lly bad than what she did to me. She made me her
sport--yours, too, perhaps, or she would at least have wished it. On
that holy ground where my people lie in peace she made me deny my faith,
she made me, in your eyes and her own, personate a renegade of my race,
she made me confess in the Christian creed, she made me seem to die for
a belief I abhor. Can you conceive of anything more devilish? A moment
later she smiles upon me and presses my hand, and is anxious to know of
my good health. And but for you, I should never have known what she had
done to me. I owe you gratitude, though it be for the worst pain I have
ever suffered. But do you think I will forgive her?"

"You would be very forgiving if you could," said the Wanderer, his own
anger rising again at the remembrance of what he had seen.

"And do you think that I can love still?"

"No."

Israel Kafka walked the length of the room and then came back and stood
before the Wanderer and looked into his eyes. His face was very calm and
resolute, the flush had vanished from his thin cheeks, and the features
were set in an expression of irrevocable determination. Then he spoke,
slowly and distinctly.

"You are mistaken. I love her with all my heart. I will therefore kill
her."

The Wanderer had seen many men in many lands and had witnessed the
effects of many passions. He gazed earnestly into Israel Kafka's
face, searching in vain for some manifestation of madness. But he was
disappointed. The Moravian had formed his resolution in cold blood
and intended to carry it out. His only folly appeared to lie in the
announcement of his intention. But his next words explained even that.

"She made me promise to send you to her if you would go," he said. "Will
you go to her now?"

"What shall I tell her? I warn you that since--"

"You need not warn me. I know what you would say. But I will be no
common murderer. I will not kill her as she would have killed me. Warn
her, not me. Go to her and say, 'Israel Kafka has promised before God
that he will take your blood in expiation, and there is no escape from
the man who is himself ready to die.' Tell her to fly for her life, and
that quickly."

"And what will you gain by doing this murder?" asked the Wanderer,
calmly. He was revolving schemes for Unorna's safety, and half amazed to
find himself forced in common humanity to take her part.

"I shall free myself of my shame in loving her, at the price of her
blood and mine.