Author VHr. laaaca" '©■»'
CHAPTER XIX—Continued.
“We were talking together, this
woman and I. She looked at me—she
wa-. angry—and then I fainted, or
fell asleep, I cannot tell which. I
awoke in the dark to find mvself lying
on the altar here. Then she took hold
of me and tried to make me sleep
again. But I would not. Let her ex
plain, herself, what she has done,
and why she brought me here!”
Sister Paul turned to Unorna and
met the full glare of her eatliko eyes
with her own calm, half-heavenly
look of innocence.
“What have you done Unorna?
What have you done?” she asked very
sadly.
But Unorna did not answer. She
only looked at the nun more fixedly
and savagely.
“Sleep!” said Unorna, putting up
her hand. “Sleep, I command you!”
But Sister Paul’s eyes did not
waver. A sad smile played for a mo
ment upon her waxen features.
“You have no power over me—for
your power is not of good.” she said,
slowly and softly.
Then she quietly turned to Beatrice
and took her hand.
“Come with me, my daughter.” I
have a light and will take you to a
place where you will be safe. She
will not trouble you any more to
night. Say a prayer, my child, and
do not be afraid.”
“I am not afraid,” said Beatrice.
“But where is she?” she asked sud
denly.
Unorna had glided away while they
were speaking. Sister Paul held the
lamp high and looked in all dir ections.
Then she heard the heavy door of the
sacristy swing upon its hinges and
strike with a soft thud against the
small leathern cushion. Both women
followed her, but as they opened the
door again a blast of cold air almost
extinguished the lamp. The night
wind was blowing in from the street.
“She is gone out,” said Sister Paul.
• Alone and at this hour—Heaven help
her!” It was as she said. Unorna
had escaped.
_
CHAPTER XX.
After leaving Unorna at the con
vent, the Wanderer had not hesitated
as to the course he should pursue.
Meanwhile, she was in danger. She
had aroused the violent and deadly
resentment of Israel Kafka, a man
who, if not positively insane, as Ke
york Arabian had hinted, was by no
means in a normal state of mind or
body; a man beside himself with love
and anger, and absolutely reckless of
life for the time being; a man who,
for the security of all concerned, must
be at least temporarily confined in a
place of safety, until a proper treat
ment and the lapse of a certain length
of time should bring him to his senses.
There were two reasons which de
termined the Wanderer to turn to Ke
york Arabian for assistance,besides his
wish to see the bad business end
quickly and without publicity. Ke
york, so far as the Wanderer was
aware, was himself treating Israel
Kafka’s case, and would; therefore,
know what to do, if any one knew at
all. Secondly, it was clear from
the message which Unorna had
left with the porter of her
own house that she expected
Keyork to come at any moment. He
was, then, in immediate danger of be
ing brought face to face with Israel
Kafka without having received the
least warning of his present condition,
and it was impossible to say what the
infuriated youth might do at such a
moment. He had been shut up, caught
in his own trap, as it were, for some
time, and his anger and madness
might reasonably be supposed to have
been aggravated rather than cooled
by his unexpected confinement.
The VY anderer drove to Keyork
Arabian's house, and, leaving his car
riage to wait in case of need, ascended
the stairs and knocked at the door.
“My dear friend!” Keyork exclaimed
in his richest and deepest voice, as he
recognized the YY'anderer. “Come in.
I am delighted to see you. You will
join me at supper. This is good in
deed!”
He took his visitor by the arm and
led him in. Upon one of the tables
stood a round brass platter covered,
so far as it was visible, with arabic in
scriptions, and highly polished—one
of those commonly used all over the
East at the present day for the same
purpose. Upon this were placed at
landom several silver bowls, mere
hemispheres, without feet, remaining
in a convenient position by their
own weight. One of these contained
snowy rice, in that perfectly dry but
tender state dear to the taste of Ori
entals; in another there was a savory,
steaming mess of tender capon,
chopped in pieces with spices and
aromatic herbs; a third contained a
pure white curd of milk, and a fourth
was heaped up with rare fruits.
