Sister Paul took up the lamp, but Beatrice laid a hand upon her arm.

"You must help me to find him," she said firmly. "He is not far away."

Her companion looked at her in astonishment.

"Help you to find him?" she stammered. "But I cannot--I do not know--I am afraid it is not right--an affair of love--"

"An affair of life, Sister Paul, and of death too, perhaps. This woman lives in Prague. She is rich and must be well known--"

"Well known, indeed. Too well known--the Witch they call her."

"Then there are those who know her. Tell me the name of one person only--it is impossible that you should not remember some one who is acquainted with her, who has talked with you of her--perhaps one of the ladies who have been here in retreat."

The nun was silent for a moment, gathering her recollections.

"There is one, at least, who knows her," she said at length. "A great lady here--it is said that she, too, meddles with forbidden practices and that Unorna has often been with her--that together they have called up the spirits of the dead with strange rappings and writings. She knows her, I am sure, for I have talked with her and she says it is all natural, and that there is a learned man with them sometimes, who explains how all such things may happen in the course of nature--a man--let me see, let me see--it is George, I think, but not as we call it, not Jirgi, nor Jegor--no--it sounds harder--Ke-Keyrgi--no, Keyork--Keyork Aribi----"

"Keyork Arabian!" exclaimed Beatrice. "Is he here?"

"You know him?" Sister Paul looked almost suspiciously at the young girl.

"Indeed I do. He was with us in Egypt once. He showed us wonderful things among the tombs. A strange little man, who knew everything, but very amusing."

"I do not know. But that is his name. He lives in Prague."

"How can I find him? I must see him at once--he will help me."

The nun shook her head with disapproval.

"I should be sorry that you should talk with him," she said. "I fear he is no better than Unorna, and perhaps worse."

"You need not fear," Beatrice answered, with a scornful smile. "I am not in the least afraid. Only tell me how I am to find him. He lives here, you say--is there no directory in the convent?"

"I believe the portress keeps such a book," said Sister Paul still shaking her head uneasily. "But you must wait until the morning, my dear child, if you will do this thing. Of the two, I should say that you would do better to write to the lady. Come, we must be going. It is very late."

She had taken the lamp again and was moving slowly towards the door.

Beatrice had no choice but to submit. It was evident that nothing more could be done at present. The two women went back into the church, and going round the high altar began to examine everything carefully. The only trace of disorder they could discover was the fallen candlestick, so ma.s.sive and strong that it was not even bent or injured. They climbed the short wooden steps, and uniting their strength, set it up again, carefully and in its place, restoring the thick candle to the socket.

Though broken in the middle by the fall, the heavy wax supported itself easily enough. Then they got down again and Sister Paul took away the steps. For a few moments both women knelt down before the altar.

They left the church by the nuns' staircase, bolting the door behind them, and ascended to the corridors and reached Beatrice's room.

Unorna's door was open, as the nun had left it, and the yellow light streamed upon the pavement. She went in and extinguished the lamp, and then came back to Beatrice.

"Are you not afraid to be alone after what has happened?" she asked.

"Afraid? Of what? No, indeed." Then she thanked her companion again and kissed Sister Paul's waxen cheek.

"Say a prayer, my daughter--and may all be well with you, now and ever!"

said the good sister as she went away through the darkness. She needed no light in the familiar way to her cell.

Beatrice searched among her numerous belongings and at last brought out a writing-case. Then she sat down to her table by the light of the lamp that had illuminated so many strange sights that night.

She wrote the name of the convent clearly upon the paper, and then wrote a plain message in the fewest possible words. Something of her strong, devoted nature showed itself in her handwriting.

"Beatrice Varanger begs that Keyork Arabian will meet her in the parlour of the convent as soon after receiving this as possible. The matter is very important."

She had reasons of her own for believing that Keyork had not forgotten her in the five years or more since they had been in Egypt together.

Apart from the fact that his memory had always been surprisingly good, he had at that time professed the most unbounded admiration for her, and she remembered with a smile his quaint devotion, his fantastic courtesy, and his gnome-like attempts at grace.

