urning her face away. There
were tears in her voice.

A few hours earlier his answer would have brought fire to her eyes and
anger to her voice. But a real change had come over her, not lasting,
perhaps, but strong in its immediate effects.

"Not even a little friendship left?" she said, breaking the silence that
followed.

"I cannot change myself," he answered, almost wishing that he could. "I
ought, perhaps," he added, as though speaking to himself. "I have done
enough harm as it is."

"Harm? To whom?" She looked round suddenly and he saw the moisture in
her eyes.

"To him," he replied, glancing at Kafka, "and to you. You loved him
once. I have ruined his life."

"Loved him? No--I never loved him." She shook her head, wondering
whether she spoke the truth.

"You must have made him think so."

"I? No--he is mad." But she shrank before his honest look, and suddenly
broke down. "No--I will not lie to you--you are too true--yes, I loved
him, or I thought I did, until you came, and I saw that there was no
one----"

But she checked herself, as she felt the blood rising to her cheeks. She
could blush still, and still be ashamed. Even she was not all bad, now
that she was calm and that the change had come over her.

"You see," the Wanderer said gently, "I am to blame for it all."

"For it all? No--not for the thousandth part of it all. What blame have
you in being what you are? Blame God in Heaven--for making such a man.
Blame me for what you know; blame me for all that you will not let me
tell you. Blame Kafka for his mad belief in me and Keyork Arabian for
the rest--but do not blame yourself--oh, no! Not that!"

"Do not talk like that, Unorna," he said. "Be just first."

"What is justice?" she asked. Then she turned her head away again. "If
you knew what justice means for me--you would not ask me to be just. You
would be more merciful."

"You exaggerate----" He spoke kindly, but she interrupted him.

"No. You do not know, that is all. And you can never guess. There is
only one man living who could imagine such things as I have done--and
tried to do. He is Keyork Arabian. But he would have been wiser than I,
perhaps."

She relapsed into silence. Before her rose the dim altar in the church,
the shadowy figure of Beatrice standing up in the dark, the horrible
sacrilege that was to have been done. Her face grew dark with fear of
her own soul. The Wanderer went so far as to try and distract her from
her glo