“I am not Beatrice,” she answered, her downcast eyes not raised to look at him, moving still forward under the gentle guidance of the giant’s hand.
“Not Beatrice—no—you are not she—you are Unorna! Have I dreamed all this?”
She had passed him now, and still she would not turn her head. But her voice came back to him as she walked on.
“You have dreamed what will very soon be true,” she said. “Wait here, and Beatrice will soon be with you.”
“I know that I am mad,” the Wanderer cried, making one step to follow her, then stopping short. Unorna was already at the door. The ancient sleeper laid one hand upon her head.
“You will do it now,” he said.
“I will do it—to the end,” she answered. “Thank God that I have made you live to tell me how.”
So she went out, alone, to undo what she had done so evilly well.
The old man turned and went towards the Wanderer, who stood still in the middle of the hall, confused, not knowing whether he had dreamed or was really mad.
“What man are you?” he asked, as the white-robed figure approached.