answered
haughtily. "I came here to save your life, not to hear your
confessions."

"And when you have heard, you will no longer wish to save me. If you
choose to leave me here, I will wait for Israel Kafka alone. He may kill
me if he pleases. I do not care. But if you stay you shall hear what I
have to say."

She glanced at his face. He folded his arms and stood still. Whatever
she had done, he would not leave her alone at the mercy of the desperate
man whom he expected every moment to enter the room. If she would not
save herself, he might nevertheless disarm Kafka and prevent the deed.
As his long sleeping energy revived in him the thought of a struggle was
not disagreeable.

"I loved you from the moment when I first saw you," said Unorna, trying
to speak calmly. "But you loved another woman. Do you remember her? Her
name was Beatrice, and she was very dark, as I am fair. You had lost her
and you had sought her for years. You entered my house, thinking that
she had gone in before you. Do you remember that morning? It was a month
ago to-day. You told me the story."

"You have dreamed it," said the Wanderer in cold surprise. "I never
loved any woman yet."

Unorna laughed bitterly.

"How perfect it all was at first!" she exclaimed. "How smooth it
seemed! How easy! You slept before me, out there by the river that very
afternoon. And in your sleep I bade you forget. And you forgot wholly,
your love, the woman, her very name, even as Israel Kafka forgot to-day
what he had suffered in the person of the martyr. You told him the
story, and he believes you, because he knows me, and knows what I can
do. You can believe me or not; as you will. I did it."

"You are dreaming," the Wanderer repeated, wondering whether she were
not out of her mind.

"I did it. I said to myself that if I could destroy your old love, root
it out from your heart and from your memory and make you as one who had
never loved at all, then you would love me as you had once loved her,
with your whole free soul. I said that I was beautiful--it is true, is
it not? And young I am, and I loved as no woman ever loved. And I said
that it was enough, and that soon you would love me, too. A month has
passed away since then. You are of ice--of stone--I do not know of what
you are. This morning you hurt me. I thought it was the last hurt
and that I should die then--instead of to-night. Do you remember? You
thought I was ill, and you went away. When you wer