Her dress was black, and in the soft light of
the shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the midst of
thick shrubbery in a garden. Her elbow rested on her knee, her chin upon
her beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was bright colour.
She knew the Wanderer's footstep, but she neither moved her body nor
turned her head. She felt that she grew paler than before, and she could
hear her heart beating strongly.
"I come from Israel Kafka," said the Wanderer, standing still before
her.
She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not look
up.
"What of him?" she asked in a voice without expression. "Is he well?"
"He bids me say to you that he has promised before Heaven to take your
life, and that there is no escape from a man who is ready to lay down
his own."
Unorna turned her head slowly towards him, and a very soft look stole
over her strange face.
"And you have brought me his message--this warning--to save me?" she
said.
"As I tried to save him from you an hour ago. But there is little time.
The man is desperate, whether mad or sane, I cannot tell. Make haste.
Determine where to go for safety, and I will take you there."
But Unorna did not move. She only looked at him, with an expression he
could no longer misunderstand. He was cold and impassive.
"I fancy it will not be safe to hesitate long," he said. "He is in
earnest.
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