on him this time, for she saw that he was
completely under her influence. Yet she hesitated at the supreme moment,
and then, though to all real intents she was quite alone, a burning
flush of shame rose to her face, and her heart sank within her. She felt
that she could not do it.

She dropped his hands. They fell to his sides as though they had been of
lead. Then she turned from him and pressed her aching forehead against
a tall weather-worn stone that rose higher than her own height from the
midst of the hillock.

Her woman's nature rebelled against the trick. It was the truest thing
in her and perhaps the best, which protested so violently against the
thing she meant to do; it was the simple longing to be loved for her own
sake, and of the man's own free will, to be loved by him with the love
she had despised in Israel Kafka. But would this be love at all, this
artificial creation of her suggestion reacting upon his mind? Would it
last? Would it be true, faithful, tender? Above all, would it be real,
even for a moment? She asked herself a thousand questions in a second of
time.

Then the ready excuse flashed upon her--the pretext which the heart will
always find when it must have its way. Was it not possible, after all,
that he was beginning to love her even now? Might not that outburst of
friendship which had surprised her and wounded her so deeply, be the
herald of a stronger passion? She looked up quickly and met his vacant
stare.

"Do you love me?" she asked, almost before she knew what she was going
to say.

"No." The answer came in the far-off voice that told of his
unconsciousness, a mere toneless monosyllable breathed upon the murky
air. But it stabbed her like the thrust of a jagged knife. A long
silence followed, and Unorna leaned against the great slab of carved
sandstone.

Even to her there was something awful in his powerless, motionless
presence. The noble face, pale and set as under a mask, the thoughtful
brow, the dominating features, were not those of a man born to be a
plaything to the will of a woman. The commanding figure towered in the
grim surroundings like a dark statue, erect, unmoving, and in no way
weak. And yet she knew that she had but to speak and the figure would
move, the lips would form words, the voice would reach her ear. He would
raise this hand or that, step forwards or backwards, at her command,
affirm what she bid him affirm, and deny whatever she chose to hear
denied. F