y against the cushion of
the high carved chair, his eyes directed towards the place where Israel
Kafka lay. The air was warm, the scent of the flowers sweet but not
heavy. The silence was intense, for even the little fountain was still.
He had watched almost all night and his eyelids drooped. He forgot
Unorna and thought only of the sick man, trying to fix his attention on
the pale head as it lay under the bright light.

When Unorna looked up at last she saw that he was asleep. At first
she was surprised, in spite of what she had said to him half an hour
earlier, for she herself could not have closed her eyes, and felt that
she could never close them again. Then she sighed. It was but one proof
more of his supreme indifference. He had not even cared to speak to her,
and if she had not constantly spoken to him throughout the hours they
had passed together he would perhaps have been sleeping long before now.

And yet she feared to wake him and was almost glad that he was
unconscious. In the solitude she could gaze on him to her heart's
desire, she could let her eyes look their fill, and no one could say her
nay. He must be very tired, she thought, and she vaguely wondered why
she felt no bodily weariness, when her soul was so heavy.

She sat still and watched him. It might be the last time, she thought,
for who could tell what would happen to-morrow? She shuddered as she
thought of it all. What would Beatrice do? What would Sister Paul say?
How much would she tell of what she had seen? How much had she really
seen which she could tell clearly? There were terrible possibilities in
the future if all were known. Such deeds, and even the attempt at such
deeds as she had tried to do, could be judged by the laws of the land,
she might be brought to trial, if she lived, as a common prisoner, and
held up to the execration of the world in all her shame and guilt. But
death would be worse than that. As she thought of that other Judgment,
she grew dizzy with horror as she had been when the idea had first
entered her brain.

Then she was conscious that she was again looking at the Wanderer as he
lay back asleep in his tall chair. The pale and noble face expressed the
stainless soul and the manly character. She saw in it the peace she had
lost, and yet knew that through him she had lost her peace for ever.

It was perhaps the last time. Never again, perhaps, after the morning
had broken, should she look on what she loved best on e