“And you have brought me his message—­this warning—­to save me?” she said.

“As I tried to save him from you an hour ago.  But there is little time.  The man is desperate, whether mad or sane, I cannot tell.  Make haste.  Determine where to go for safety, and I will take you there.”

But Unorna did not move.  She only looked at him, with an expression he could no longer misunderstand.  He was cold and impassive.

“I fancy it will not be safe to hesitate long,” he said.  “He is in earnest.”

“I do not fear Israel Kafka, and I fear death less,” answered Unorna deliberately.  “Why does he mean to kill me?”

“I think that in his place most every human men would feel as he does, though religion, or prudence, or fear, or all three together, might prevent them from doing what they would wish to do.”

“You too?  And which of the three would prevent you from murdering me?”

“None, perhaps—­though pity might.”

“I want no pity, least of all from you.  What I have done, I have done for you, and for you only.”

The Wanderer’s face showed only a cold disgust.  He said nothing.

“You do not seem surprised,” said Unorna.  “You know that I love you?”

“I know it.”

A silence followed, during which Unorna returned to her former attitude, turning her eyes away and resting her chin upon her hand.  The Wanderer began to grow impatient.

“I must repeat that, in my opinion, you have not much time to spare,” he said.  “If you are not in a place of safety in half an hour, I cannot answer for the consequences.”

“No time?  There is all eternity.  What is eternity, or time, or life to me?  I will wait for him here.  Why did you tell him what I did, if you wished me to live?”

“Why—­since there are to be questions—­why did you exercise your cruelty upon an innocent man who loves you?”

“Why?  There are reasons enough!” Unorna’s voice trembled slightly.  “You do not know what happened.  How should you?  You were asleep.  You may as well know, since I may be beyond telling you an hour from now.  You may as well know how I love you, and to what depths I have gone down to win your love.”

“I would rather not receive your confidence,” the Wanderer answered haughtily.  “I came here to save your life, not to hear your confessions.”

“And when you have heard, you will no longer wish to save me.  If you choose to leave me here, I will wait for Israel Kafka alone.  He may kill me if he pleases.  I do not care.  But if you stay you shall hear what I have to say.”

She glanced at his face.  He folded his arms and stood still.  Whatever she had done, he would not leave her alone at the mercy of the desperate man whom he expected every moment to enter the room.  If she would not save herself, he might nevertheless disarm Kafka and prevent the deed.  As his long sleeping energy revived in him the thought of a struggle was not disagreeable.