"Laugh, laugh, Unorna!" he cried. "You do not laugh alone. And yet--I
love you still, I love you so well in spite of all that I cannot laugh
at you as I would, even though I were to see you again clinging to the
rock and imploring it to take pity on your thirst. And he who dies for
you, Unorna--of him you ask nothing, save that he will crawl away and
die alone, and not disturb your delicate life with such an unseemly
sight."
"You talk of death!" exclaimed Unorna scornfully. "You talk of dying for
me because you are ill to-day. To-morrow, Keyork Arabian will have cured
you, and then, for aught I know, you will talk of killing me instead.
This is child's talk, boy's talk. If we are to listen to you, you must
be more eloquent. You must give us such a tale of woe as shall draw
tears from our eyes and sobs from our breasts--then we will applaud you
and let you go. That shall be your reward."
The Wanderer glanced at her in surprise. There was a bitterness in her
tone of which he had not believed her soft voice capable.
"Why do you hate him so if he is mad?" he asked.
"The reason is not far to seek," said Kafka. "This woman here--God made
her crooked-hearted! Love her, and she will hate you as only she has
learned how to hate. Show her that cold face of yours, and she will love
you so that she will make a carpet of her pride for you to walk on--ay,
or spit on either, if you deign to be so kind.
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