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 passion 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 circumstances.  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 passion in that passionless 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.”