ousness, then take me with
you and deliver me up to justice as a witch--as a murderess, if you
will."

The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what she
said was true. She was in his power.

"Restore him if you can," he said.

Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka's forehead and bending down whispered
into his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who held
him. The mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was almost
instantaneous. He opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna and then at
the Wanderer. There was neither pain nor passion in his face, but only
wonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their strength, he stood
upright and passed his hand over his eyes as though trying to remember
what had happened.

"How came I here?" he asked in surprise. "What has happened to me?"

"You fainted," said Unorna quietly. "You remember that you were very
tired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will take
you home."

"Yes--yes--I must have fainted. Forgive me--it comes over me sometimes."

He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the present
moment, when he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his two
companions, as they all three began to walk towards the gate. Unorna
avoided his eyes, and seemed to be looking at the irregular slabs they
passed on their way.

The Wanderer had intended to free himself from her as soon as Kafka
regained his senses, but he had not been prepared for such a sudden
change. He saw, now, that he could not exchange a word with her without
exciting the man's suspicion, and he was by no means sure that the first
emotion might not produce a sudden and dangerous effect. He did not even
know how great the change might be, which Unorna's words had brought
about. That Kafka had forgotten at once his own conduct and the fearful
vision which Unorna had imposed upon him was clear, but it did not
follow that he had ceased to love her. Indeed, to one only partially
acquainted with the laws which govern hypnotics, such a transition
seemed very far removed from possibility. He who in one moment had
himself been made to forget utterly the dominant passion and love of his
life, was so completely ignorant of the fact that he could not believe
such a thing possible in any case whatsoever.

In the dilemma in which he found himself there was nothing to be done
but to be guided by circumstances. He was not willing to leave Kafka
alone with