“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.”

“You need not spare me—­”

“It might save you.”

“Then say it—­though I do not know from what danger I am to be saved.  But I can guess, perhaps.  You would advise me to give up the attempt to win her.”

“Precisely.  I need say no more.”

“On the contrary,” said Kafka with sudden energy, “when a man gives such advice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his reasons.”

The Wanderer looked at him calmly as he answered.

“One man need hardly give a reason for saving another man’s life.  Yours is in danger.”

“I see that you hate her, as she said you did.”

“You and she are both mistaken in that.  I am not in love with her and I have ceased to be her friend.  As for my interest in you, it does not even pretend to be friendly—­it is that which any man may feel for a fellow-being, and what any man would feel who had seen what I have seen this afternoon.”

The calm bearing and speech of the experienced man of the world carried weight with it in the eyes of the young Moravian, whose hot blood knew little of restraint and less of caution; with the keen instinct of his race in the reading of character he suddenly understood that his companion was at once generous and disinterested.  A burst of confidence followed close upon the conviction.

“If I am to lose her love, I would rather lose my life also, and by her hand,” he said hotly.  “You are warning me against her.  I feel that you are honest and I see that you are in earnest.  I thank you.  If I am in danger, do not try to save me.  I saw her face a few moments ago, and she spoke to me.  I cannot believe that she is plotting my destruction.”

The Wanderer was silent.  He wondered whether it was his duty to do or say more.  Unorna was a changeable woman.  She might love the man to-morrow.  But Israel Kafka was too young to let the conversation drop.  Boy-like he expected confidence for confidence, and was surprised at his companion’s taciturnity.