But he would not pause, and hurried onward towards the gate, while she hung upon his arm, trying to hinder him and speaking in desperate agitation. She felt that if she let him go now, he would leave her for ever. In that moment even her hatred of Kafka sank into insignificance. She would do anything, bear anything, promise anything rather than lose what she loved so wildly. “Stop!” she cried again. “I will save him--I will obey you--I will be kind to him--he will die in your arms if you do not let me help you--oh! for the love of Heaven, wait one moment! Only one moment!” She so thrust herself in the Wanderer’s path, hanging upon him and trying to tear Kafka from his arms, that he was forced to stand still and face her. “Let me pass!” he exclaimed, making another effort to advance. But she clung to him and he could not move. “No,--I will not let you go,” she murmured. “You can do nothing without me, you will only kill him, as I would have done a moment ago--” “And as you will do now,” he said sternly, “if I let you have your way.” “By all that is Holy in Heaven, I will save him--he shall not even remember--” “Do not swear. I shall not believe you.” “You will believe when you see--you will forgive me--you will understand.” Without answering he exerted his strength and clasping the insensible man more firmly in his arms he made one or two steps forward. Unorna’s foot slipped on the frozen ground and she would have fallen to the earth, but she clung to him with desperate energy. Seeing that she was in danger of some bodily hurt if he used greater force, the Wanderer stopped again, uncertain how to act; Unorna stood before him, panting a little from the struggle, her face as white as death. “Unless you kill me,” she said, “you shall not take him away so. Hold him in your arms, if you will, but let me speak to him.” “And how shall I know that you will not hurt him, you who hate him as you do?” “Am I not at your mercy?” asked Unorna. “If I deceive you, can you not do what you will with me, even if I try to resist you, which I will not? Hold me, if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if Israel Kafka does not recover his strength and his consciousness, then take me with you and deliver me up to justice as a witch--as a murderess, if you will.” The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what she said was true. She was in his power. “Restore him if you can,” he said. Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka’s forehead and bending down whispered into his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who held him. The mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was almost instantaneous. He opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna and then at the Wanderer. There was neither pain nor passion in his face, but only wonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their strength, he stood upright and passed his hand over his eyes as though trying to remember what had happened.