e gone I fought with
myself. My dreams--yes, I had dreamed of all that can make earth Heaven,
and you had waked me. You said that you would be a brother to me--you
talked of friendship. The sting of it! It is no wonder that I grew faint
with pain. Had you struck me in the face, I would have kissed your hand.
But your friendship! Rather be dead than, loving, be held a friend! And
I had dreamed of being dear to you for my own sake, of being dearest,
and first, and alone beloved, since that other was gone and I had burned
her memory. That pride I had still, until that moment. I fancied that it
was in my power, if I would stoop so low, to make you sleep again as
you had slept before, and to make you at my bidding feel all I felt. I
fought with myself. I would not go down to that depth. And then I said
that even that were better than your friendship, even a false semblance
of love inspired by my will, preserved by my suggestion. And so I fell.
You came back to me and I led you to that lonely place, and made you
sleep, and then I told you what was in my heart and poured out the
fire of my soul into your ears. A look came into your face--I shall not
forget it. My folly was upon me, and I thought it was for me. I know the
truth now. Sleeping, the old memory revived in you of her whom waking
you will never remember again. But the look was there, and I bade you
awake. My soul rose in my eyes. I hung upon your lips. The loving word
I longed for seemed already to tremble in the air. Then came the
truth. You awoke, and your face was stone, calm, smiling, indifferent,
unloving. And all this Israel Kafka had seen, hiding like a thief almost
beside us. He saw it all, he heard it all, my words of love, my agony of
waiting, my utter humiliation, my burning shame. Was I cruel to him? He
had made me suffer, and he suffered in his turn. All this you did not
know. You know it now. There is nothing more to tell. Will you wait here
until he comes? Will you look on, and be glad to see me die? Will you
remember in the years to come with satisfaction that you saw the witch
killed for her many misdeeds, and for the chief of them all--for loving
you?"

The Wanderer had listened to her words, but the tale they told was
beyond the power of his belief. He stood still in his place, with folded
arms, debating what he should do to save her. One thing alone was clear.
She loved him to distraction. Possibly, he thought, her story was but an
invention to ex