“Unless you kill me,” she said, “you shall not take him away so. Hold him in your arms, if you will, but let me speak to him.”
“And how shall I know that you will not hurt him, you who hate him as you do?”
“Am I not at your mercy?” asked Unorna. “If I deceive you, can you not do what you will with me, even if I try to resist you, which I will not? Hold me, if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if Israel Kafka does not recover his strength and his consciousness, then take me with you and deliver me up to justice as a witch—as a murderess, if you will.”
The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what she said was true. She was in his power.
“Restore him if you can,” he said.
Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka’s forehead and bending down whispered into his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who held him. The mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was almost instantaneous. He opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna and then at the Wanderer. There was neither pain nor passion in his face, but only wonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their strength, he stood upright and passed his hand over his eyes as though trying to remember what had happened.
“How came I here?” he asked in surprise. “What has happened to me?”
“You fainted,” said Unorna quietly. “You remember that you were very tired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will take you home.”
“Yes—yes—I must have fainted. Forgive me—it comes over me sometimes.”
He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the present moment, when he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his two companions, as they all three began to walk towards the gate. Unorna avoided his eyes, and seemed to be looking at the irregular slabs they passed on their way.