“She is not dead.”
“Not dead!” The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she had spoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness of the shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation.
“She is not dead. You have dreamed it,” said Unorna, looking at him steadily.
He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as though brushing away something that troubled him.
“Not dead? Not dead!” he repeated, in changing tones.
“Come with me. I will show her to you.”
He gazed at her and his senses reeled. Her words sounded like rarest music in his ear; in the darkness of his brain a soft light began to diffuse itself.
“Is it possible? Have I been mistaken?” he asked in a low voice, as though speaking to himself.
“Come!” said Unorna again very gently.
“Whither? With you? How can you bring me to her? What power have you to lead the living to the dead?”