Unorna betrayed no surprise as she looked up into her visitor’s face.  She knew it well.  In form and feature the youth represented the noblest type of the Jewish race.  It was impossible to see him without thinking of a young eagle of the mountains, eager, swift, sure, instinct with elasticity, far-sighted and untiring, strong to grasp and to hold, beautiful with the glossy and unruffled beauty of a plumage continually smoothed in the sweep and the rush of high, bright air.

Israel Kafka stood still, gazing down upon the woman he loved, and drawing his breath hard between his parted lips.  His piercing eyes devoured every detail of the sight before him, while the dark blood rose in his lean olive cheek, and the veins of his temples swelled with the beating of his quickened pulse.

“Well?”

The single indifferent word received the value of a longer speech from the tone in which it was uttered, and from the look and gesture which accompanied it.  Unorna’s voice was gentle, soft, half-indolent, half-caressing, half-expectant, and half-careless.  There was something almost insolent in its assumption of superiority, which was borne out by the little defiant tapping of two long white fingers upon the arm of the carved chair.  And yet, with the rising inflection of the monosyllable there went a raising of the brows, a sidelong glance of the eyes, a slowly wreathing smile that curved the fresh lips just enough to unmask two perfect teeth, all of which lent to the voice a meaning, a familiarity, a pliant possibility of favourable interpretation, fit rather to flatter a hope than to chill a passion.

The blood beat more fiercely in the young man’s veins, his black eyes gleamed yet more brightly, his pale, high-curved nostrils quivered at every breath he drew.  The throbbings of his heart unseated his thoughts and strongly took possession of the government of his body.  Under an irresistible impulse he fell upon his knees beside Unorna, covering her marble hand with all his lean, dark fingers and pressing his forehead upon them, as though he had found and grasped all that could be dear to him in life.

“Unorna!  My golden Unorna!” he cried, as he knelt.

Unorna looked down upon his bent head.  The smile faded from her face, and for a moment a look of hardness lingered there, which gave way to an expression of pain and regret.  As though collecting her thoughts she closed her eyes, as she tried to draw back her hand; then as he held it still, she leaned back and spoke to him.

“You have not understood me,” she said, as quietly as she could.

The strong fingers were not lifted from hers, but the white face, now bloodless and transparent, was raised to hers, and a look of such fear as she had never dreamed of was in the wide black eyes.

“Not—­understood?” he repeated in startled, broken tones.

Unorna sighed, and turned away, for the sight hurt her and accused her.