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Was there to be nothing but that, nothing but the painless passing of the pure young spirit from earth to heaven? Was no one to suffer for all Unorna's pain? It was not enough. There must be more than that. And yet, what more? That was the question. What imaginable wealth of agony would be a just retribution for her existence?
Then she rose quickly, and taking something from the jewel-box, thrust it into Unorna's hands. "I cannot tell why I have told you but I have. You shall see him too. What does it matter? We have both loved, we are both unhappy we shall never meet again." "What is it?" Unorna tried to ask, holding the closed case in her hands.
He hesitated a moment, however, for he had not determined exactly how far it was necessary to acquaint Keyork with the circumstances, and he was anxious to avoid all reference to Unorna's folly in regard to himself. The Individual returned, bringing, with other things, a drinking-glass for the Wanderer. Keyork filled it and then filled his own.
He hesitated one moment and then regained his carriage. "To Unorna's house!" he shouted, as he shut the door with a crash. "This is my house, and he is here," Unorna said, as Beatrice passed before her, under the deep arch of the entrance. Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the small outer hall to the door of the great conservatory. "You will find him there," she said.
After all, it would be an easy matter, if the man again overstepped the bounds of gentle speech, to take him bodily away from Unorna's presence. "And are you going to charm our ears with a story of your sufferings?" Unorna asked, in a tone so cruel, that the Wanderer expected a quick outburst of anger from Kafka, in reply. But he was disappointed in this.
In that time Israel Kafka would be in safe custody, and she could re-enter her house with nothing to fear. But he counted without Unorna's unyielding obstinacy. She threatened if he left her for a moment to go back to Israel Kafka. A few minutes earlier she had carried out her threat and the consequence had been almost fatal.
Then the unequal contest between the senses and the intellect ceased, and while still retaining the dim consciousness that the source of all he saw and heard lay in Unorna's brain, he allowed himself to be led quickly from one scene to another, absorbed and taken out of himself by the horror of the deeds done before him.
What is it that you want with me?" He asked the question as though again suddenly aware of Unorna's presence. She had lifted her veil and her eyes drew his soul into their mysterious depths. "She calls you. Come." "She? She is not here. What can you know of her? Why do you look at me so?" He felt an unaccountable uneasiness under her gaze, like a warning of danger not far off.
Between him and Unorna something passed by, something dark and soft and noiseless, that took shape slowly a woman in black, a veil thrown back from her forehead, her white face turned towards the Wanderer, her white hands hanging by her side. She stood still, and the face turned, and the eyes met Unorna's, and Unorna knew that it was Beatrice.
Unorna passed through a corridor which was, indeed, only a long balcony covered in with arches and closed with windows against the outer air. At the farther end three steps descended to a dark door, through the thickness of a massive wall, showing that at this point Unorna's house had at some former time been joined with another building beyond, with which it thus formed one habitation.
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