sture
which accompanied it. Unorna's voice was gentle, soft, half-indolent,
half-caressing, half-expectant, and half-careless. There was something
almost insolent in its assumption of superiority, which was borne out by
the little defiant tapping of two long white fingers upon the arm of the
carved chair. And yet, with the rising inflection of the monosyllable
there went a raising of the brows, a sidelong glance of the eyes, a
slowly wreathing smile that curved the fresh lips just enough to
unmask two perfect teeth, all of which lent to the voice a meaning,
a familiarity, a pliant possibility of favourable interpretation, fit
rather to flatter a hope than to chill a passion.

The blood beat more fiercely in the young man's veins, his black eyes
gleamed yet more brightly, his pale, high-curved nostrils quivered at
every breath he drew. The throbbings of his heart unseated his thoughts
and strongly took possession of the government of his body. Under an
irresistible impulse he fell upon his knees beside Unorna, covering her
marble hand with all his lean, dark fingers and pressing his forehead
upon them, as though he had found and grasped all that could be dear to
him in life.

"Unorna! My golden Unorna!" he cried, as he knelt.

Unorna looked down upon his bent head. The smile faded from her face,
and for a moment a look of hardness lingered there, which gave way to
an expression of pain and regret. As though collecting her thoughts she
closed her eyes, as she tried to draw back her hand; then as he held it
still, she leaned back and spoke to him.

"You have not understood me," she said, as quietly as she could.

The strong fingers were not lifted from hers, but the white face, now
bloodless and transparent, was raised to hers, and a look of such fear
as she had never dreamed of was in the wide black eyes.

"Not--understood?" he repeated in startled, broken tones.

Unorna sighed, and turned away, for the sight hurt her and accused her.

"No, you have not understood. Is it my fault? Israel Kafka, that hand is
not yours to hold."

"Not mine? Unorna!" Yet he could not quite believe what she said.

"I am in earnest," she answered, not without a lingering tenderness in
the intonation. "Do you think I am jesting with you, or with myself?"

Neither of the two stirred during the silence which followed. Unorna sat
quite still, staring fixedly into the green shadows of the foliage, as
though not daring to meet the gaze s