In the effort she made to concentrate
her determination her face grew pale and her lips trembled. Kafka
faced her resolutely, his eyes on fire, the rich colour mantling in his
cheeks.
"Where is your power now?" he asked suddenly. "Where is your witchery?
You are only a woman, after all. You are only a weak woman!"
Very slowly he drew nearer to her side, his lithe figure bending a
little as he looked down upon her. Unorna leaned far back, withdrawing
her face from his as far as she could, but still trying to impose her
will upon him.
"You cannot," he said between his teeth, answering her thought.
Men who have tamed wild beasts alone know what such a moment is like. A
hundred times the brave man has held the tiger spell-bound and crouching
under his cold, fearless gaze. The beast, ever docile and submissive,
has cringed at his feet, fawned to his touch, and licked the hand that
snatched away the half-devoured morsel. Obedient to voice and eye, the
giant strength and sinewy grace have been debased to make the sport of
multitudes; the noble, pliant frame has contorted itself to execute the
mean antics of the low-comedy ape--to counterfeit death like a poodle
dog; to leap through gaudily-painted rings at the word of command; to
fetch and carry like a spaniel. A hundred times the changing crowd has
paid its paltry fee to watch the little play that is daily acted behind
the stout iron bars by the man and the beast.
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