The Wanderer shook his head.
“He was ill and mad with pain,” he answered. “He did not know what he was doing. When he wakes, it will be different.”
Unorna rose, and the Wanderer followed her.
“You cannot believe that I care,” she said, as she resumed her seat. “He is not you. My soul would not be the nearer to peace for a word of his.”
For a long time she sat quite still, her hands lying idly in her lap, her head bent wearily as though she bore a heavy burden.
“Can you not rest?” the Wanderer asked at length. “I can watch alone.”
“No. I cannot rest. I shall never rest again.”
The words came slowly, as though spoken to herself.
“Do you bid me go?” she asked after a time, looking up and seeing his eyes fixed on her.
“Bid you go? In your own house?” The tone was one of ordinary courtesy. Unorna smiled sadly.