The morning was slowly drawing near.
"And you," said Unorna, looking up at the sound. "Will you not rest? Why
should you not sleep?"
"I am not tired."
"You do not trust me, I think," she answered sadly. "And yet you
might--you might." Her voice died away dreamily.
"Trust you to watch that poor man? Indeed I do. You were not acting just
now, when you touched him so tenderly. You are in earnest. You will be
kind to him, and I thank you for it."
"And you yourself? Do you fear nothing from me, if you should sleep
before my eyes? Do you not fear that in your unconsciousness I might
touch you and make you more unconscious still and make you dream dreams
and see visions?"
The Wanderer looked at her and smiled incredulously, partly out of scorn
for the imaginary danger, and partly because something told him that she
had changed and would not attempt any of her witchcraft upon him.
"No," he answered. "I am not afraid of that."
"You are right," she said gravely. "My sins are enough already. The evil
is sufficient. Do as you will. If you can sleep, then sleep in peace. If
you will watch, watch with me."
Then neither spoke again. Unorna bent her head as she had done before.
The Wanderer leaned back resting comfortably against the cushion of
the high carved chair, his eyes directed towards the place where Israel
Kafka lay. The air was warm, the scent of the flowers sweet but not
heavy.
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