or the
further development of events. He saw in her face that her anger was not
subsiding, and he wondered less at it after hearing Kafka's insulting
speech. It was a pity, he thought, that any one should take so seriously
a maniac's words, but he was nevertheless resolved that they should not
be repeated. After all, it would be an easy matter, if the man again
overstepped the bounds of gentle speech, to take him bodily away from
Unorna's presence.

"And are you going to charm our ears with a story of your sufferings?"
Unorna asked, in a tone so cruel, that the Wanderer expected a quick
outburst of anger from Kafka, in reply. But he was disappointed in this.
The smile still lingered on the Moravian's face, when he answered, and
his expressive voice, no longer choking with passion, grew very soft and
musical.

"It is not mine to charm," he said. "It is not given to me to make
slaves of all living things with hand and eye and word. Such power
Nature does not give to all, she has given none to me. I have no spell
to win Unorna's love--and if I had, I cannot say that I would take a
love thus earned."

He paused a moment and Unorna grew paler. She started, but then did not
move again. His words had power to wound her, but she trembled lest the
Wanderer should understand their hidden meaning, and she was silent,
biding her time and curbing her passion.

"No," continued Kafka, "I was not thus favoured in my nativity. The
star of love was not in the ascendant, the lord of magic charms was
not trembling upon my horizon, the sun of earthly happiness was not
enthroned in my mid-heaven. How could it be? She had it all, this Unorna
here, and Nature, generous in one mad moment, lavished upon her all
there was to give. For she has all, and we have nothing, as I have
learned and you will learn before you die."

He looked at the Wanderer as he spoke. His hollow eyes seemed calm
enough, and in his dejected attitude and subdued tone there was
nothing that gave warning of a coming storm. The Wanderer listened,
half-interested and yet half-annoyed by his persistence. Unorna herself
was silent still.

"The nightingale was singing on that night," continued Kafka. "It was a
dewy night in early spring, and the air was very soft, when Unorna first
breathed it. The world was not asleep but dreaming, when her eyes first
opened to look upon it. Heaven had put on all its glories--across its
silent breast was bound the milk-white ribband, it