gh she were cold. Whatever else was bad and
cruel and untrue in her wild nature, her love for him was true and
passionate and enduring. And she loved him the more for the strength he
was beginning to show, and for his determined opposition. The words he
had spoken had hurt her as he little guessed they could, not knowing
that he alone of men had power to wound her.

"You do not know," she answered. "How should you?" Her glance fell and
her voice trembled.

"I know enough," he said. He turned coldly from her and knelt again
beside Israel Kafka.

He raised the pale head and supported it upon his knee, and gazed
anxiously into the face, raising the lids with his finger as though to
convince himself that the man was not dead. Indeed there seemed to be
but little life left in him as he lay there with outstretched arms and
twisted fingers, scarcely breathing. In such a place, without so much as
the commonest restorative to aid him, the Wanderer saw that he had but
little chance of success.

Unorna stood aside, not looking at the two men. It was nothing to her
whether Kafka lived or died. She was suffering herself, more than she
had ever suffered in her life. He had said that she was not a woman--she
whose whole woman's nature worshiped him. He had said that she was the
incarnation of cruelty--and it was true, though it was her love for him
that made her cruel to the other. Could he know what she had felt, when
she had understood that Israel Kafka had heard her passionate words and
seen her eager face, and had laughed her to scorn? Could any woman at
such a time be less than cruel? Was not her hate for the man who loved
her as great as her love for the man who loved her not? Even if she
possessed instruments of torture for the soul more terrible than those
invented in darker ages to rack the human body, was she not justified
in using them all? Was not Israel Kafka guilty of the greatest of all
crimes, of loving when he was not loved, and of witnessing her shame and
discomfiture? She could not bear to look at him, lest she should lose
herself and try to thrust the Wanderer aside and kill the man with her
hands.

Then she heard footsteps on the frozen path, and turning quickly she saw
that the Wanderer had lifted Kafka's body from the ground and was moving
rapidly away, towards the entrance of the cemetery. He was leaving her
in anger, without a word. She turned very pale and hesitated. Then she
ran forward to overtake him