"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 pa.s.sion in his face, but only wonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their strength, he stood upright and pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes as though trying to remember what had happened.

"How came I here?" he asked in surprise. "What has happened to me?"

"You fainted," said Unorna quietly. "You remember that you were very tired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will take you home."

"Yes--yes--I must have fainted. Forgive me--it comes over me sometimes."

He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the present moment, when he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his two companions, as they all three began to walk towards the gate. Unorna avoided his eyes, and seemed to be looking at the irregular slabs they pa.s.sed on their way.

The Wanderer had intended to free himself from her as soon as Kafka regained his senses, but he had not been prepared for such a sudden change. He saw, now, that he could not exchange a word with her without exciting the man's suspicion, and he was by no means sure that the first emotion might not produce a sudden and dangerous effect. He did not even know how great the change might be, which Unorna's words had brought about. That Kafka had forgotten at once his own conduct and the fearful vision which Unorna had imposed upon him was clear, but it did not follow that he had ceased to love her. Indeed, to one only partially acquainted with the laws which govern hypnotics, such a transition seemed very far removed from possibility. He who in one moment had himself been made to forget utterly the dominant pa.s.sion and love of his life, was so completely ignorant of the fact that he could not believe such a thing possible in any case whatsoever.

In the dilemma in which he found himself there was nothing to be done but to be guided by circ.u.mstances. He was not willing to leave Kafka alone with the woman who hated him, and he saw no means of escaping her society so long as she chose to impose it upon them both. He supposed, too, that Unorna realized this as well as he did, and he tried to be prepared for all events by revolving all the possibilities in his mind.

But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to time she stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern and cold as ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A terrible anxiety overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable, that he would henceforth avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not reckoned upon such a nature as his, capable of being roused to implacable anger by mere sympathy for the suffering of another. Then, understanding it at last, she had thought it would be enough that those sufferings should be forgotten by him upon whom they had been inflicted. She could not comprehend the horror he felt for herself and for her hideous cruelty.

She had entered the cemetery in the consciousness of her strong will and of her mysterious powers certain of victory, sure that having once sacrificed her pride and stooped so low as to command what should have come of itself, she should see his face change and hear the ring of pa.s.sion in that pa.s.sionless voice. She had failed in that, and utterly.

She had been surprised by her worst enemy. She had been laughed to scorn in the moment of her deepest humiliation, and she had lost the foundations of friendship in the attempt to build upon them the hanging gardens of an artificial love. In that moment, as they reached the gate, Unorna was not far from despair.

A Jewish boy, with puffed red lips and curving nostrils, was loitering at the entrance. The Wanderer told him to find a carriage.

"Two carriages," said Unorna, quickly. The boy ran out. "I will go home alone," she added. "You two can drive together."

The Wanderer inclined his head in a.s.sent, but said nothing. Israel Kafka's dark eyes rested upon hers for a moment.

"Why not go together?" he asked.

Unorna started slightly and turned as though about to make a sharp answer. But she checked herself, for the Wanderer was looking at her.

She spoke to him instead of answering Kafka.

"It is the best arrangement--do you not think so?" she asked.

"Quite the best."

"I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him," she said, glancing at Kafka.

The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard.

"Have you been in pain? Do you feel as though you had been suffering?"

she asked of the younger man, in a tone of sympathy and solicitude.

"No. Why do you ask?"

Unorna smiled and looked at the Wanderer, with intention. He did not heed her. At that moment two carriages appeared and drew up at the end of the narrow alley which leads from the street to the entrance of the cemetery. All three walked forward together. Kafka went forward and opened the door of one of the conveyances for Unorna to get in. The Wanderer, still anxious for the man's safety, would have taken his place, but Kafka turned upon him almost defiantly.

"Permit me," he said. "I was before you here."

The Wanderer stood civilly aside and lifted his hat. Unorna held out her hand, and he took it coldly, not being able to do otherwise.

"You will let me know, will you not?" she said. "I am anxious about him."

He raised his eyebrows a little and dropped her hand.

"You shall be informed," he said.

Kafka helped her to get into the carriage. She drew him by the hand so that his head was inside the door and the other man could not hear her words.

"I am anxious about you," she said very kindly. "Make him come himself to me and tell me how you are."

"Surely--if you have asked him--"

"He hates me," whispered Unorna quickly. "Unless you make him come he will send no message."

"Then let me come myself--I am perfectly well--"

"Hush--no!" she answered hurriedly. "Do as I say--it will be best for you--and for me. Good-bye."

"Your word is my law," said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were bright and his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had spoken so kindly to him. A ray of hope entered his life.

The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He understood that in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some mischief. Her carriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter the one intended for them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his lodgings. Then he sank back into the corner, exhausted and conscious of his extreme weakness. A short silence followed.

"You are in need of rest," said the Wanderer, watching him curiously.

"Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill."

"You have suffered enough to tire the strongest."

"In what way?" asked Kafka. "I have forgotten what happened. I know that I followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I saw you afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I came back from my long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred. Did she make me sleep? I feel as I have felt before when I have fancied that she has hypnotised me."

The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked as naturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of little or no weight.

"Yes," he answered. "She made you sleep."

"Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have forgotten it."

The Wanderer hesitated a moment.

"I cannot answer your question," he said, at length.

"Ah--she told me that you hated her," said Kafka, turning his dark eyes to his companion. "But, yet," he added, "that is hardly a reason why you should not tell me what happened."

"I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have no right to say to a stranger--which I could not easily say to a friend."