There was such concentrated fury in a single word that the Wanderer started in surprise, ignorant as he was of the true state of things.
“You are uselessly unkind,” he said gravely. “The poor man is mad. Let me take him away.”
“Leave him to me,” she answered imperiously. “He will obey me.”
But Israel Kafka did not turn. He rested one hand upon the slab and faced her. As when many different forces act together at one point, producing after the first shock a resultant little expected, so the many passions that were at work in his face finally twisted his lips into a smile.
“Yes,” he said, in a low tone, which did not express submission. “Leave me to her! Leave me to the Witch and to her mercy. It will be the end this time. She is drunk with her love of you and mad with her hatred of me.”
Unorna grew suddenly pale, and would have again sprung forward. But the Wanderer stopped her and held her arm. At the same time he looked into Kafka’s eyes and raised one hand as though in warning.
“Be silent!” he exclaimed.
“And if I speak, what then?” asked the Moravian with his evil smile.
“I will silence you,” answered the Wanderer coldly. “Your madness excuses you, perhaps, but it does not justify me in allowing you to insult a woman.”
Kafka’s anger took a new direction. Even madmen are often calmed by the quiet opposition of a strong and self-possessed man. And Kafka was not mad. He was no coward either, but the subtlety of his race was in him. As oil dropped by the board in a wild tempest does not calm the waves, but momentarily prevents their angry crests from breaking, so the Israelite’s quick tact veiled the rough face of his dangerous humour.