A flagon of Bohemian glass, clear and
bright as rock crystal and covered
with very beautiful traceries of black
and gold, with a drinking vessel of
the same design, stood upon the table
beside the platter.
“Hy simple meal,” said Keyork,
spreading out his hands and smiling
Q-flClDiaa* HRQMflN SlflGER'stn
pleasantly. “You will share it witk
me. There will be enough for two.
“So far as that is concerned, I
should say so,” the Wanderer an
swered with a smile. ■ ‘Hut my busi
ness is rather urgent.”
Suddenly he saw that there was s
third person in the room, and glanced
at Keyork in surprise.
“I want to speak a few words with
you, alone,” he said. “I would not
trouble you. but—”
“Not in the least, not in the' least,
my dear friend!” asservated Keyork.
motioning him to a chair beside the
board.
“But we are not alone,” observed
the Wanderer, still standing and look
ing at the stranger. Keyork saw the
glance and understood. He broke into
peals of laughter.
“That!" ho exclaimed presently.
“That is only the Individual. He
will not disturb us. Pray be seated.”
“I assure you that my business is
very private—” the Wanderer ob
jected.
“Quite so—of course. But thtre is
nothing to fear. The Individual is
my servant—a most excellent creat
ure, who has been with me for many
years. He cooks for me, cleans the
specimens and takes care of me in all
ways. A most reliable man, I assure
you.
“Of course,” the Wanderer said,
“if you can answer for his discre
tion—”
The Individual was standing at a
little distance irom the table, observ
ing the two men intently but respect
fully with his keen little black eyes.
The rest of his square, dark face ex
pressed nothing; he had perfectly
straight jet black hair which hung
evenly all around his head and flat
against his cheeks. He was dressed
entirely in a black robe of the nature
of a kaftan, gathered closely around
his waist by a black girdle and fitting
tightly over his stalwart shoulders.
“His discretion is beyond all doubt,”
Keyork answered, “and for the best
of all reasons. He is totally deaf and
dumb and absolutely illiterate. I
bought him years ago in Astrakhan,
of a Russian friend. He is very clever
with his fingers. It is he who stole
for me the Malayan lady’s head over
there, after sue was executed. And
now, my dear friend, let us have sup
per.
There were neither plates nor knives
nor forks upon the table, and at a sign
from Keyork the Individual retired to
procure those Western incumbrances
to eating. The Individual returned,
bringing ivith other things, a drink
ing glass for the Wanderer. Keyork
filled it, and then filled his own. As
he raised his glass to his lips his eyes
twinkled.
“To Keyork's long life and happi
ness,” he said, calmly, and then sipped
the wine. “And now for your story,”
he added, brushing the brown drops
from his white mustache.
The effect of the announcement
upon Keyork was so extraordinary
that the Wanderer started, not being
prepared for any manifestation of
what seemed to be the deepest emo
tion.
“Unorna is quite safe,” the Wan
derer hastened to say.
“Safe—where?” shouted the little
man, his hands already on his furs.
The Individual, too. had sprung across
the room like a cat, and was helping
him.
“In a convent. I took her there
and saw the gates close behind her.”
“You have saved my life—the curse
of the three black angels on you for
not saying so first!” he cried, in an
agony of eestacy. “Preserver! What
can 1 do for you— savior of my ex
istence, how can I repay you! You
shall live forever, as I will, you shall
have all my secrets, the gold 'spider
shall spin her w*b in your dwelling,
the part of fortune shall shine on your
path, it shall rain jewels on your roof,
and. your winter shall have snows of
pearls—you shall——”
“Good heavens! Keyork,” inter
rupted the Wanderer. “Are you
mad?”
“Had? The matter? 1 love you!
I worship you! I adore you! You
have saved her life, and you have
saved mine.”
“Be sensible, Keyork. Unorna is
quite safe—”
The rest of his speech was drowned
in ar.otncr shout from the gnome, end
ing {in a portentous peal of laughter.
