For one moment she hesitated still, and she knew that her whole life was being weighed in the trembling balance of that hesitation.

For one moment her face became an impenetrable mask, her eyes grew dull as uncut jewels, her breathing ceased, her lips were set like cold marble.

Then the stony mask took life again, the sight grew keen, and a gentle sigh stirred the chilly air.
"She is not dead." "Not dead!" The Wanderer started, but fully two seconds after she had spoken, as a man struck by a bullet in battle, in whom the suddenness of the shock has destroyed the power of instantaneous sensation.
"She is not dead.

You have dreamed it," said Unorna, looking at him steadily.
He pressed his hand to his forehead and then moved it, as though brushing away something that troubled him.
"Not dead?
Not dead!" he repeated, in changing tones.
"Come with me.

I will show her to you." He gazed at her and his senses reeled.