to accept her appearance without question,
lest an inquiry should lead to a fresh outburst, more unbearable now
than before, since there seemed to be no way of leaving the house
without exposing her to danger. A nervous man like Israel Kafka might
spring up at any moment and do something dangerous.

After they had taken their places the silence lasted some moments.

"You did not believe all I told you this evening?" said Unorna softly,
with an interrogation in her voice.

"No," the Wanderer answered quietly, "I did not."

"I am glad of that--I was mad when I spoke."

CHAPTER XXIII

The Wanderer was not inclined to deny the statement which accorded well
enough with his total disbelief of the story Unorna had told him. But he
did not answer her immediately, for he found himself in a very difficult
position. He would neither do anything in the least discourteous beyond
admitting frankly that he had not believed her, when she taxed him
with incredulity; nor would say anything which might serve her as a
stepping-stone for returning to the original situation. He was, perhaps,
inclined to blame her somewhat less than at first, and her changed
manner in speaking of Kafka somewhat encouraged his leniency. A man
will forgive, or at least condone, much harshness to others when he is
thoroughly aware that it has been exhibited out of love for himself;
and a man of the Wanderer's character cannot help feeling a sort of
chivalrous respect and delicate forbearance for a woman who loves him
sincerely, though against his will, while he will avoid with an almost
exaggerated prudence the least word which could be interpreted as an
expression of reciprocal tenderness. He runs the risk, at the same time,
of being thrust into the ridiculous position of the man who, though
young, assumes the manner and speech of age and delivers himself of
grave, paternal advice to one who looks upon him, not as an elder, but
as her chosen mate.

After Unorna had spoken, the Wanderer, therefore, held his peace. He
inclined his head a little, as though to admit that her plea of madness
might not be wholly imaginary; but he said nothing. He sat looking at
Israel Kafka's sleeping face and outstretched form, inwardly wondering
whether the hours would seem very long before Keyork Arabian returned in
the morning and put an end to the situation. Unorna waited in vain for
some response, and at last spoke again.

"Yes," she said, "I was mad. You cannot u