“Do not listen to his ravings,” she said. The words seemed weak and poorly chosen, and there was a strange look in her face as though she were either afraid or desperate, or both.
“She loves you,” said Israel Kafka calmly. “And you do not know it. She has power over you, as she has over me, but the power to make you love her she has not. She will destroy you, and your state will be no better than mine to-day. We shall have moved on a step, for I shall be dead and you will be the madman, and she will have found another to love and to torture. The world is full of them. Her altar will never lack sacrifices.”
The Wanderer’s face was grave.
“You may be mad or not,” he said. “I cannot tell. But you say monstrous things, and you shall not repeat them.”
“Did she not say that I might speak?” asked Kafka with a bitter laugh.
“I will keep my word,” said Unorna. “You seek your own destruction. Find it in your own way. It will not be the less sure. Speak—say what you will. You shall not be interrupted.”
The Wanderer drew back, not understanding what was passing, nor why Unorna was so long-suffering.
“Say all you have to say,” she repeated, coming forward so that she stood directly in front of Israel Kafka. “And you,” she added, speaking to the Wanderer, “leave him to me. He is quite right—I can protect myself if I need any protection.”
“You remember how we parted, Unorna?” said Kafka. “It is a month to-day. I did not expect a greeting of you when I came back, or, if I did expect it, I was foolish and unthinking. I should have known you better. I should have known that there is one half of your word which you never break—the cruel half, and one thing which you cannot forgive, and which is my love for you. And yet that is the very thing which I cannot forget. I have come back to tell you so. You may as well know it.”
Unorna’s expression grew cold, as she saw that he abandoned the strain of reproach and spoke once more of his love for her.