s crest was crowned
with God's crown-jewels, the great northern stars, its mighty form was
robed in the mantle of majesty set with the diamonds of suns and worlds,
great and small, far and near--not one tiny spark of all the myriad
million gems was darkened by a breath of wind-blown mist. The earth was
very still, all wrapped in peace and lulled in love. The great trees
pointed their dark spires upwards from the temple of the forest to the
firmament of the greater temple on high. In the starlight the year's
first roses breathed out the perfume gathered from the departed sun, and
every dewdrop in the short, sweet grass caught in its little self the
reflection of heaven's vast glory. Only, in the universal stillness, the
nightingale sang the song of songs, and bound the angel of love with the
chains of her linked melody and made him captive in bonds stronger than
his own."

Israel Kafka spoke dreamily, resting against the stone beside him,
seemingly little conscious of the words that fell in oriental imagery
from his lips. In other days Unorna had heard him speak like this to
her, and she had loved the speech, though not the man, and sometimes for
its sake she had wished her heart could find its fellow in his. And even
now, the tone and the words had a momentary effect upon her. What would
have sounded as folly, overwrought, sentimental, almost laughable,
perhaps, to other women, found an echo in her own childish memories and
a sympathy in her belief in her own mysterious nature. The Wanderer had
heard men talk as Israel Kafka talked, in other lands, where speech is
prized by men and women not for its tough strength but for its wealth of
flowers.

"And love was her first captive," said the Moravian, "and her first
slave. Yes, I will tell you the story of Unorna's life. She is angry
with me now. Well, let it be. It is my fault--or hers. What matter? She
cannot quite forget me out of mind--and I? Has Lucifer forgotten God?"

He sighed, and a momentary light flashed in his eyes. Something in the
blasphemous strength of the words attracted the Wanderer's attention.
Utterly indifferent himself, he saw that there was something more
than madness in the man before him. He found himself wondering what
encouragement Unorna had given the seed of passion that it should have
grown to such strength, and he traced the madness back to the love,
instead of referring the love to the madness. But he said nothing.

"So she was born," con