"You seek your own destruction. Find
it in your own way. It will not be the less sure. Speak--say what you
will. You shall not be interrupted."
The Wanderer drew back, not understanding what was passing, nor why
Unorna was so long-suffering.
"Say all you have to say," she repeated, coming forward so that she
stood directly in front of Israel Kafka. "And you," she added, speaking
to the Wanderer, "leave him to me. He is quite right--I can protect
myself if I need any protection."
"You remember how we parted, Unorna?" said Kafka. "It is a month to-day.
I did not expect a greeting of you when I came back, or, if I did expect
it, I was foolish and unthinking. I should have known you better. I
should have known that there is one half of your word which you never
break--the cruel half, and one thing which you cannot forgive, and
which is my love for you. And yet that is the very thing which I cannot
forget. I have come back to tell you so. You may as well know it."
Unorna's expression grew cold, as she saw that he abandoned the strain
of reproach and spoke once more of his love for her.
"Yes, I see what you mean," he said, very quietly. "You mean to show me
by your face that you give me no hope. I should have known that by other
things I have seen here. God knows, I have seen enough! But I meant to
find you alone. I went to your home, I saw you go out, I followed you,
I entered here--I heard all--and I understood, for I know your power,
as this man cannot know it.
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