“This is my house, and he is here,” Unorna said, as Beatrice passed before her, under the deep arch of the entrance.
Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the small outer hall to the door of the great conservatory.
“You will find him there,” she said. “Go on alone.”
But Beatrice took her hand to draw her in.
“Must I see it all?” Unorna asked, hopelessly.
Then from among the plants and trees a great white-robed figure came out and stood between them. Joining their hands he gently pushed them forward to the middle of the hall where the Wanderer stood alone.
“It is done!” Unorna cried, as her heart broke.
She saw the scene she had acted so short a time before. She heard the passionate cry, the rain of kisses, the tempest of tears. The expiation was complete. Not a sight, not a sound was spared her. The strong arms of the ancient sleeper held her upright on her feet. She could not fall, she could not close her eyes, she could not stop her ears, no merciful stupor overcame her.
“Is it so bitter to do right?” the old man asked, bending low and speaking softly.
“It is the bitterness of death,” she said.