“Do you?” Unorna suppressed a smile of scorn. “What do people say of me? I never asked.”
“Strange things, strange things,” repeated the nun with a shake of the head.
“What are they? Tell me one of them, as an instance.”
“I should fear to offend you—indeed I am sure I should, though we were good friends once.”
“And are still. The more reason why you should tell me what is said. Of course I am alone in the world, and people will always tell vile tales of women who have no one to protect them.”
“No, no,” Sister Paul hastened to assure her. “As a woman, no word has reached us that touches your fair name. On the contrary, I have heard worldly women say much more that is good of you in that respect than they will say of each other. But there are other things, Unorna—other things which fill me with fear for you. They call you by a name that makes me shudder when I hear it.”
“A name?” repeated Unorna in surprise and with considerable curiosity.
“A name—a word—what you will—no, I cannot tell you, and besides, it must be untrue.”
Unorna was silent for a moment and then understood. She laughed aloud with perfect unconcern.
“I know!” she cried. “How foolish of me! They call me the Witch—of course.”