rael, and the deed should not be done stealthily or in the dark.
Unorna must know that she was to die by his hand, and why. He had
no object in concealment, for his own life was already ended by the
certainty that his love was hopeless, and on the other hand, fatalist as
he was, he believed that Unorna could not escape him and that no warning
could save her.

The Wanderer understood most of these things as he hastened towards her
house through the darkening streets. Not a carriage was to be seen, and
he was obliged to traverse the distance on foot, as often happens at
supreme moments, when everything might be gained by the saving of a few
minutes in conveying a warning.

He saw himself in a very strange position. Half an hour had not elapsed
since he had watched Unorna driving away from the cemetery and had
inwardly determined that he would never, if possible, set eyes on her
again. Scarcely two hours earlier, he had been speaking to her of the
sincere friendship which he felt was growing up for her in his heart.
Since then he had learned, almost beyond the possibility of a doubt,
that she loved him, and he had learned, too, to despise her, he had left
her meaning that the parting should be final, and now he was hurrying
to her house to give her the warning which alone could save her from
destruction. And yet, he found it impossible to detect any inconsistency
in his own conduct. As he had been conscious of doing his utmost to save
Israel Kafka from her, so now he knew that he was doing all he could to
save Unorna from the Moravian, and he recognised the fact that no man
with the commonest feelings of humanity could have done less in either
case. But he was conscious, also, of a change in himself which he did
not attempt to analyse. His indolent, self-satisfied apathy was gone,
the strong interests of human life and death stirred him, mind and body
together acquired their activity and he was at all points once more
a man. He was ignorant, indeed, of what had been taken from him. The
memory of Beatrice was gone, and he fancied himself one who had never
loved woman. He looked back with horror and amazement upon the emptiness
of his past life, wondering how such an existence as he had led, or
fancied he had led, could have been possible.

But there was scant time for reflection upon the problem of his own
mission in the world as he hastened towards Unorna's house. His present
mission was clear enough and simple enough, t