connection between the two series of events,
nor the bearing of the one upon the other. Israel Kafka sank into such
insignificance that she had began to pity his condition, and it was hard
to remember that the Wanderer was the man whom Beatrice had loved, and
of whom she had spoken so long and so passionately. She found, too,
an unreasoned joy in being once more by his side, no matter under
what conditions. In that happiness, one-sided and unshared, she forgot
everything else. Beatrice had been a dream, a vision, an unreal shadow.
Kafka was nothing to her, and yet everything, as she suddenly saw, since
he constituted a bond between her and the man she loved, which would at
least outlast the night. In a flash she saw that the Wanderer would
not leave her alone with the Moravian, and that the latter could not
be moved for the present without danger to his life. They must watch
together by his side through the long hours. Who could tell what the
night would bring forth?

As the new development of the situation presented itself, the colour
rose again to her cheeks. The warmth of the conservatory, too, dispelled
the chill that had penetrated her, and the familiar odours of the
flowers contributed to restore the lost equilibrium of mind and body.

"Tell me what has happened," she said again.

In the fewest possible words the Wanderer told her all that had occurred
up to the moment of her coming, not omitting the detail of the locked
door.

"And for what reason do you suppose that Keyork shut you in?" she asked.

"I do not know," the Wanderer answered. "I do not trust him, though I
have known him so long."

"It was mere selfishness," said Unorna scornfully. "I know him better
than you do. He was afraid you would disturb him again in the night."

The Wanderer said nothing, wondering how any man could be so elaborately
thoughtful of his own comfort.

"There is no help for it," Unorna said, "we must watch together."

"I see no other way," the Wanderer answered indifferently.

He placed a chair for her to sit in, within sight of the sick man, and
took one himself, wondering at the strange situation, and yet not caring
to ask Unorna what had brought her back, so breathless and so pale, at
such an hour. He believed, not unnaturally, that her motive had been
either anxiety for himself, or the irresistible longing to see him
again, coupled with a distrust of his promise to return when she should
send for him. It seemed best