As they disappeared in the corridor, they heard behind them the noise of the door-lock as some one tried to force it open. Then a heavy sound as though a man’s shoulder struck against the solid panel. Unorna led the way through a narrow, winding passage, illuminated here and there by small lamps with shades of soft colours, blown in Bohemian glass. Pushing aside a curtain they came out into a small room. The Wanderer uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise as he recognised the vestibule and saw before him the door of the great conservatory, open as Israel Kafka had left it. That the latter was still trying to pursue them through the opposite exit was clear enough, for the blows he was striking on the panel echoed loudly out into the hall. Swiftly and silently Unorna closed the entrance and locked it securely. “He is safe for a little while,” she said. “Keyork will find him there when he comes, an hour hence, and Keyork will perhaps bring him to his senses.” She had regained control of herself, to all appearances, and she spoke with perfect calm and self-possession. The Wanderer looked at her in surprise and with some suspicion. Her hair was all falling about her shoulders, but saving this sign, there was no trace of the recent storm, nor the least indication of passion. If she had been acting a part throughout before an audience, she would have seemed less indifferent when the curtain fell. The Wanderer, having little cause to trust her, found it hard to believe that she had not been counterfeiting. It seemed impossible that she should be the same woman who but a moment earlier had been dragging herself at his feet, in wild tears and wilder protestations of her love. “If you are sufficiently rested,” he said with a touch of sarcasm which he could not restrain, “I would suggest that we do not wait any longer here.” She turned and faced him, and he saw now how very white she was. “So you think that even now I have been deceiving you? That is what you think. I see it in your face.” Before he could prevent her she had opened the door wide again and was advancing calmly into the conservatory. “Israel Kafka!” she cried in loud clear tones. “I am here--I am waiting--come!” The Wanderer ran forward. He caught sight in the distance of a pair of fiery eyes and of something long and thin and sharp-gleaming under the soft lamps. He knew then that all was deadly earnest. Swift as thought he caught Unorna and bore her from the hall, locking the door again and setting his broad shoulders against it, as he put her down. The daring act she had done appealed to him, in spite of himself. “I beg your pardon,” he said almost deferentially. “I misjudged you.” “It is that,” she answered. “Either I will be with you or I will die, by his hand, by yours, by my own--it will matter little when it is done. You need not lean against the door. It is very strong. Your furs are hanging there, and here are mine. Let us be going.”