He had taken his glass again and wf.s
toasting himself.
“To Keyork, to his long life, to his
happiness.”
The wine seemed to steady him and
he sat down again in his place.
“Come,” he said. “Let us eat first.
I have an amazing appetite, arfd Israel
Kafka can wait.”
“Do you think eo? Ik-it safe?” the
Wanderer asked.
• ‘Perfectly, ” rettnweftKeyork, grow
ing quite calm again. “The locks are
very good on those doors. I saw to
them myself.”
“But some one else—”
“There is no some one else.” inter
rupted the sage, sharply. “Only
three persons can enter the house with
out question—you. I and Kafka. You
and I are here, and Kafka is there al
ready.”
He had helped his friend and began
I
eating. Somewhat reassured, tht
Wanderer followed his example.
••It just occurs tome,” said Keyork.
fixing his keen eyes on his compan
ion’s face, “that you have told me ab
solutely nothing, except that Kafka i*
mad and that Unorna is .-afe.”
••Those are the most important
points,” observed the Wanderer.
“Precisely. But I am sure that
you will not think me indiscreet if 1
wish to know a little more.”
The Wanderer saw that some ex
planation was nece.-s try, and he de
termined to give onejn as few words
as possible.
“Unorra and I had strolled into tht
Jewish cemttery,” lie said. “Whits
we were talking there, Israel Kafka
suddenly came upon us and spoko and
acted very wildly. He is madly in
lovo with her. She beeame very an
gry and would not let me interfere.
Then by way of punishment for his in.
trusion I suppose, she hypnotized him
and made him believe that lie was Si
mon Abe'es, and brought the whole 6!
the poor boy’s lire so vividly before
me, as I listened, that I actually
seemed to sej the scenes. I was quite
unable to stop her or to move from
where I stood, though I was quite
awake. But I realized what was go
ing on, and I was disgusted at her
cruel'y to the unfortunate man.
He tainted at the end but when he
came to himself lie seemed to remem
ber nothing. I took him home and
Unorna went away herself. Then lie
questioned me so closely as to what
had happened that 1 was weg.k enough
to tell him the truth. Of course, as a
fervent Hebrew, which ho seemed to
be, he did not relish the idea of having
played the Christian martyr for
Unorna’s amusement, and amidst the
grave of his own people, lie there
and then impressed mo that he in
tended to take Unorna’# life with
out delay. but insisted that I
should warn her of her danger, saying
that he would not be a common mur
derer. Seeing that he was mad and in
earnest, I went to her. There was
some delay, which proved fortunate,
as it turned out, for wo left by the
small door just as he was entering
from the other end. We locked it be
hind us, and. going around by the
passages, iocked the other door upon
him also, so that he was caught in a
trap. And there he is, unless some
one lias let him out.”
“And then you took Unorna to the
convent?”
‘•I took her to the convent, promis
ing to come to her when she should
send for me. Then I saw that I must
consult you before doing anything
more. It will not do to make a scan
dal of the matter.”
■•No,” answered Keyork, thought
fully, “it will not do.”
i’he Wanderer had told his story
with perfect truth and yet in a way
which entirely concealed the very im
portant part Unorna’s passion for him
had played in the sequence of events.
“There will be no difficulty in se
curing Kafka,” Keyork said. “The
real question is, what shall we do with
him? lie is very much in the way at
present, and he must be disposed of at
once, or we shall have more trouble.
How infinitely more to the purpose it
would have been if he had wisely de
termined to cut his own throat instead
of Unorna’s!”
“I will only say one thing,” said
the Wanderer, “and then I will leave
the direction to you. The poor fellow
has been driven mad by Unorna’s ca
price and cruelty. I am determined
that he shall not be made to suffer
gratuitously anything more.”
“Do you think Unorna was inten
tionally cruel to him? She has not a
cruel nature.”
“You would have changed your
mind, if you had seen her this after
uoon. I will not allow Kafka to be
ill treated.”
