“Yes. She met me after Compline to-night. I could not but speak to her, and then I was deceived. I cannot tell whether she knew what I am to him, but she deceived me utterly. She told me a strange story of her own life. I was lonely. In all those years I have never spoken of what has filled me. I cannot tell how it was. I began to speak, and then I forgot that she was there, and told all.”
“She made you tell her, by her secret arts,” said Sister Paul in a low voice.
“No—I was lonely and I believed that she was good, and I felt that I must speak. Then—I cannot think how I could have been so mad—but I thought that we should never meet again, and I showed her a likeness of him. She turned on me. I shall not forget her face. I heard her say that she knew him and loved him too. When I awoke I was lying on the altar. That is all I know.”
“Her evil arts, her evil arts,” repeated the nun, shaking her head. “Come, my dear child, let us see if all is in order there, upon the altar. If these things are to be known they must be told in the right quarter. The sacristan must not see that any one has been in the church.”
Sister Paul took up the lamp, but Beatrice laid a hand upon her arm.
“You must help me to find him,” she said firmly. “He is not far away.”
Her companion looked at her in astonishment.
“Help you to find him?” she stammered. “But I cannot—I do not know—I am afraid it is not right—an affair of love—”
“An affair of life, Sister Paul, and of death too, perhaps. This woman lives in Prague. She is rich and must be well known—”
“Well known, indeed. Too well known—the Witch they call her.”