Yes, I will tell you the story of Unorna's life. She is angry
with me now. Well, let it be. It is my fault--or hers. What matter? She
cannot quite forget me out of mind--and I? Has Lucifer forgotten God?"
He sighed, and a momentary light flashed in his eyes. Something in the
blasphemous strength of the words attracted the Wanderer's attention.
Utterly indifferent himself, he saw that there was something more
than madness in the man before him. He found himself wondering what
encouragement Unorna had given the seed of passion that it should have
grown to such strength, and he traced the madness back to the love,
instead of referring the love to the madness. But he said nothing.
"So she was born," continued Kafka, dreaming on. "She was born amid
the perfume of the roses, under the starlight, when the nightingale
was singing. And all things that lived, loved her, and submitted to her
voice and hand, and to her eyes and to her unspoken will, as running
water follows the course men give it, winding and gliding, falling
and rushing, full often of a roar of resistance that covers the deep,
quick-moving stream, flowing in spite of itself through the channel that
is dug for it to the determined end. And nothing resisted her. Neither
man nor woman nor child had any strength to oppose against her magic.
The wolf hounds licked her feet, the wolves themselves crouched fawning
in her path. For she is without fear--as she is without mercy.
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