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Updated: May 26, 2025
Seeing that Israel Kafka could not be immediately restored to consciousness, he rose to his feet again and stood between the prostrate victim and Unorna. "You are killing this man instead of saving him," he said. "His crime, you say, is that he loves you. Is that a reason for using all your powers to destroy him in body and mind?"
She had waited to be won, instead of trying to win. She had failed, and passion could be restrained no longer. "What does it matter how, if only he is mine!" she exclaimed fiercely, as she rose from her carved chair an hour after he had left her. Israel Kafka found himself seated in the corner of a comfortable carriage with Keyork Arabian at his side.
The cost at which that progress had been obtained was nothing. Had Israel Kafka perished altogether under the treatment he had received, Keyork Arabian would have bestowed no more attention upon the catastrophe than would have been barely necessary in order to conceal it and to protect himself and Unorna from the consequences of the crime.
But to give it a fair trial he wished to apply it at the precise point when, according to all previous experience, the moment of death was past the moment when the physician usually puts his watch in his pocket and looks about for his hat. Possibly if Kafka, being left without any assistance, had shown no further signs of sinking, Keyork would have helped him to sink a little lower.
"As upon an instrument," said the little man, quoting Unorna's angry speech. "Truly I can play upon you, but it is a strange music." Half an hour later Unorna returned to her place among the flowers, but Israel Kafka was gone.
She rose to her feet and stood before him. "You have dreamed all this," she said. "I am not Beatrice." "Dreamed? Not Beatrice?" she heard him cry in his bewilderment. Something more he said, but she could not catch the words. She was already gone, through the labyrinth of the many plants, to the door through which twelve hours earlier she had fled from Israel Kafka.
Keyork came forward. He could move quietly enough when he chose. He glanced at the Wanderer. "He looks comfortable enough," he whispered, half contemptuously. Then he bent down over Israel Kafka and carefully examined his face. To him the ghastly pallor meant nothing. It was but the natural result of excessive exhaustion.
It was the truest thing in her and perhaps the best, which protested so violently against the thing she meant to do; it was the simple longing to be loved for her own sake, and of the man's own free will, to be loved by him with the love she had despised in Israel Kafka. But would this be love at all, this artificial creation of her suggestion reacting upon his mind? Would it last?
I adore you! You have saved her life, and you have saved mine; you have almost killed me with fright and joy in two moments, you have " "Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is quite safe, but we must do something about Kafka and " The rest of his speech was drowned in another shout from the gnome, ending in a portentous peal of laughter. He had taken his glass again and was toasting himself.
"It is not for me, either, to talk to you of what you have done to Israel Kafka to-day," he confessed. "Do not oblige me to say anything about it. It will be much safer. You know it all better than I do, and you understand your own reasons, as I never can. If you are sorry for him now, so much the better you will not hurt him any more if you can help it.
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