But there was scant time for reflection upon the problem of his own mission in the world as he hastened towards Unorna’s house.  His present mission was clear enough and simple enough, though by no means easy of accomplishment.  What Israel Kafka had told him was very true.  Should he attempt a denunciation, he would have little chance of being believed.  It would be easy enough for Kafka to bring witnesses to prove his own love for Unorna and the Wanderer’s intimacy with her during the past month, and the latter’s consequent interest in disposing summarily of his Moravian rival.  A stranger in the land would have small hope of success against a man whose antecedents were known, whose fortune was reputed great, and who had at his back the whole gigantic strength of the Jewish interest in Prague, if he chose to invoke the assistance of his people.  The matter would end in a few days in the Wanderer being driven from the country, while Israel Kafka would be left behind to work his will as might seem best in his own eyes.

There was Keyork Arabian.  So far as it was possible to believe in the sincerity of any of the strange persons among whom the Wanderer found himself, it seemed certain that the sage was attached to Unorna by some bond of mutual interests which he would be loth to break.  Keyork had many acquaintances and seemed to posses everywhere a certain amount of respect, whether because he was perhaps a member of some widespread, mysterious society of which the Wanderer knew nothing, or whether this importance of his was due to his personal superiority of mind and wide experience of travel, no one could say.  But it seemed certain that if Unorna could be placed for the time being in a safe refuge, it would be best to apply to Keyork to insure her further protection.  Meanwhile that refuge must be found and Unorna must be conveyed to it without delay.

The Wanderer was admitted without question.  He found Unorna in her accustomed place.  She had thrown aside her furs and was sitting in an attitude of deep thought.  Her dress was black, and in the soft light of the shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the midst of thick shrubbery in a garden.  Her elbow rested on her knee, her chin upon her beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was bright colour.

She knew the Wanderer’s footstep, but she neither moved her body nor turned her head.  She felt that she grew paler than before, and she could hear her heart beating strongly.

“I come from Israel Kafka,” said the Wanderer, standing still before her.

She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not look up.

“What of him?” she asked in a voice without expression.  “Is he well?”

“He bids me say to you that he has promised before Heaven to take your life, and that there is no escape from a man who is ready to lay down his own.”

Unorna turned her head slowly towards him, and a very soft look stole over her strange face.