For I have a home, Unorna, and I fancy that when old age gets me at last I shall go there to die, in one of those old towers by the northern sea.

I was born there, and there my mother died and my father, before I knew them; it is a sad place! Meanwhile, I may have thirty years, or forty, or even more to live.
Shall I go on living this wandering, aimless life?
And if not what shall I do?
Love, says Keyork Arabian--who never loved anything but himself, but to whom that suffices, for it passes the love of woman!" "That is true, indeed," said Unorna in a low voice.
"And what he says might be true also, if I were capable of loving.

But I feel that I am not.

I am as incapable of that as of anything else.

I ought to despise myself, and yet I do not.