The Wanderer glanced at her in surprise. There was a bitterness in her tone of which he had not believed her soft voice capable. “Why do you hate him so if he is mad?” he asked. “The reason is not far to seek,” said Kafka. “This woman here--God made her crooked-hearted! Love her, and she will hate you as only she has learned how to hate. Show her that cold face of yours, and she will love you so that she will make a carpet of her pride for you to walk on--ay, or spit on either, if you deign to be so kind. She has a wonderful kind of heart, for it freezes when you burn it, and melts when you freeze it.” “Are you mad, indeed?” asked the Wanderer, suddenly planting himself in front of Kafka. “They told me so--I can almost believe it.” “No--I am not mad yet,” answered the younger man, facing him fearlessly. “You need not come between me and her. She can protect herself. You would know that if you knew what I saw her do with you, first when I came here.” “What did she do?” The Wanderer turned quickly as he stood, and looked at Unorna. “Do not listen to his ravings,” she said. The words seemed weak and poorly chosen, and there was a strange look in her face as though she were either afraid or desperate, or both. “She loves you,” said Israel Kafka calmly. “And you do not know it. She has power over you, as she has over me, but the power to make you love her she has not. She will destroy you, and your state will be no better than mine to-day. We shall have moved on a step, for I shall be dead and you will be the madman, and she will have found another to love and to torture. The world is full of them. Her altar will never lack sacrifices.” The Wanderer’s face was grave. “You may be mad or not,” he said. “I cannot tell. But you say monstrous things, and you shall not repeat them.” “Did she not say that I might speak?” asked Kafka with a bitter laugh. “I will keep my word,” said Unorna. “You seek your own destruction. Find it in your own way. It will not be the less sure. Speak--say what you will. You shall not be interrupted.” The Wanderer drew back, not understanding what was passing, nor why Unorna was so long-suffering. “Say all you have to say,” she repeated, coming forward so that she stood directly in front of Israel Kafka. “And you,” she added, speaking to the Wanderer, “leave him to me. He is quite right--I can protect myself if I need any protection.” “You remember how we parted, Unorna?” said Kafka. “It is a month to-day. I did not expect a greeting of you when I came back, or, if I did expect it, I was foolish and unthinking. I should have known you better. I should have known that there is one half of your word which you never break--the cruel half, and one thing which you cannot forgive, and which is my love for you. And yet that is the very thing which I cannot forget. I have come back to tell you so. You may as well know it.”