hough by no means easy of
accomplishment. What Israel Kafka had told him was very true. Should he
attempt a denunciation, he would have little chance of being believed.
It would be easy enough for Kafka to bring witnesses to prove his own
love for Unorna and the Wanderer's intimacy with her during the past
month, and the latter's consequent interest in disposing summarily of
his Moravian rival. A stranger in the land would have small hope of
success against a man whose antecedents were known, whose fortune was
reputed great, and who had at his back the whole gigantic strength of
the Jewish interest in Prague, if he chose to invoke the assistance of
his people. The matter would end in a few days in the Wanderer being
driven from the country, while Israel Kafka would be left behind to work
his will as might seem best in his own eyes.

There was Keyork Arabian. So far as it was possible to believe in the
sincerity of any of the strange persons among whom the Wanderer found
himself, it seemed certain that the sage was attached to Unorna by some
bond of mutual interests which he would be loth to break. Keyork had
many acquaintances and seemed to posses everywhere a certain amount of
respect, whether because he was perhaps a member of some widespread,
mysterious society of which the Wanderer knew nothing, or whether this
importance of his was due to his personal superiority of mind and wide
experience of travel, no one could say. But it seemed certain that if
Unorna could be placed for the time being in a safe refuge, it would be
best to apply to Keyork to insure her further protection. Meanwhile that
refuge must be found and Unorna must be conveyed to it without delay.

The Wanderer was admitted without question. He found Unorna in her
accustomed place. She had thrown aside her furs and was sitting in an
attitude of deep thought. Her dress was black, and in the soft light of
the shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the midst of
thick shrubbery in a garden. Her elbow rested on her knee, her chin upon
her beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was bright colour.

She knew the Wanderer's footstep, but she neither moved her body nor
turned her head. She felt that she grew paler than before, and she could
hear her heart beating strongly.

"I come from Israel Kafka," said the Wanderer, standing still before
her.

She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not look
up.

"What of