taste the fruit of ashes, and drink of the
bitter water. It is written that whosoever slays with the sword shall
die by the sword also. She has killed with love, and by love she shall
perish. I loved her once. I know what I am saying."

Again he paused, lingering thoughtfully upon the words. The Wanderer
glanced at Unorna as though asking her whether he should not put a
sudden end to the strange monologue. She was pale and her eyes were
bright; but she shook her head.

"Let him say what he will say," she answered, taking the question as
though it had been spoken. "Let him say all he will. Perhaps it is the
last time."

"And so you give me your gracious leave to speak," said Israel Kafka.
"And you will let me say all that is in my heart to say to you--before
this other man. And then you will make an end of me. I see. I accept the
offer. I can even thank you for your patience. You are kind to-day--I
have known you harder. Well, then, I will speak out. I will tell my
story, not that any one may judge between you and me. There is neither
judge nor justice for those who love in vain. So I loved you. That is
the whole story. Do you understand me, sir? I loved this woman, but she
would not love me. That is all. And what of it, and what then? Look at
her, and look at me--the beginning and the end."

In a manner familiar to Orientals the unhappy man laid one finger upon
his own breast, and with the other hand pointed at Unorna's fair young
face. The Wanderer's eyes obeyed the guiding gesture, and he looked from
one to the other, and again the belief crossed his thoughts that there
was less of madness about Israel Kafka than Keyork would have had him
think. Trying to read the truth from Unorna's eyes, he saw that they
avoided his, and he fancied he detected symptoms of distress in her
pallor and contracted lips. And yet he argued that if it were all true
she would silence the speaker, and that the only reason for her patience
must be sought in her willingness to humour the diseased brain in its
wanderings. In either case he pitied Israel Kafka profoundly, and his
compassion increased from one moment to another.

"I loved her. There is a history in those three words which neither the
eloquent tongue nor the skilled pen can tell. See how coldly I speak.
I command my speech, I may pick and choose among ten thousand words and
phrases, and describe love at my leisure. She grants me time; she is
very merciful to-day. What would yo