She folded the note, to wait for the address which she could not ascertain until the morning. She could do nothing more. It was nearly two o'clock and there was evidently nothing to be done but to sleep.

As she laid her head upon the pillow a few minutes later she was amazed at her own calm. Strong natures, in great tests, often surprise themselves far more than they surprise others. Others see the results, always simpler in proportion as they are greater. But the actors themselves alone know how hard the great and simple can seem.

Beatrice's calmness was not only of the outward kind at the present moment. She felt that she was alone in the world, and that she had taken her life into her own hands. Fate had lent her the clue of her happiness at last and she would hold it firmly to the end. It would be time enough then to open the flood-gates. It would have been unlike her to dwell long upon the thought of Unorna or to give way to any pa.s.sionate outbreak of hatred. Why should Unorna not love him? The whole world loved him, and small wonder. She feared no rival.

But he was near her now. Her heart leaped as she realised how very near he might well be, then sank again to its calm beating. He had been near her a score of times in the past years, and yet they had not met. But she had not been free, then, as she was now. There was more hope than before, but she could not delude herself with any belief in a certainty.

So thinking, and so saying to herself, she fell asleep, and slept soundly without dreaming as most people do who are young and strong, and who are clear-headed and active when they are awake.

It was late when she opened her eyes, and the broad cold light filled the room. She lost no time in thinking over the events of the night, for everything was fresh in her memory. Half dressed, she wrapped about her a cloak that came down to her feet, and throwing a black veil over her hair she went down to the portress's lodge. In five minutes she had found Keyork's address and had despatched one of the convent gardeners with the note. Then she leisurely returned to her room and set about completing her toilet. She naturally supposed that an hour or two must elapse before she received an answer, certainly before Keyork appeared in person, a fact which showed that she had forgotten something of the man's characteristics.

Twenty minutes had scarcely pa.s.sed, and she had not finished dressing when Sister Paul entered the room, evidently in a state of considerable anxiety. As has been seen, it chanced to be her turn to superintend the guest's quarters at that time, and the portress had of course informed her immediately of Keyork's coming, in order that she might tell Beatrice.

"He is there!" she said, as she came in.

Beatrice was standing before the little mirror that hung upon the wall, trying, under no small difficulties, to arrange her hair. He turned her head quickly.

"Who is there? Keyork Arabian?"

Sister Paul nodded, glad that she was not obliged to p.r.o.nounce the name that had for her such an unChristian sound.

"Where is he? I did not think he could come so soon. Oh, Sister Paul, do help me with my hair! I cannot make it stay."

"He is in the parlour, down stairs," answered the nun, coming to her a.s.sistance. "Indeed, child, I do not see how I can help you." She touched the black coils ineffectually. "There! Is that better?" she asked in a timid way. "I do not know how to do it--"

"No, no!" Beatrice exclaimed. "Hold that end--so--now turn it that way--no, the other way--it is in the gla.s.s--so--now keep it there while I put in a pin--no, no--in the same place, but the other way--oh, Sister Paul! Did you never do your hair when you were a girl?"

"That was so long ago," answered the nun meekly. "Let me try again."

The result was pa.s.sably satisfactory at last, and a.s.suredly not wanting in the element of novelty.

"Are you not afraid to go alone?" asked Sister Paul with evident preoccupation, as Beatrice put a few more touches to her toilet.

But the young girl only laughed and made the more haste. Sister Paul walked with her to the head of the stairs, wishing that the rules would allow her to accompany Beatrice into the parlour. Then as the latter went down the nun stood at the top looking after her and audibly repeating prayers for her preservation.

The convent parlour was a large, bare room, lighted by a high and grated window. Plain, straight, modern chairs were ranged against the wall at regular intervals. There was no table, but a square piece of green carpet lay upon the middle of the stone pavement. A richly ornamented glazed earthenware stove, in which a fire had just been lighted, occupied one corner, a remnant of former aesthetic taste and strangely out of place since the old carved furniture was gone. A crucifix of inferior workmanship and realistically painted hung opposite the door.

The place was reserved for the use of ladies in retreat and was situated outside the constantly closed door which shut off the cloistered part of the convent from the small portion accessible to outsiders.