The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, May 26, 1893, Image 3

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    i l Author .r-vb» isaaca' *©r.
CHAPTER XV—Continued.
“Lay on, Levi, lay on!”
“Nay,” answered the strong rabbi,
“the boy will die. Let us leave him
here for this night.”
“As thou sayest.”
Again there was silenoe. Soon the
rays of light ceased to shine through
the crevices of the outer shutters, and
Bleep descended upon the quarter of
the Jews. Still the scene in the vis
ion changed i, t.
“Lord, if it be thy will that I die,
grant that I may bear all in thy name,
grant that I, unworthy, may endure
in this body the punishment duo me
in spirit for my sins. And if it be
thy will that I live, let my life be
used also for thy glory ”
The voice ceased and the cloud of
passing time descended upon the vis
ion and was lifted again and again.
“I believe,” it said, always. “Do
what you will, you have power over
the body, but 1 have the faith over
which you have no power.
So the days and the nights passed,
and though the prayer came up in
feeble tones, it was born of a mighty
spirit, and it rang in the ears of the
tormentors as the voice of an angel
which they had no power to silence,
appealing from them to the tribunal of
the throne of God most high.
Day by day, also, the rabbis and
the elders began to congregate to
gether at evening before the house of
Lazarus, and to talk with him and
with each other, debating how they
might break the endurance of his son
and bring him again into the syna
gogue as one of themselves.
■ “He is possessed of a devil,” they
said. “He will die and repent not.”
“He has not repented,” said Laz
arus, from his place. “Neither many
stripes, nor cold, nor hunger, nor
thirst, have moved him to righteous
ness. It is written that he shall be
cut off from his people.”
“We will not let him go,” said the
dark man, and an evil smile flickered
from one face to another as a firefly
flutters from tree to tree in the night
—as though the spirit of evil had
touched each one in turn.
■•no win not let mm go, saicx eacn
Lazarus also smiled, as though in
assent, and bowed his head a little be
fore he spoke.
••I am obedient to your judgment.
It is yours to command, and mine to
obey. If you say that he must die,
let him die. He is my son. Take
him. Did not our father Abraham
lay Isaac upon the altar and offer
him as a burnt sacrifice before the
“Let him die,” said the rabbis.
“Then let him die, ” answered Laza
rus. “I am yourservant. It is mine
to obey.”
“His blood be on our heads,” they
said. And again the evil smile went
, “It is then expedient that we de
tei'mine of what manner his death
shall be,” continued the father, in
clining his body to signify his sub
“It is not lawful to shed his blood,”
said the rabbis. “And we cannot stone
him, lest we be brought to judgment
of the Christians. Determine thou
the manner of his death.”
“My masters, if you will 'Sfe it, let
him be bi-ought once more hjfore us.
Let us all hear with our ears his de
nial, and, if he repent at the last, it is
well, let him live. But if he harden
his heart against our entreaties, let
him die. Levi hath brought certain
pieces of wood hither to my house,
and is even now at work. If the
youth is still unboim in his belief, let
him die even as the Unbeliever died—
by the righteous judgment of the Ro
“Let i.t be so. Let him be cruci
fied!” said the l’abbis with one voice.
Then Lazai'us rose and went out,
and, in the vision, the rabbis remained
seated, motionless in their places,
awaiting his return. The noise of
Levi’s hammer echoed through the
vaulted chamber, and at each blow
the smoking lamp quivei’ed a little,
casting stimuge shadows upoD the
evil faces beneath its light. At last
footsteps, slow and uncertain, were
heard without, the low door opened,
and Lazarus entei'ed, holding up the
body of his son before him.
“I have brought him before you for
the last time.” he 6aid. “Question
him and hear his condemnation out of
his own mouth. He l-epents not,
though I have done my utmost to
bring him back into the path of right
eousness. Question him, my masters,
and b-t us see what he will say.”
\Y 1 xtnd exhausted with long hun
ger iiuu inurat, ni3 ooay DroKen oy
torture, scarcely any longer sensible
to bodily pain, Simon Abeles would
have fallen to the ground had his
father not held him under the arms.
“Hearest thou, Simon, Bon of Laz
arus?” asked the rabbis. “Knowest
thou in whose presence thou stand
• ■I hear you, and I know you all.”
There was no fear in the voice,
though it trembled from weakness.