“No, no! of course not!” Keyork an
swered with eager assent; “but it may
be necessary to use whatever means
are most sure and certain.”
“I shall not quarrel with your
means,” the Wanderer said quietly,
“provided that there is no unneces
sary brutality.”
‘■Certainly, certainly!” said the
other, eying with curiosity the man
who spoke so confidently of taking out
of Keyork Arabian's grasp whatever
had once found its way into it.
“He shall be treated with every
consideration,” the Wanderer contin
ued. “Of course, if he is very violent,
we shall have to use force.”
“To avoid an enormous scandal
things must be done very quietly,”,
said Keyork.
“I cannot see anything to be done,
then, unless we bring him here.” saitl
the Wanderer, falling into the trap
from sheer perplexity. What Key
ork said was undeniably true.
“He would be a nuisance in the
house,” answered the sage. “Not
but that the Individual would make a
capital keeper. He is as gentle as he
is strong, and as quick as a tiger cat.”
“So far as that is concerned,” said
the Wanderer coolly, “I could take
charge of him myself.”
“You do not trust me,” said the
other with a sharp glance.
“My dear Keyork, we are old ac
quaintances. and I trust you implicit
ly to do whatever you have predeter
mined to do for the advantage of your
studies, unless some one interferes
with you. Before I could deliver him
into your hands I would require of you
a contract to give him hack unhurt—
a contract of the kind you would con
sider binding.”
Keyork Arabian wondered whether
Dnorna, in the recklessness of her
passion, had betrayed the nature of
the experiment.
CHAPTER XXI.
More than an hour had elapsod
since the Wanderer and Unorna had
finally turned the key upon Israel
Kafka, leaving him to his own reflec
tions. During the first moments he
made desperate efforts to get out of
the conservatory, throwing him
self with all his weight and
strength against the doors and
thrusting the point of his long
knife into the aperture of the locks.
Then seeing that every attempt wat
fruitless, he desisted,and sat down, in
a state of complete exhaustion. A re
action began to set in after the furious
excitement of the afternoon, and he
felt at once that it was impossible foi
him to make another step or raise hit
arm to strike. A man lo-s sound
originally in bodily construction would
have broken down sooner, and it was
a proof of Israel Ka fka's extraordinary
vigor and energy that ho oi l not lose
his senses in a deleriom fevi r at the
moment when he felt that his stron.th
could bear no further strain.
But his thoughts, such as they were,
did not lack clearness lie saw that
his opportunity was gone, and he be
gan to think of the future, wondering
what would take place next. Assur
edly, when ho had come to I'norna’s
house with the iixed detormina ion to
take her life, the last tiling that he
had expected had been to be taken
prisoner and left to his own medita
tions. It was clear that the Wan
derer’s warning had been conveyed
without loss of time, and had saved
Unorna from her immediate fate.
Nevertheless, he did not regret hav
ing given her the opportunity of de
fending herself, lie had not meant
that there should be any secret about
the deed, for lie was ready to sacrifice
his own life in executing it.
Yet he was not altogether
He had neither Unorna’s inflM In
difference to physical danger, nor the
Wanderer’s calm superiority to fear.
He would not have made a good sol
dier, and he could not have faced
another man’s pistol at tifteen paces
without experiencing a mental and
bodily commotion not unlike terror,
which he might or might not have
concealed from others, but which
would in any case have been painfnlly
apparent to himself.
ihe key turned in the lock and the
bolt was slipped back. Instantly
Israel Kafka’s energy returned. He
rose quickly and hid himself in the
shrubbery in a position from which
he could observe the door. We had
seen Unorna enter before, and had, of
course, heard her cry before the Wan
derer had carried her away] and he
had believed that she had wished to
face him, either with the intention of
throwing herself upon his mercy or in
the hope of dominating him with her
eyes, as she had so often done before.
