She has a wonderful kind
of heart, for it freezes when you burn it, and melts when you freeze
it."
"Are you mad, indeed?" asked the Wanderer, suddenly planting himself in
front of Kafka. "They told me so--I can almost believe it."
"No--I am not mad yet," answered the younger man, facing him fearlessly.
"You need not come between me and her. She can protect herself. You
would know that if you knew what I saw her do with you, first when I
came here."
"What did she do?" The Wanderer turned quickly as he stood, and looked
at Unorna.
"Do not listen to his ravings," she said. The words seemed weak and
poorly chosen, and there was a strange look in her face as though she
were either afraid or desperate, or both.
"She loves you," said Israel Kafka calmly. "And you do not know it. She
has power over you, as she has over me, but the power to make you love
her she has not. She will destroy you, and your state will be no better
than mine to-day. We shall have moved on a step, for I shall be dead and
you will be the madman, and she will have found another to love and
to torture. The world is full of them. Her altar will never lack
sacrifices."
The Wanderer's face was grave.
"You may be mad or not," he said. "I cannot tell. But you say monstrous
things, and you shall not repeat them."
"Did she not say that I might speak?" asked Kafka with a bitter laugh.
"I will keep my word," said Unorna.
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