“Benounce, then, thy errors, and
having suffered the chastisement of
thy folly, return to the ways of thy
father ami of thy father’s house and
of all thy people.”
“I renounce my sins, and whatso
ever is yet left for me to suffer, [ will,
by God's help, so bear it as to be not
unworthy of Christ’s mercy.”
“It is as wo feared,” they said*
“He is unrepentant and he is worthy
of death. It is not expedient that the
young adder should live. There is
poison under his longue, and lie
speaks things not lawful for an Israel
ite to heur. Let him die, that wo
may see him no more, and that our
children be not corrupted by his false
teachings. ”
“llearest thou? Thou slialt die.”
It was Lazarus who spoke, while
holding up the boy before the table
and hissing the words into liis ear.
It was soon done. The two men
took up the cross and sot it, with the
body hanging thereon, against the
wall of the narrow court, over against
the house of Lazarus.
“Thou mayest still repent during
this night,” said the father, holding
up the horn lantern and looking into
his son’s tortured face.
“Ay—there is yet time,” said Lovi,
brutally. “He will not die so soon.”
“Lord, into thy hands I commend
my spirit,” said the weak voiee once
Then Lazarus raised his hand and
struck him once more on tho mouth,
as he had done on the first night when
he had seized him near the church.
But Levi, the Short-handed, as though
in wrath at seeing all his torments
fail, dealt him one heavy blow just
where the ear joins the neck, and it
was over at last. A radiant smile of
peace flickered over the pale face,
the eyelids quivered and closed, tho
head fell forward on the breast, and
the martyrdom of Simon Abeles was
inio tne aarK court came the rab
bis, one by one, from the inner cham
ber, and each, as he came, took up
the born lantern and held it to tbo
dead face, and smiled, and spoke a
few words in the Hebrew tongue, and
then went out into the street until
only Lazarus and Levi were left alone
with the dead body. Then they de
bated what they should do, and for a
time they went into the house and re
freshed themselves with food and
wine, and comforted each other, well
knowing that they had done an evil
deed. And they came back when it
was late, and wrapped the body in the
coarse cloth and carried it out stealth
ily, and buried it in the Jewish ceme
tery, and departed again to their own
‘•And there he lay," said Unorna.
■ ‘the hoy of your race who was faith
ful to death. Have you sn-ered?
Have you for one short hour known
the meaning of such great words as
you dared to speak to me? Do you
know now what it means to be a mar
tyr, to suffer for what you believe, to
perish in your sufferings? You are
stH’ ling on the very spot where he
lay, you have felt in some small de
gree a part of what he must have
felt. You live. Be warned. If again
you anger me. your life shall not bo
spared you."
The visions had all vanished.
Again the wilderness of gravestones
and lean, crooked trees appeared,
wild and desolate as befoie. The
Wanderer roused himself and saw
Unorna standing beside Israel Kafka's
prostrate body. As though suddenly
released from a spell, he sprang for
ward and knelt down, trying to revive
the unconscious man by rubbing bis
hands and chafing his temples.
Note—The deeds here described
were done in Prague on the 21st day
of February in the year 1691. Laz
arus and his accomplice Levi Kurtz
handel, or Breylmanus, or “the
Short-handed," were betrayed by
their own people. Lazarus hanged
himself in prison and Levi suffered
death by the wheel—repentant, it is
said, and himself baptized. A full ac
count of the trial, written in Latin,
was printed, and a copy of it may be
seen in the State Museum in Prague.
The body of Simon Abells was°ex
humed, and rests in the Teyn Church,
in the chapel on the left of the high
altar. The slight extension of certain
scenes not fully described in the Latin
volume will be pardoned in a work of
HE Wanderer
glanced at Unor
na’s face and saw
the expression of
relentless hatred
\ which had set
I tied upon her
[j During the last
month he had
lived a life of
bo’ :v and mental
* ■•i.iulence, in
v ;.ieh all his
keenest percep
' uons ana strong
est instincts had been lulled into
a semi-dormant state. Unknown
to himself, the mainspring of all
thought ana action had been taken
out of his existence, together with the
very memory of it. For years he had
lived and moved and wandered over
the earth, in obedience to one dom
inant idea.
