Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1891-05-03
BY F. MARION CRAWFORD,
oaudi,ss, GER" and
Many Other Taken Bank
Standard Literature.
CHAPTER XIV.
WRITTEN FOR THE prsPAToH

hour. The morning was slowly drawing
near.
"And you," said Unorna, looking up al
the sound. "will you not rest7 Why should
you not sleep?"
81 am not tired"
"YOu do not trust me, think" she an
swered, sadly 'tAnd yet you might-you
might" Her voice died away dreamily.
Trust you to watch that poor manP In
deed do. You were not acting just now
when you touched him so tenderly. You
were in earnest. You will be kind to him,
and thank you for it."
"And for yourself? Do you fear nothing
from me if you should sleep before nv eyes7
Do you not fear that in your Inconsistencies
might touch you and make you more un-
conscious still, and make you dream dreams
and see visions?"
increduously, partly out of scorn for the in-
sginary danger and partly because some
thing told him she had changed and would
not attempt any of her witchcraft upon him.
NO." he answered, 81 am not afraid ol
that"
"You are right" she said gravely. "My
sins are enough already. The evil is suff-
cieut. Do as you will. If you can sleep.
then sleep in peace. If you will watch.
watch with me-"
Then neither spoke again. Unorna bent
her head as she had done before. The Wan
derer leaned back, resting comfortably
against the cushion of the high carved chair,
his eyes directed toward the place where
Israel Kali ka lay. The air was warm, the
scent of the flowers sweet but not heavy.
The silence was intense, for even the little
fountain was still. he had watched almost
all night, and his evelids drooped. BE
forgot Unorna and thought only of the sick
man, trying to fix his attention on the pale
head as it lay under the bright light.
When Unorna looked up at last, she saw
that he was asleep. AT first she was sur
prised, in spite Of what she had said to him
half an hour earlier, for she herself could not
have closed her eyes, and felt that she could
never close them again. Then she sighed.
1t was but one proof more of his supreme
Indifference. He had not even cared to
speak to her, and if she had not constantly
spoken to him throughout the hours they
had passed together, he would perhaps have
been sleeping long before now.
And yet she feared TO wake him and was
the solitude sne could gaze on him to her
hearts desire, she could let her eyes look
their fill, and no one could say ray. He
must be very tired, she thought, and she
vaguely wondered whv she felt no bodily
weariness, when her soul was so heavy.
She sat still and watched him. 1t might
be the last time, she thought. for WHO could
tell what would happen tomorrow? She
Ehuddered as she thought of it all. What
would Beatrice do? What would Sister
Paul say? How much would she tell Of
what she had seen? How much had she
really seen which she could tell clearly?
There were terrible possibilities in the fu-
ture, if all were known. Such deeds, and
even the attempt at such deeds as she had
tried to do, could be judged by the laws of
the land; she might be brought to trial, il
she lived, as q common prisoner, and held
mp to the execration of the world in all her
shame and guilt. But death would be worse
than that. As she thought of that other
judgment she grew dizzy with horror as she
had been when the idea had FIRST entered
her brain.
Then she was conscio us that she was again
looking at the Wanderer as be lay back
asleep in his tall chair. The pale and noble
face expressed the stainless soul and the
manly character. She saw in it the peace
she had lost, and yet she knew that through
him she had lost her peace forever.
1t was perhaps the last time. Never
again, perhaps, after the morning had
broken; should she look on what she loved
best on earth. She would be gone, ruined,
dead perhaps. And he? He would be still
himself He would remember her half
carelessly, hals in wonder as a woman who
had once been almost his friend. That
would be all that would be left in him or
her, beyond. memory of the repulsion he
had felt for her deeds.
She fancied she could have met the worst
liz the future less hopelessly if he could have
remembered her little more kindly when
all was over. Even now, ii might be in her
power to cast a veil upon the pictures in
his mind. But the mere thought was hor-
Tibie to her, though few hours before she
had hardly trembled at the doing of
frightful sacrilege. In that short time, the
humiliation of failure, the realization of
what she had almost done, above all the
evel-rlslng tide of real and passionate love
had swept away many familiar landmarks
In her thoughts, and had turned much
to lead which had once seemed
brighter than gold. She hated the
very idea OF using again those arts which
had so directly wrought her utter destruc-
ton. But she longed to know that in the
world whittier he would doubtless 90 TO.
morrow he would bear with him one kind
memory Of her, one natural friendly thought
not grated upon his mind BY her power. but
growing of its own self in his inmost heart
Onlya friendly memory-nothing more than
that.
She rose noiselessly and came to his side
and looked down into his face. Very long
she stood there. motioniess az o statue,
beautiful as a mourning angel.
1t was so little that she asked. 1t was so
little compared with all she had hoped, or
in comparison with all she had demanded,
so little in respect of what she had given.
For she had given her soul. And in return
she asked only for.one small kindly thought
when all should be over.
She bent down, as she stood, and touched
his cool forehead with her lips.
sleep on, my beloved" she said, in O
voice that murmured softly and sadly.
She started little at what she had done,
girl. But as though he had obeyed her
words, he seemed to sleep more deeply still.
He must be very tired, she thought to sleep
like that; but she was thankful that the soft
kiss, the first and last had not walked him.
Sleep on, she said again, in whisper
scarcely audible to herself. Forget Unorna,
II you cannot think of her mercifuliy and
Kindly Sleep on-you have the right to
rest, and can never rest again. You have
forgiTep-forget, TOO, then, unless you can
remember better things of me than have
deserved 10 your memory. Let her take
her klnRdom back. It was never mine
re'nenlber what you will, forget at least the
wforg I did. end forgive The wrong you