“I would rather you struck me than that you spoke to me like that!” she exclaimed. “You have no need of such civil forbearance with me. If you bid me go, I will go. If you bid me stay, I will not move. Only speak frankly. Say which you would prefer.”
“Then stay,” said the Wanderer simply.
She bowed her head slightly and was silent again. A distant clock chimed the hour. The morning was slowly drawing near.
“And you,” said Unorna, looking up at the sound. “Will you not rest? Why should you not sleep?”
“I am not tired.”
“You do not trust me, I think,” she answered sadly. “And yet you might—you might.” Her voice died away dreamily.
“Trust you to watch that poor man? Indeed I do. You were not acting just now, when you touched him so tenderly. You are in earnest. You will be kind to him, and I thank you for it.”
“And you yourself? Do you fear nothing from me, if you should sleep before my eyes? Do you not fear that in your unconsciousness I might touch you and make you more unconscious still and make you dream dreams and see visions?”
The Wanderer looked at her and smiled incredulously, partly out of scorn for the imaginary danger, and partly because something told him that she had changed and would not attempt any of her witchcraft upon him.
“No,” he answered. “I am not afraid of that.”