The belief in a great cruelty and a
greater injustice roused the mail who
throughout so many days had lived
in calm indifference to every aspect
of the humanity around him. Seeing
that Israel Kafka could not be re
stored to consciousness, he rose to
his feet again and stood between the
prostrate victim and Unorna.
“You are killing this man instead
of saving him,” hesaid. “His crime,
you say, is that he loves you. Is iliat
a reason for using all your powers to
destroy him in body and mind?”
••Perhaps,” answered Unorna,calm
ly, though there was still a dangerous
light in her eyes.
“No. It is no reason.” answered
the Wanderer with a deei-ion to which
Unorna was not accustomed. “Ke
york tells me the man is mad. He
may be. But he loves you, and de
serves mercy of you.”
“Whatever your art may be. you
use it badly and cruelly. A moment
ago I was blinded myself. If I bad
understood dourly while you were
speaking that you were making this
poor fello.w suffer in himself the hide
ous agony described. I would have
stopped you. Y'ou blinded me as you
dominated him. But I am not blind
now. You shall not torment him any
“And how would you have s .opped
me? How can you hinder me now?”
asked Unorna.
“By force, if need bo,”he answered,
very quietly.
“You talk of force to a woman!”
she exclaimed, contemptuously. “You
are indeed brave!”
“Y’ou are not a woman. Y'ou are
the incarnation of cruelty. I bavo
seen it.”
His eyes wore cold and his voice
was stern. Unorna felt a very sharp
pain and shivered as though she were
“■ lon do not know,” she answered.
“How should you?” Her glance fell
and her voice trembled.
“I know enough,” he said. He
turned coldly from her, and knelt
again beside Israel Kafka.
He raised the pale head and sup
ported it upon his knee, and gazed
anxiously into the face, raising the
lids with his linger, as though to con
vince himself that the man was not
dead. Indeed, there seemed to be
but little life left in him, as he lay
there with outstretched arms and
twisted fingers, scarcely breathing.
In such a place, without so much as
the commonest restorative to aid him,
the Wanderer saw that he had but
little chance of success.
Then she heard footsteps on the
frozen path, and turning quickly she
saw that the Wanderer had lilted
Kafka’s body from the ground and
was moving rapidly away, toward the
entrance of the cemetery. He was
leaving her in anger, without a word.
She turned very pale and hesitated.
Then she ran forward to overtake
him. but he, hearing her approach,
quickened his stride, seemiug but lit
tle hampered in his pac3 by the
burden he bore. But Unorna, too,
was fleet of foot and strong.
“Stop!” she cried, laying hor hand
upon iiis arm. “Stop! Hear me!
Do not leave me so!”
But he would not pause and hurried
onward toward the gate.
“Stop!” she cried again. “1 will
save him—I will obey you—I will be
kind to him—he will die in your arms
if you do not let me help you—oh!
for the love of Heaven, wait one mo
ment! Only one moment!”
She so thrust herself in the Wan
derer’s path, hanging upon him and
trying to tear Kafka from his arms
that lie was forced to stand still and
face her.
“Let me pass!” ho exclaimed, mak
ing another effort to advance. But
she clung to him and he could not
“No—I will not let you go,” she
murmured. You can do nothing
without me, you will only kill -him as
I would have done a moment ago—”
“And as you will do now,” he said
sternly, “if I let you have your way. ”
“By all that is holy in heaven, I
will save him—he shall not even re
“Ho not swear. I shall not believe
“You will believe when you see—
you will forgive me—you will under
derstand. ’ ’
Without answering he exerted his
strength and, clasping the insensible
man more firmly in his arms, he made
one or two steps forward. Unorna's
foot slipped on the frozen ground and
she would have fallen to the earth,
but she clung to him with desperate
energy. Seeing that she was in dan
ger of some bodily hurt if he used
greater force, the Wanderer stopped
again, uncertain how to act. Unorna
stood before him, panting a little from
the struggle, her face as white as
“Unless you kill me,” she said, “you
shall not take him away so. Hold
him in your arms, if you will, but lot
me speak to him.”
“And how shall I know that you
will not harm him, you who hate him
sa you do?”
“Am I not at your mercy?” asked
Unorna. “If I deceive you, can you
not do what you will with me, even if
I try to resist you, which I will not?
Hold me if you choose, lest I should
escape you, and if Israel Kafka does
not recover his strength and his con
sciousness, then take me with you and
deliver me up to justice as a witch—
as a murderess, if you will.”
