"You are wrong. I know that you are in earnest."

"How do you know?" she asked bitterly. "Have I never lied to you? If you
believed me, you would forgive me. If you forgave me, your friendship
would come back. I cannot even swear to you that I am telling the truth.
Heaven would not be my witness now if I told a thousand truths, each
truer than the last."

"I have nothing to forgive," the Wanderer said, almost wearily. "I have
told you so, you have not injured me, but him."

"But if it meant a whole world to me--no, for I am nothing to you--but
if it cost you nothing, but the little breath that can carry the three
words--would you say it? Is it much to say? Is it like saying, I love
you, or, I honour you, respect you? It is so little, and would mean so
much."

"To me it can mean nothing, unless you ask me to forgive you deeds of
which I know nothing. And then it means still less to me."

"Will you say it, only say the three words once?"

"I forgive you," said the Wanderer quietly. It cost him nothing, and, to
him, meant less.

Unorna bent her head and was silent. It was something to have heard him
say it though he could not guess the least of the sins which she made it
include. She herself hardly knew why she had so insisted. Perhaps it was
only the longing to hear words kind in themselves, if not in tone, nor
in his meaning of them. Possibly, too, she felt a dim presentiment of
her coming end, and would take with her that infinitesimal grain of
pardon to the state in which she hoped for no other forgiveness.

"It was good of you to say it," she said at last.

A long silence followed during which the thoughts of each went their
own way. Suddenly Israel Kafka stirred in his sleep. The Wanderer went
quickly forward and knelt down beside him and arranged the silken pillow
as best he could. Unorna was on the other side almost as soon. With a
tenderness of expression and touch which nothing can describe she moved
the sleeping head into a comfortable position and smoothed the cushion,
and drew up the furs disturbed by the nervous hands. The Wanderer let
her have her way. When she had finished their eyes met. He could not
tell whether she was asking his approval and a word of encouragement,
but he withheld neither.

"You are very gentle with him. He would thank you if he could."

"Did you not tell me to be kind to him?" she said. "I am keeping my
word. But he would not thank me. He would kill me if he were awake."