“Is Unorna dead?” the Wanderer asked, turning, he knew now why, with a sort of reverence to his companion.
“She is not dead.”
Unorna waited in the parlour of the convent. Then Beatrice came in, and stood before her. Neither feared the other, and each looked into the other’s eyes.
“I have come to undo what I have done,” Unorna said, not waiting for the cold inquiry which she knew would come if she were silent.
“That will be hard, indeed,” Beatrice answered.
“Yes. It is very hard. Make it still harder if you can, I could still do it.”
“And do you think I will believe you, or trust you?” asked the dark woman.
“I know that you will when you know how I have loved him.”
“Have you come here to tell me of your love?”
“Yes. And when I have told you, you will forgive me.”