He rested one hand upon the slab and
faced her. As when many different forces act together at one point,
producing after the first shock a resultant little expected, so the many
passions that were at work in his face finally twisted his lips into a
smile.
"Yes," he said, in a low tone, which did not express submission. "Leave
me to her! Leave me to the Witch and to her mercy. It will be the end
this time. She is drunk with her love of you and mad with her hatred of
me."
Unorna grew suddenly pale, and would have again sprung forward. But the
Wanderer stopped her and held her arm. At the same time he looked into
Kafka's eyes and raised one hand as though in warning.
"Be silent!" he exclaimed.
"And if I speak, what then?" asked the Moravian with his evil smile.
"I will silence you," answered the Wanderer coldly. "Your madness
excuses you, perhaps, but it does not justify me in allowing you to
insult a woman."
Kafka's anger took a new direction. Even madmen are often calmed by the
quiet opposition of a strong and self-possessed man. And Kafka was not
mad. He was no coward either, but the subtlety of his race was in him.
As oil dropped by the board in a wild tempest does not calm the waves,
but momentarily prevents their angry crests from breaking, so the
Israelite's quick tact veiled the rough face of his dangerous humour.
"I insult no one," he said, almost deferentially.
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