The Wanderer entered first, tall,
stately, indifferent, the quick glance
of his deep eyes alone betraying that
he was looking for some one. Next
came Keyork Arabian, muffled still in
his furs, turning his head sharply from
side to side in the midst of the sable
collar that half buried it, and evi
dently nervous. Last of all, the Indi
vidual, who had divested himself of
his outer coat and whose powerful
proportions did not escape Israel
Kafka’s observations. It was clear
that if there was a struggle it could
have but one issue.
With cat-like tread he glided along
in the shadows of the foliage until he
could see the door. From the en
trance an open way was left in a
straight line towards the middle of
the hall, down which his pursuers
were still slowly walking. He must
cross an open space in the line of
their vision in order to get out, and
he calculated the distance to be
traversed, while listening to their
movements, until ho felt sure that
they were so far from the door as not
to be able to reach him. Then he
made his attempt, darting across the
smooth pavement with his knife in
his hand. There was no one in the
way.
Then came a violent shock, and he
was held as in a vice, so tightly that
he could not believe himself in the
arms of a human being. His captors
had anticipated that he would try to
escape, and bad posted the Individual
in the shadow of a tree near the door
way.
“It is of no use to resist,” said the
Wanderer, quietly. “We are too
strong for you.”
Kafka said nothing, but his blood
shot eyes glared up angrily at the tall
man’s face.
“He looks dangerous, and he still
has that thing in his hand,” said Ke
york Arabian. “I think I will give
him ether at once while the Individ
ual holds him. Perhaps you could do
it?”
“You will do nothing of the kind,”
the Wanderer answered. “What a
coward you are, Keyork!” he added,
contemptuously.
Going to Ivalfa’s side, he took him
by the wrist of the hand which held
the knife. But Kalfa still clutched it
grimly.
“You had better give it up,” he
said.
Kafka shook his head angrily and
set his teeth, but the Wanderer un
clasped the fingers by quiet force and
took the weapon away. He handed it
to Keyork, who breathed a sigh of re
lief as he looked at it, smiling at last,
and holding his head on one side.
“To think,” he soliloquized, “that
an inch of such pretty stuff as Da
mascus steel, in tfte right place, can
draw the sharp red line between time
and eternity!”
He put the knife tenderly away in
the bosom of his fur coat. His whole
manner changed and he came forward
with his usual almost jaunty step.
Released at last from the Individual’s
iron grasp, Israel Kafka staggered a
little. The Wanderer took him kindly
by the arm, supporting his steps and
leading him to a seat. Kafka glanced
suspiciously at him and at the other
two, but seemed unable to make any
further effort and sank back with a
low groan. His face grew pale and
his eyelids dropped.
“Get some wine—something to re
store him,” the Wanderer said.
Keyork looked at the Moravian erlt
ically for a moment.
••I told you that I would kill her—
md 1 will,” said Israel Kafka, faintly
hut distinctly.
“You will not kill her,” answered
his companion. ‘Twill prevent you
from attempting it, and as soon as you
are well you will see the absurdity of
the idea.”
Israel Kafka made an impatient
gesture, feenle, but sufficiently ex
pr. ssive. Then all at once his limbs
relaxed and his head fell forward on
his breast. The Wanderer started to
his feet and moved him into a more
comfortable position. There were
one or two quickly drawn breaths and
the breathing ceased altogether. At
that moment Keyork returned, carry
ing a bottle and a glass.
“It is too late.” said the Wanderer,
gravely. “Israel Kafka is dead.”
“I hate men who make statements
about things they do not understand,”
Keyork said viciously, looking up as he
spoke, but without any expression of
satisfaction. “He is no more dead
than you are—the greater pity!”
The Wanderer drew a long breath
of relief as he helped Keyork to make
the necessary arrangements.
•How long will it last?” he in
quired.
“How can 1 tell?” returned Keyork,
sharply. “Have you never heard of
a syncope? Do you know nothing
about anything?”
He had produced a bottle containing
some very strong salt and was apply
ing it to the unconscious man's nos
trils. The Wanderer paid no atten
tion to his irritable temper and stood
looking on. A long time passed and
yet the Moravian gave no further
signs of consciousness.
