She knew now what he had
suffered, for she suffered it all herself. He, at least, had been free
to speak his mind, to rage and storm and struggle. She must sit still
and hide her agony, at the risk of losing all. She bit her white lips
and turned her head away, and was silent.
"You are my best friend," the Wanderer repeated in his calm voice,
and every syllable pierced her like a glowing needle. "And does not
friendship give rights which ought to be used? If, as I think, Unorna,
you look upon me as an idler, as a worthless being, as a man without as
much as the shadow of a purpose in the world, it is but natural that you
should despise me a little, even though you may be very fond of me. Do
you not see that?"
Unorna stared at him with an odd expression for a moment.
"Yes--I am fond of you!" she exclaimed, almost harshly. Then she
laughed. He seemed not to notice her tone.
"I never knew what friendship was before," he went on. "Of course, as
I said, I had friends when I was little more than a boy, boys and young
men like myself, and our friendship came to this, that we laughed, and
feasted and hunted together, and sometimes even quarrelled, and caring
little, thought even less. But in those days there seemed to be nothing
between that and love, and love I never understood, that I can remember.
But friendship like ours, Unorna, was never dreamed of among us. Such
friendship as this, when I often think that I receive all and give
nothing in return.
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