none.  But I see it now.  Whether you will, or not, I shall be yours.  You may make a prisoner of me—­I shall be in your keeping then, and shall know it, and feel it, and love my prison for your sake, even if you will not let me see you.  If you would escape from me, you must kill me, as Israel Kafka means to kill me now—­and then, I shall die by your hand and my life will have been yours and given to you.  How can you think that I have no hope!  I have hope—­and certainty, for I shall be near you always to the end—­always, always, always!  I will cling to you—­as I do now—­and say, I love you, I love you—­yes, and you will cast me off, but I will not go—­I will clasp your feet, and say again, I love you, and you may spurn me—­man, god, wanderer, devil,—­whatever you are—­beloved always!  Tread upon me, trample on me, crush me—­you cannot save yourself, you cannot kill my love!”

She had tried to take his hand and he had withdrawn his, she had fallen upon her knees, and as he tried to free himself had fallen almost to her length upon the marble floor, clinging to his very feet, so that he could make no step without doing her some hurt.  He looked down, amazed and silent, and as he looked she cast one glance upward to his stern face, the bright tears streaming like falling gems from her unlike eyes, her face pale and quivering, her rich hair all loosened and falling about her.

And then, neither body, nor heart, nor soul, could bear the enormous strain that was laid upon them.  A low cry broke from her lips, a stormy sob, another and another, like quick short waves breaking over the bar when the tide is low and the wind is rising suddenly.

The Wanderer was in sore straits, for the minutes were passing quickly and he remembered the last look on Kafka’s face, and how he had left the Moravian standing before the weapons on the wall.  And nothing had been done yet, not so much as an order given not to admit him if he came to the house.  At any moment he might be upon them.  And the storm showed no signs of being spent.  Her wild, convulsive sobbing was painful to hear.  If he tried to move, she dragged herself frantically at his feet so that he feared lest he should tread upon her hands.  He pitied her now most truly, though he guessed rightly that to show his pity would be but to add fuel to the blazing flame.

Then, in the interval of a second, as she drew breath to weep afresh, he fancied that he heard sounds below as of the great door being opened and closed again.  With a quick, strong movement, stooping low he put his arms about her and raised her from the floor.  At his touch, her sobbing ceased for a moment, as though she had wanted only that to soothe her.  In spite of him she let her head rest upon his shoulder, letting him still feel that if he did not support her weight with his arm she would fall again.  In the midst of the most passionate and real outburst of despairing love there was no artifice which she would not use to be nearer to him, to extort even the semblance of a caress.