The Wanderer was silent for a mo
ment. Then he realized that what
she said was true. She was in his
“Restore him if you can,” he said.
Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka’s
forehead, and bending down, whis
pered into his ear words which wert
inaudible even to the man who held
“IIow came I here?” he asked In
surprise. “What has happened to
“You fainted,” said Unorna. quiet
ly. “You remember that you were
very tired after your journey. The
walk was too much for you. We will
take you home.”
“Yes—yes—I must have fainted.
Forgive me—it comes over me some
He evidently had complete control
of his faculties at the present moment,
but he glanced curiously from the one
to the other of his two companions, as
they all three began to walk toward
the gate. Unorna avoided his -yes.
and seemed to be looking at the
ular slabs they passed on their way.
In the dilemma in which the Wander
er found himself there was nothing to
be done but to bo guided by circum
stances. He was not willing to leave
Kafka alone with the woman who hated
him, and he saw no means of escaping
her society so long as she choose to im
pose it upon them both. He supposed,
too. that Unorna realized this as well
as he did, and he tried to be prepared
for all events by revolving all the
possibilities in his mind.
But Unorna was absorbed by very
different thoughts. From time to
time she stole a glance at his face,
and she saw that it was stern and
cold as ever. She had kept
her word, but he did not relent. A
terrible anxiety overwhelmed her. It
was possible, even probable, that he
would henceforth avoid her. She had
gone too far. She had not reckoned
upon such a nature as his, capable of
being roused to implacable anger by
mere sympathy for the suffering of an
other. Then, understanding it at
last, she had thought it would be
enough that those sufferings should
be forgotten by him upon whom they
had been inflicted. She could not
comprehend tlio horror he felt for her
self and for her hideous cruelty. She
had entered the cemetery in the con
seiousness of her strong will and of
her mysterious powers certain of vic
tory; sure, that having once sacrificed
her pride and stooped so low as to
command what should have come of
itself, she should see his face change
and hear the ring of passion in his
passionless voice. She had failed in
that, and utterly. She had been sur
prised by her worst enemy. She had
been laughed to scorn in the moment
of her deepest humiliation, and she
had lost the foundations of friendship
in the attempt to build upon them the
hanging garden of an artificial love.
In that moment, as they reached the
gate, Unorna was not far from de
A Jewish boy, with puffed red lips
and curving nostrils, was loitering at
the entrance. The Wanderer told him
to find a carriage.
“Two Carriages,” said Unorna.
qui-kly. The boy ran out. -Twill
go home alone,” she added. “You
two can drive together.”
“It is the best arrangement—do you
not think so?” she asked.
“Quite the best.”
“I shall be gratified if you will
bring me word of him,” she said,
glancing at Kafka.
The Wanderer was silent as though
he had not heard.
“Have you been in pain? Do you
feel as though you had been suffer
ing?” she asked of the youuger man.
in a tone of sympathy and solicitude.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Permit me,” he said. “I was be
fore you here.”
“You will let me know, will you
not?” she said. “I am anxious about
He raised his eyebrows a little, and
dropped her hand.
“You shall be informed, ” he said.
Kafka helped her get into the car
ljfcge. She drew him by the hand so
tfcat his head was inside the door, and
the other man could not hear her
“I am anxious about you,” she said,
very kindly. “Make him come him
self to me and tell me how you are.”
“Surely—if you asked him—”
“He hates me,” whispered Unorna
quickly. “Unless you make him
come, he will send no message.”
“Then let me come myself—I am
perfectly well” —
“Hush—no!” she answ-ered hur
riedly. ‘ ‘Do as I say—it will be best
for you—and for me. Good-by.”
“lour word is my law,” said
Kafka drawing back.
“You are in need of rest.” said the
Wanderer watching him curiously.
“Indeed, I am very tired, if not
actually ill.”
•■You have suffered enough to tire
the strongest.”
“In what way?” asked Kafka. “I
have forgotten what happened. 1
know that I followed Unorna to the
cemetery. I had been to her house,
and I saw you afterward together. I
had not spoken to her since I came
back from my long journey this morn
ing. Tell me what occurred. Did
she make me sleep? I feel as I have
felt before when I fancied that sheh^s
hypnotized me.”
