But he would not pause, and hurried onward towards the gate, while she hung upon his arm, trying to hinder him and speaking in desperate agitation. She felt that if she let him go now, he would leave her for ever. In that moment even her hatred of Kafka sank into insignificance. She would do anything, bear anything, promise anything rather than lose what she loved so wildly.
“Stop!” she cried again. “I will save him—I will obey you—I will be kind to him—he will die in your arms if you do not let me help you—oh! for the love of Heaven, wait one moment! Only one moment!”
She so thrust herself in the Wanderer’s path, hanging upon him and trying to tear Kafka from his arms, that he was forced to stand still and face her.
“Let me pass!” he exclaimed, making another effort to advance. But she clung to him and he could not move.
“No,—I will not let you go,” she murmured. “You can do nothing without me, you will only kill him, as I would have done a moment ago—”
“And as you will do now,” he said sternly, “if I let you have your way.”
“By all that is Holy in Heaven, I will save him—he shall not even remember—”
“Do not swear. I shall not believe you.”
“You will believe when you see—you will forgive me—you will understand.”
Without answering he exerted his strength and clasping the insensible man more firmly in his arms he made one or two steps forward. Unorna’s foot slipped on the frozen ground and she would have fallen to the earth, but she clung to him with desperate energy. Seeing that she was in danger of some bodily hurt if he used greater force, the Wanderer stopped again, uncertain how to act; Unorna stood before him, panting a little from the struggle, her face as white as death.