And Unorna suffered terribly. Her cheek grew thinner and her eyes gleamed with sudden fires. She was restless, and her beautiful hands, from seeming to be carved in white marble, began to look as though they were chiselled out of delicate transparent alabaster. She slept little and thought much, and if she did not shed tears, it was because she was too strong to weep for pain and too proud to weep from anger and disappointment. And yet her resolution remained firm, for it was part and parcel of her inmost self, and was guarded by pride on the one hand and an unalterable belief in fate on the other.
To-day they sat together, as they had so often sat, among the flowers and the trees in the vast conservatory, she in her tall, carved chair and he upon a lower seat before her. They had been silent for some minutes. It was not yet noon, but it might have been early morning in a southern island, so soft was the light, so freshly scented the air, so peaceful the tinkle of the tiny fountain. Unorna’s expression was sad, as she gazed in silence at the man she loved. There was something gone from his face, she thought, since she had first seen him, and it was to bring that something back that she would give her life and her soul if she could.
Suddenly her lips moved and a sad melody trembled in the air. Unorna sang, almost as though singing to herself. The Wanderer’s deep eyes met hers and he listened.
“When in life’s heaviest hour
Grief crowds upon the heart
One wondrous prayer
My memory repeats.
“The harmony of the living words
Is full of strength to heal,
There breathes in them a holy charm
Past understanding.
“Then, as a burden from my soul,
Doubt rolls away,
And I believe—believe in tears,
And all is light—so light!”
She ceased, and his eyes were still upon her, calm, thoughtful, dispassionate. The colour began to rise in her cheek. She looked down and tapped upon the carved arm of the chair with an impatient gesture familiar to her.
“And what is that one prayer?” asked the Wanderer. “I knew the song long ago, but I have never guessed what that magic prayer can be like.”
“It must be a woman’s prayer; I cannot tell you what it is.”
“And are you so sad to-day, Unorna? What makes you sing that song?”
“Sad? No, I am not sad,” she answered with an effort. “But the words rose to my lips and so I sang.”
“They are pretty words,” said her companion, almost indifferently. “And you have a very beautiful voice,” he added thoughtfully.