“Yes,” he answered. “She made
you sleep.”
“Why? Do you know? If she
made me dream anythlng’I have for
gotten 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 hap
■ ‘I could not tell you the truth with
out sqying something which I have no
right to say to a strange r—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 Bared.
But I can guess, perhaps. You would
advise mo to giro up the attempt to
win her?”
“Precisely. I need say no more.”
“On the contrary,” said Kafka,
with sudden energy, “whon a mac
gives such advice as that to a stranger
he is bound to give also his reasons.”
The Wanderer looked at him calm
ly 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 bo her friend. As
for my interests in you, it doos 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.
“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 fool that
you are honest, and I see that you
are in earnest. I thank you. If I am
in danger, do hot try to save me. 1
saw her face a few moments ago,
and she spoke to me. I cannot be
lieve that she is plotting my destruc
"What did she say to me when I
was asleep?” he asked after a short
“Did you ever hear the story of
Simon Abeles?” the Wanderer in
quired, by way of answer.
Kafka frowned and looked round
“Simon Abeles? He was a renegado
Hebrew boy. Ilis father killed him.
He is buried in the Teyn Church?
What of him? W'hat has he to do with
Unorna or with, me? I am myself a
Jew. The time has gone by when we
Jews hid our heads. I am proud of
what I am, and I will never be a
Christian. What can Simon Abeles
have to do with me?”
“Little enough, now that you are
“And when I was asleep—what
then? She made me see him, per
"She made you live his life. She
made you suffer all that he suffered'
“What?” cried Israel Kafka, in a
loud and angry tone.
“What I say,” returned the other,
“And you did not interfere? You
did not interfere? No—of course—I
forgot that you are a Christian.”
“I would have stopped her if 1
could,” he said.
1 ‘Were you sleeping, too?” asked
Kafka hotly.
“I cannot tell. I was powerless,
though I was conscious. I saw only
Simon Abeles in it all, though I
seemed to be aware that you and he
were one person. I did interfere so
soon as I was free to move. I think
I saved your life. I was carrying you
away in my arms when she waked
“1 Lhank you—I suppose it is as you
tell me. You could not move, but you
saw it all, you say. You saw me play
the part of the apostate, you heard
me confess the Christian's faith?”
“Yes—I saw you die in agony, con
fessing it still.”
Israel Kafka ground his teeth and
turned his face away. The Wanderer
was silent. A few moments latter the
carriage stopped at the door of
Kafka’s lodging. The latsr turned
to his companion, who was startled by
the change in the young face. The
mouth was not closely set, the fea
tures seemed bolder, the eyes harder
and more manly, a look of greater
dignity and strength was in the
“You do not love her?” he asked.
“Do you give me your word that you
do not love her?”
“If you need so much to assure you
of it, 1 give you my word. I do not
love her.”
"Will you come with me for a few
moments? I live here.”
The Wanderer made a gesture of
assent. In a few moments they found
themselves in a large room furnished
almost in eastern fashion, with few
objects, but those of great value.
Israel Kafka was alone in the world
and was rich. There were two or
three divans, a few low, octagonal,
inlaid tables, a dozen or more splen
did weapons hung upon the wall and
the polished wooden floor was partly
covered, with extremely rich carpets.
‘•Do you know what she said to
me when I helped her into the car
riage?” asked Kafka.
‘•No. I did not attempt to hear.”
“She did not mean that you should
hear her. She made mo promise to
send y/u to her with news of myself.
She SijfA that you hated her and would
not go to her unless I begged you to
do so. Is that true?”
‘•I have told you that I do not hate
her. I hate her cruelty. I will cer
tainly not go to her of my own
“She said that I had fainted. That
was a lie. She invented ii as an ex
cuse to attract you, on the ground of
her interest in my condition.”
“She hates me with an extreme
hatred. Her real interest lay in show
ing you how terrible that hatred
could be. It is not possible to con
ceive of anything more diabolically
bad than what she did to me. She
made me her sport—yours, too, per
haps, or she would, at least, have
wished it. On that holy ground
where my people lie in peace she
made me deny my faith, she made me,
in your eyes and her own, personate
a renegade of my race, she made me
confess in the Christian creed, she
made me seem to die for a belief I ab
■ mW
hor. Can you conceive of anything
more devilish? A moment inter tihe
smiles upon me and presses my hand,
andisanx’ous to know of my good
health. And but for you I should
never have known what she had done
to me. I owe you gratitude, though
it. be for the worst pain I ever have
suffered. Hut do you think i will for
give her?”
