A voice she knew sounded, as she had never heard it sound, nor hoped to hear it.
"Beatrice!" it cried, and nothing more.
In the presence of that strength, in the ringing of that cry, Unorna was helpless.

She had no power of thought left in her, as she felt herself borne along, body and soul, in the rush of a passion more masterful than her own.
Then she was on her feet again, but his arms were round her still, and hers, whether she would or not, were clasped about his neck.

Dreams, truth, faith kept or broken, hell and Heaven itself were swept away, all wrecked together in the tide of love.

And through it all his voice was in her ear.
"Love, love, at last! From all the years, you have come back--at last--at last!" Broken and almost void of sense the words came then, through the storm of his kisses and the tempest of her tears.

She could no more resist him nor draw herself away than the frail ship, wind-driven through crashing waves, can turn and face the blast; no more than the long dry grass can turn and quench the roaring flame; no more than the drooping willow bough can dam the torrent and force it backwards up the steep mountain side.
In those short, false moments, Unorna knew what happiness could mean.
Torn from herself, lifted high above the misery and the darkness of her real life, it was all true to her.