is this man?" he asked. "And what does he want of you?"

Unorna made as though she would pass him. But he laid his hand upon
her arm with a gesture that betrayed his anxiety for her safety. At his
touch, her face changed for a moment and a faint blush dyed her cheek.

"You may well ask who I am," said the Moravian, speaking in a voice
half-choked with passion and anger. "She will tell you she does not know
me--she will deny my existence to my face. But she knows me very well. I
am Israel Kafka."

The Wanderer looked at him more curiously. He remembered what he had
heard but a few hours earlier from Keyork concerning the young fellow's
madness. The situation now partially explained itself.

"I understand," he said, looking at Unorna. "He seems to be dangerous.
What shall I do with him?"

He asked the question as calmly as though it had referred to the
disposal of an inanimate object, instead of to the taking into custody
of a madman.

"Do with me?" cried Kafka, advancing suddenly a step forwards from
between the slabs. "Do with me? Do you speak of me as though I were a
dog--a dumb animal--but I will----"

He choked and coughed, and could not finish the sentence. There was a
hectic flush in his cheek and his thin, graceful frame shook violently
from head to foot. Unable to speak for the moment, he waved his hand in
a menacing gesture. The Wanderer shook his head rather sadly.

"He seems very ill," he said, in a tone of compassion.

But Unorna was pitiless. She knew what her companion could not know,
namely, that Kafka must have followed them through the streets to the
cemetery and must have overheard Unorna's passionate appeal and must
have seen and understood the means she was using to win the Wanderer's
love. Her anger was terrible. She had suffered enough secret shame
already in stooping to the use of her arts in such a course. It had cost
her one of the greatest struggles of her life, and her disappointment
at the result had been proportionately bitter. In that alone she had
endured almost as much pain as she could bear. But to find suddenly that
her humiliation, her hot speech, her failure, the look which she knew
had been on her face until the moment when the Wanderer awoke, that
all this had been seen and heard by Israel Kafka was intolerable. Even
Keyork's unexpected appearance could not have so fired her wrath. Keyork
might have laughed at her afterwards, but her failure would have been no
triumph to hi