"You may well ask who I am," said the Moravian, speaking in a voice
half-choked with passion and anger. "She will tell you she does not know
me--she will deny my existence to my face. But she knows me very well. I
am Israel Kafka."
The Wanderer looked at him more curiously. He remembered what he had
heard but a few hours earlier from Keyork concerning the young fellow's
madness. The situation now partially explained itself.
"I understand," he said, looking at Unorna. "He seems to be dangerous.
What shall I do with him?"
He asked the question as calmly as though it had referred to the
disposal of an inanimate object, instead of to the taking into custody
of a madman.
"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. The Wanderer shook his head rather sadly.
"He seems very ill," he said, in a tone of compassion.
But Unorna was pitiless. She knew what her companion could not know,
namely, that Kafka must have followed them through the streets to the
cemetery and must have overheard Unorna's passionate appeal and must
have seen and understood the means she was using to win the Wanderer's
love.
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