“You would bo forgiving if you
could.” said the Wanderer, ills own
anger rising again at the remem
brance of what he had seen.
“And do you think that I can love
“You are mistaken. I lovo hot
with all my heart. I will therefore
kill her.”
• She made me promise to bend you
to her, if you would go,” ho said.
“Will you go to her now?”
“What shall 1 tell he? I warn you
that since-”
“You need not warn me. 1 know
what you would say. Hut I will he no
common murderer. I will not kill
her as she would have killed me.
Warn her, not me. Go to her and
say, ‘Israel Kafka has promised
before God that he will take your
blood in expiation, and there is no es
cape from the man who is himsell
ready to die.’ Tell her to fly for her
life, and that quickly."
‘And what will you gain by doing
this murder?” asked the Wanderer,
calmly. He was revolving schemes
for Unorna’s safety, and half amazed
to find himself forced in common hu
manity to take her part,
“I shall free myself of my shame in
loving her, at the price of her blood
and mine. Will you go?”
“And what is to prevent me from
delivering you over to safe-keeping
before you do this deed?”
••You have no witness,” answered
Kafka with a smile. “You are a
stranger in the city and in this coun
try, and I am rich. I shall easily
prove that you '.ovo Unornu, and that
you wish to got rid of mo out of jeal
“That is true.” said the Wanderer,
thoughtfully. “1 will go.”
“Go quickly, then,” said Israel
Kafka, “ for I shall follow soon.”
As the Wanderer left the room, ho
saw the Moravian turn toward the
p aie where the keen, splendid east
ern weapons hung upon the wall.
HE Wanderer
knew that the ease
was urgent and the
danger great.
There was no mis
taking the tone ot
Israel Kafka’s
voice, nor the look
in his face.
Unorna’s act had
brought tho sever
al seemingly con
tradictory olo
ments of his char
acter to bear upon
one point. He had
'"ti reauzeu in me
same moment that it was impossible
for her to love him; that her
changing treatment of him was
not the result of caprice, but
of a fixed plan of her own. in the
’ execution of which she would spare
him neither falsehood nor insult; tha
to love such a woman was the lowest
degradation; that ho could neverthet
lessjnot destroy that love; and, finally,
that the only escape from his shame
lay in her destruction, and that this
must, in all probability, involve his
own death also. At the same time ho
felt that there was something solemn
in the expiation he was about to ex
act, something that accorded well
with the fierce traditions of ancient
Israel, and the deed should not be
done stealthily or in the dark. Unor
na must know that she was to die by
his hand, and why. He had no ob
ject in concealment, for his own life
was already ended by the certainty
that his love was hopeless, and on
the other hand, fatalist as he was, he
believed that Unorna could not es
cape him, and that no warning could
save her.
The Wanderer understood most of
these things as he hastened toward her
house through the darkening streets.
He saw himself in a very strange
position. Half an hour had not
elapsed since he had watched Unorna
driving away from the cemetery, and
had inwardly determined that ho
would never, if possible, set eyes
on her again. Scarcely two hours
earlier ho had been speak
ing to her of the sincere friend
ship which he felt was growing up for
her in his heart. Since then he had
learned, almost beyond the possibility
of a doubt, that she loved him, and
that he had learned, too, to despise
her. lie had left her, meaning that
the parting should be final, and now
he was hurrying to her house to give
her the warning which alone could
save her from destruction.
But there was aoant time for reflec
tion upon the problem of his own mis
i sion in the world as he hastened to
ward Unorna’s house. His present
mission was clear and simple enough,
though by no means easy of accom
plishment. What Israel Kafka had
told him was true. Should he attempt
a denunciation he would have little
chance of being believea- It would he
easy enough for Kafka to bring wit
nesses to prove his own love for
Unorna and the Wanderer’s intimacy
with her during the past month, and
the latter's consequent interest i.n dis
posing summit! lly of his Moravian
The water of the central basin of
the Mediterranean has been found to
be warmer, deuser, and richer in dis
solved salts than the western. While
a white disk was onlv visible at forty
three meters photographic plates were
affected at 500 meters.