of her death, was Unorna to forget that face, with its deathlike purity of outline, with its unspeakable nobility of feature. It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. A low broken sound of pain escaped from the Wanderer’s lips, and with his arms extended he fell forwards. The strong woman caught him and he sank to the ground gently, in her arms, his head supported upon her shoulder, as she kneeled under the heavy weight. There was a sound of quick footsteps on the frozen snow. A Bohemian watchman, alarmed by the loud cry, was running to the spot. “What has happened?” he asked, bending down to examine the couple. “My friend has fainted,” said Unorna calmly. “He is subject to it. You must help me to get him home.” “Is it far?” asked the man. “To the House of the Black Mother of God.” CHAPTER IX