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Updated: May 26, 2025
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.
There was the carpet on which Israel Kafka had lain throughout the long hours while they had watched together. Upon that table at her side a book lay which they had read together but two days ago. In her own chair she sat, Unorna still, unchanged, unaltered save for him. She doubted her own senses as she heard him speak, and ever and again the name of Beatrice rang in her ears.
Hold me, if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if Israel Kafka does not recover his strength and his consciousness, then take me with you and deliver me up to justice as a witch as a murderess, if you will." The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what she said was true. She was in his power. "Restore him if you can," he said.
But to find suddenly that her humiliation, her hot speech, her failure, the look which she knew had been on her face until the moment when the Wanderer awoke, that all this had been seen and heard by Israel Kafka was intolerable. Even Keyork's unexpected appearance could not have so fired her wrath. Keyork might have laughed at her afterwards, but her failure would have been no triumph to him.
"Do with me?" cried Kafka, advancing suddenly a step forwards from between the slabs. "Do with me? Do you speak of me as though I were a dog a dumb animal but I will " He choked and coughed, and could not finish the sentence. There was a hectic flush in his cheek and his thin, graceful frame shook violently from head to foot. Unable to speak for the moment, he waved his hand in a menacing gesture.
All three walked forward together. Kafka went forward and opened the door of one of the conveyances for Unorna to get in. The Wanderer, still anxious for the man's safety, would have taken his place, but Kafka turned upon him almost defiantly. "Permit me," he said. "I was before you here." The Wanderer stood civilly aside and lifted his hat.
"I must ask him," she said unconsciously. "You must ask him," repeated Israel Kafka from his seat. For the third time Unorna laughed aloud as she heard the echo of her own words. "Whom shall I ask?" she inquired contemptuously, as she rose to her feet. The dull, glassy eyes sought hers in painful perplexity, following her face as she moved. "I do not know," answered the powerless man.
"And if you save me, do you think that I will leave you?" she asked with sudden agitation, turning and half rising from her seat. "Think what you will be doing, if you save me. Think well. You say that Israel Kafka is desperate. I am worse than desperate, worse than mad with my love." She sank back again and hid her face for a moment.
His eyes twinkled with a diabolical mirth. "No," said Kafka. "I do not care. Life is meant to be short. Life is meant to be storm, broken with gleams of love's sunshine. Why prolong it? If it is unhappy you would only draw out the unhappiness to greater lengths, and such joy as it has is joy only because it is quick, sudden, violent.
Her voice was softer still and so low and sweet that it seemed as though the words were spoken in the ripple of the tiny fountain. There was magic in the place, in the air, in the sounds, above all in the fair woman's touch. "Is this friendship?" asked Kafka. Then he sank upon his knees beside her, and looked up into her face. "It is friendship; yes why not? Am I like other women?"
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