The Wanderer looked from Unorna to Kafka with profound surprise. He had never seen the man and had no means of knowing who he was, still less of guessing what had brought him to the lonely place, or why he had broken into a laugh, of which the harsh, wild tones still echoed through the wide cemetery. Totally unconscious of all that had happened to himself during the preceding quarter of an hour, the Wanderer was deprived of the key to the situation. He only understood that the stranger was for some reason or other deeply incensed against Unorna, and he realised that the intruder had, on the moment of appearance, no control over himself. Israel Kafka remained where he stood, between the two tall stones, one hand resting on each, his body inclined a little forward, his dark, sunken eyes, bloodshot and full of a turbid, angry brightness, bent intently upon Unorna’s face. He looked as though he were about to move suddenly forwards, but it was impossible to foresee that he might not as suddenly retreat, as a lean and hungry tiger crouches for a moment in uncertainty whether to fight or fly, when after tracking down his man he finds him not alone and defenceless as he had anticipated, but well-armed and in company. The Wanderer’s indolence was only mental, and was moreover transitory and artificial. When he saw Unorna advance, he quickly placed himself between her and Israel Kafka, and looked from one to the other. “Who is this man?” he asked. “And what does he want of you?” Unorna made as though she would pass him. But he laid his hand upon her arm with a gesture that betrayed his anxiety for her safety. At his touch, her face changed for a moment and a faint blush dyed her cheek. “You may well ask who I am,” said the Moravian, speaking in a voice half-choked with passion and anger. “She will tell you she does not know me--she will deny my existence to my face. But she knows me very well. I am Israel Kafka.” The Wanderer looked at him more curiously. He remembered what he had heard but a few hours earlier from Keyork concerning the young fellow’s madness. The situation now partially explained itself. “I understand,” he said, looking at Unorna. “He seems to be dangerous. What shall I do with him?” He asked the question as calmly as though it had referred to the disposal of an inanimate object, instead of to the taking into custody of a madman. “Do with me?” cried Kafka, advancing suddenly a step forwards from between the slabs. “Do with me? Do you speak of me as though I were a dog--a dumb animal--but I will----” He choked and coughed, and could not finish the sentence. There was a hectic flush in his cheek and his thin, graceful frame shook violently from head to foot. Unable to speak for the moment, he waved his hand in a menacing gesture. The Wanderer shook his head rather sadly. “He seems very ill,” he said, in a tone of compassion.