avy and he roused himself and walked again until he
was thoroughly awake. It was certainly true that of all the persons
concerned in the events of the day, except Keyork, he had undergone the
least bodily fatigue and mental excitement. But even to the strongest,
the hours of the night spent in watching by a sick person seem endless
when there is no really strong personal anxiety felt. He was undoubtedly
interested in Kafka's fate, and was resolved to protect him as well as
to hinder him from committing any act of folly. But he had only met him
for the first time that very afternoon, and under circumstances which
had not in the first instance suggested even the possibility of a
friendship between the two. His position towards Israel Kafka was
altogether unexpected, and what he felt was no more than pity for his
sufferings and indignation against those who had caused them.

When the door was suddenly opened, he stood still in his walk and faced
it. He hardly recognised Unorna in the pale, dishevelled woman with
circled eyes who came towards him under the bright light. She, too,
stood still when she saw him, starting suddenly. She seemed to be very
cold, for she shivered visibly and her teeth were chattering. Without
the least protection against the bitter night air she had fled
bareheaded and cloakless through the open streets from the church to her
home.

"You here!" she exclaimed, in an unsteady voice.

"Yes, I am still here," answered the Wanderer. "But I hardly expected
you to come back to-night," he added.

At the sound of his voice a strange smile came into her wan face and
lingered there. She had not thought to hear him speak again, kindly
or unkindly, for she had come with the fixed determination to meet her
death at Israel Kafka's hands and to let that be the end. Amid all the
wild thoughts that had whirled through her brain as she ran home in the
dark, that one had not once changed.

"And Israel Kafka?" she asked, almost timidly.

"He is there--asleep."

Unorna came forward and the Wanderer showed her where the man lay upon a
thick carpet, wrapped in furs, his pale head supported by a cushion.

"He is very ill," she said, almost under her breath. "Tell me what has
happened."

It was like a dream to her. The tremendous excitement of what had
happened in the convent had cut her off from the realisation of what
had gone before. Strange as it seemed even to herself, she scarcely
comprehended the intimate