"Whatsoever she covets is hers to take. No one escapes the spell in the
end, no one resists the charm. And yet it is written in the book of her
fate that she shall one day taste the fruit of ashes, and drink of the
bitter water. It is written that whosoever slays with the sword shall
die by the sword also. She has killed with love, and by love she shall
perish. I loved her once. I know what I am saying."
Again he paused, lingering thoughtfully upon the words. The Wanderer
glanced at Unorna as though asking her whether he should not put a
sudden end to the strange monologue. She was pale and her eyes were
bright; but she shook her head.
"Let him say what he will say," she answered, taking the question as
though it had been spoken. "Let him say all he will. Perhaps it is the
last time."
"And so you give me your gracious leave to speak," said Israel Kafka.
"And you will let me say all that is in my heart to say to you--before
this other man. And then you will make an end of me. I see. I accept the
offer. I can even thank you for your patience. You are kind to-day--I
have known you harder. Well, then, I will speak out. I will tell my
story, not that any one may judge between you and me. There is neither
judge nor justice for those who love in vain. So I loved you. That is
the whole story. Do you understand me, sir? I loved this woman, but she
would not love me. That is all. And what of it, and what then? Look at
her, and look at me--the beginning and the end.
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