“It is well done,” he answered.
Then came a noise of hurried steps and a loud, deep voice, calling, “Unorna! Unorna!”
Keyork Arabian was there. He glanced at Beatrice and the Wanderer, locked in each other’s arms, then turned to Unorna and looked into her face.
“It has killed her,” he said. “Who did it?”
His low-spoken words echoed like angry thunder.
“Give her to me,” he said again. “She is mine—body and soul.”
But the great strong arms were around her and would not let her go.
“Save me!” she cried in failing tones. “Save me from him!”
“You have saved yourself,” said the solemn voice of the old man.
“Saved?” Keyork laughed. “From me?” He laid his hand upon her arm. Then his face changed again, and his laughter died dismally away, and he hung back.