“And you have brought me his message—this warning—to save me?” she said.
“As I tried to save him from you an hour ago. But there is little time. The man is desperate, whether mad or sane, I cannot tell. Make haste. Determine where to go for safety, and I will take you there.”
But Unorna did not move. She only looked at him, with an expression he could no longer misunderstand. He was cold and impassive.
“I fancy it will not be safe to hesitate long,” he said. “He is in earnest.”
“I do not fear Israel Kafka, and I fear death less,” answered Unorna deliberately. “Why does he mean to kill me?”
“I think that in his place most every human men would feel as he does, though religion, or prudence, or fear, or all three together, might prevent them from doing what they would wish to do.”
“You too? And which of the three would prevent you from murdering me?”
“None, perhaps—though pity might.”
“I want no pity, least of all from you. What I have done, I have done for you, and for you only.”
The Wanderer’s face showed only a cold disgust. He said nothing.