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Updated: June 8, 2025
Unorna could lead her, as she had led Israel Kafka, through the life and death of a martyr, through a life of wretchedness and a death of shame, but then, the moment must come at last, since this was to be death indeed, and her spotless soul would be beyond Unorna's reach forever. No, that was not enough.
Not a wrinkle marked her waxen skin, and her hair was entirely concealed under the smooth head-dress, but her age was in her eyes. "What is your life, Unorna?" she asked suddenly. "We hear strange tales of it sometimes, though we know also that you do great works of charity. But we hear strange tales and strange words." "Do you?" Unorna suppressed a smile of scorn. "What do people say of me?
Then she would be lost, and devils would do in hell the worst torment which Unorna could not do on earth. A crime a robbery, a murder it must be done in the convent. Unorna hesitated, bending her brows and poring in imagination over the dark catalogue of all imaginable evil. A momentary and vague terror cast its shadow on her thoughts.
But Unorna could not see it. She had turned suddenly away, burying her face in her hands upon the back of her own chair. "Are there no miracles left in Heaven?" she moaned, half whispering lest she should wake him. "Is there no miracle of deeds undone again and of forgiveness given for me? God! God! That we should be for ever what we make ourselves!"
"My father died last week," Beatrice said in a very low tone, that was not quite steady. "I am quite alone here and in the world." She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested upon Unorna's, as though almost, but not quite, conveying an invitation, hungry for human comfort, yet too proud to ask it. "I am very lonely, too," said Unorna. "May I sit with you for a while?"
"Then give me that soul of yours, if you please," he said. "He is quite safe and peacefully asleep. You must have grown a little nervous while I was away." Unorna let herself sink into a chair. She stared almost vacantly at Keyork, then glanced uneasily at the motionless specimens, then stared at him again. "Yes," she said at last. "Perhaps I was a little nervous. Why did you lock me in?
Afraid to look round, lest her face should betray her emotion, Unorna glanced down at the kneeling nuns. She started.
Your friendship I have no words for thanks!" "Take it, or take it not as you will." Unorna glanced at his angry face and quickly looked away. "Take it? Yes, and more too, whether you will give it or not," answered Israel Kafka, moving nearer to her. "Yes. Whether you will, or whether you will not, I have all, your friendship, your love, your life, your breath, your soul all, or nothing!"
What of him!" she asked suddenly. "If he were living would you take me to him? Could you?" She turned very pale, and her eyes stared madly at Unorna. "If he were dead," Unorna answered, "I should not be here." Something in her tone and look moved Beatrice's heart at last. "I will go with you," she said.
It is written that whosoever slays with the sword shall die by the sword also. She has killed with love, and by love she shall perish. I loved her once. I know what I am saying." Again he paused, lingering thoughtfully upon the words. The Wanderer glanced at Unorna as though asking her whether he should not put a sudden end to the strange monologue.
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