She stared at the old man’s face with wide, despairing eyes. Many a time, unknown to Keyork and once to his knowledge, she had roused the sleeper to speak, and on the whole he had spoken truly, wisely, and well. She lacked neither the less courage to die, nor the greater to live. She longed but to hear one honest word, not of hope, but of encouragement, but one word in contrast to those hideous whispered promptings that had come to her in Keyork Arabian’s voice. How could she trust herself alone? Her evil deeds were many—so many, that, although she had turned at last against them, she could not tell where to strike.
“If you would only tell me!” she cried leaning over the unconscious head. “If you would only help me. You are so old that you must be wise, and if so very wise, then you are good! Wake, but this once, and tell me what is right!”
The deep eyes opened and looked up to hers. The great limbs stirred, the bony hands unclasped. There was something awe-inspiring in the ancient strength renewed and filled with a new life.
“Who calls me?” asked the clear, deep voice.
“I, Unorna——”
“What do you ask of me?”
He had risen from his couch and stood before her, towering far above her head. Even the Wanderer would have seemed but of common stature beside this man of other years, of a forgotten generation, who now stood erect and filled with a mysterious youth.
“Tell me what I should do——”
“Tell me what you have done.”
Then in one great confession, with bowed head and folded hands, she poured out the story of her life.