“It is clear be cannot stay hore if
he is to be seriously ill,” the Wander
er said.
“And it is equally clear that he can
not be taken away,” retorted Keyork.
Now, Keyork Arabian had no in
terest in allowing Israel Kafka to die,
though the Wanderer half believed
that he had, though he could not
imagine what that interest might be.
The Wanderer bent down and saw
that the eyelids were quivering and
that the face was less deathly livid
than before. Then the eyes opened
and stared dreamily at the glass roof.
“And I will,” said the faint, weak
voice, as though completing a sen
tence.
“I think not,” observed Keyork, as
though answering. “The people who
do what they they mean to do are not
always talking about will.” But
Kafka had closed his eyes again.
This time, however, his breathing
was apparent and he was evidently
returning to a conscious state.
“Do you think we can take him
home to-night?” inquired the Wan
derer.
“I think not,” he replied. “There
is nothing to be done but to keep him
quiet. Good-night. I am tired of all
this nonsense, and I do not mean to
lose my night’s rest for all the Israels
in Jewry—or all the Jews in Israel.
You can stay with him if you please.”
He did not dare to take upon him
self the responsibility of calling some
one to help him and of removing the
Moravian in his present condition.
The man was still very weak and
either altogether unconscious or sleep
ing the sleep of exhaustion. The
weather, too, was bitterly cold and
the exposure to the night air might
bring on immediate and fatal conse
quences. lie examined Kafka closely
and came to the conclusion that ho
was really asleep. To wake him
would be absolutely cruel as well as
dangerous. He looked kindly at the
weary face and then began to walk up
and down between the plants, coming
back at the end of every turn
to look again and assure himself that
no change had taken place.
Keyork’s precautions were in reality
useless, and they merely illustrate the
ruthlessly selfish character of the man.
The Wanderer would in all probability
neither have attempted to leave the
house with Kafka that night nor to
communicate with the servants, even
if he had been left free to do either
and if no one had disturbed him in his
watch. He was disturbed, however,
and very unexpectedly, between 1:30
and 1:4o in the morning.
More than once he had remained
seated for a long time, but his eyes
were growing heavy and he roused
himself and walked again until he was
thoroughly awake.
W hen the door was suddenly opened
he stood still in his walk and faced it.
He hardly recognized Unorna in the
pale, disheveled woman with circled
eyes who came toward him under the
bright light. She, too, stood still when
she saw him, starting suddenly. She
seemed to be very cold, for she shiv
ered visibly and her teeth were chat
tering. Without the least protection
against the bitter night-air she had
fled, bareheaded and cloakless,
through the open streets from the
church to her home.
“You here!” she exclaimed, in an
unsteady voice.
“Yes, I am still here,” answered
the Wanderer. “But I hardly ex
pected you to come back to-night,” he
added.
“And Israel Kafka?” she asked, al
most timidly.
“He is there—asleep.”
“He is very ill,” She said, almost
under her breath. “Tell me what
has happened?”
It was like a dream to her, The
tremendous excitement of what had
happened in the convent had cut her
off from the realization of what had
gone before.
As the new development of the sit
uation presented itself, the color
again rose to her cheeks. Tho
warmth of the conservatory, too, dis
pelled the chill that had penetrated
her, and the familiar odors of the
flowers contributed to restore the loet
equilibrium of mind and body.
"Tell mo what has happenod." she
said again.
"And for what, reason do you sup
pose that Koyork shut you in?” she
asked.
"I do not.know,” the Wanderer an
swered. "I do n<»[, trust him, though
I have known him so long.”
"It was mere selfishness.” said
Unorna. scornfully. "I know him
better than you do. He was afraid
you would disturb him again in the
night,”
The Wanderer said nothing, won
dering how any man could bo so
elaborately thoughtful of his own
comfort.
"There is no help for it,” Unorna
said, "we must watch together.”
"I see no other way,” the Wan
derer answered, indifferently.
You did not believe all I told you
this evening?” said Unorna, softly,
with an interrogation in her voice.
