The Wanderer inclined his head in assent, 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.”