"No,” the Wanderer answered,
quietly. "I did not.”
"I am glad of that—I was mad
when I spoke.”
CHAPTER XXII.
The Wanderer was not inclined to
deny the statement, which accorded
well enough with his total disbelief of
the story Unorna had told him. Hut
he did not answer her immediately,
for ho found himself in a very difficult
position.
After Unorna hud spoken, the Wan
derer therefore held his peace. lie
inclined eis head a little, as though to
admit that her plea of madness might
not be wholly imaginary, but be said
nothing. He sat looking at Israel
Kafka’s sleeping face and outstretched
form.
“Yes,” she said, “I wasmad. You
cannot understand it. I dare say you
cannot even understand how I can
speak of it now, and yet I cannot help
speaking.”
“Unorna,” he said, gravely, “re
member that you are leaving me no
choice. I cannot leave you alone with
that poor fellow, and so whatever you
wish to say I must hear.”
“You are not so hard with me as
you were,” she said, thoughtfully,
after a moment’s hesitation, and there
was a touch of gratitude in her voice.
“It is not forme to be hard, as you
call it,” ho said quietly. There was
a scarcely perceptible smile on his
face, brought there not by any feeling
of satisfaction, but by his sense of his
own almost laughable perplexity,
lie saw that he was very near being
driven to the ridiculous necessity of
giving her some advice of the
parental kind. “It is not for
me, either, to talk to you of what you
have done to Israel Kafka to-day,” he
continued. “ Uo not oblige me to say
anything about it. It will be much
safer. You know it all better than I
do, and you understand your own
reasons as 1 never can. If you are
sorry for him now, so much the better
—you will not hurt him any more if
you can help it. If you will say that
much about the future I shall be very
glad, I confess.”
“Do you think there is anything
which I will not do—if you ask it?”
Unorna asked very earnestly.
“I do not know,” the Wanderer
answered, trying to seem to ignore the
meaning conveyed by her tone.
“Some things are harder to do than
others—”
. “Ask me the hardest!” she ex
claimed. “Ask mo lo tell you the
whole truth—”
“No,” he said, firmly, in the hope
of checking an outburst of passionate
speech. “What you have thought
and done is no concern of mine.”
“I could tell you—if you would let
me-”
“Do not tefl me,” ho interrupted.
“I repeat that I do not wish to know.”
“Shall we be friends again?”
Unorna asked a second time, in a low
tone. “Shall we go back to the be
ginning?”
“I do not see how that is possible,”
he answered, slowly.
“You might have spared me that!”
she said, turning her face away.
A few hours earlier his answer
would have brought fire to her eyes
and anger to her voice. But a real
change had come over her, not last
ing, perhaps, but strong in its im
mediate e fleets.
“Not even a little friendship left?”
she said, breaking the silence that
followed.
‘T cannot change myself, he an
swered, almost wishing that he could.
“I ought, perhaps, ” he added, as
though speaking to himself. “1 have
done enough harm as it is.”
“Harm? To whom?” She looked
round suddenly and saw the moisture
in his eye.
“To him,” he replied, glancing at
Kafka, “and to you. You loved him
once. I have ruined his life.”
“Loved him? No—I never loved
him.” She shook her head, wonder
ing whether she spoke the truth.
“You must have made him think
so.1,
“I? No—he is mad.” Uut she
shrunk before his honest look and
suddenly broke down. “No—I will
not lie to you—you are too true—yes.
I loved him, or thought I did. until
you came, and I saw that there was
no one-”
(to be continued. )
Uirpart of the Silk Worm,
The thread of the silk worm is so
small that an average of forty-two of
them are twisted together to form a
thread of common sewing silk: that
of the spider is many diameters
smaller. Two drachms of spider web
by weight would, if stretched into a
straight line, reach from London, En
gland, to Edinburgh. Scotland, a di*
tance of over 400 miles.
The value of diamonds and other
precious stones imported into thia.
country in a single year is set at about
118,000,000.