"You need not warn me. I know what you would say. But I will be 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 G.o.d that he will take your blood in expiation, and there is no escape from the man who is himself 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 humanity 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 country, and I am rich. I shall easily prove that you love Unorna, and that you wish to get rid of me out of jealousy."
"That is true," said the Wanderer, thoughtfully. "I will go."
"Go quickly, then," said Israel Kafka, "for I shall follow soon."
As the Wanderer left the room he saw the Moravian turn toward the place where the keen, splendid Eastern weapons hung upon the wall.
CHAPTER XVII
The Wanderer knew that the case was urgent and the danger great. There was no mistaking the tone of Israel Kafka"s voice nor the look in his face. Nor did the savage resolution seem altogether unnatural in a man of the Moravian"s breeding. The Wanderer had no time and but little inclination to blame himself for the part he had played in disclosing to the princ.i.p.al actor the nature of the scene which had taken place in the cemetery, and the immediate consequences of that disclosure, though wholly unexpected, did not seem utterly illogical. Israel Kafka"s nature was eastern, violently pa.s.sionate and, at the same time, long-suffering in certain directions as only the fatalist can be. He could have loved for a lifetime faithfully, without requital; he would have suffered in patience Unorna"s anger, scorn, pity or caprice; he had long before now resigned his free will into the keeping of a pa.s.sion which was degrading as it enslaved all his thoughts and actions, but which had something n.o.ble in it, inasmuch as it fitted him for the most heroic self-sacrifice.
Unorna"s act had brought the several seemingly contradictory elements of his character to bear upon one point. He had realised in the 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; that to love such a woman was the lowest degradation; that he could nevertheless not 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 he felt that there was something solemn in the expiation he was about to exact, something that accorded well with the fierce traditions of ancient Israel, and the deed should not be done stealthily or in the dark.
Unorna must know that she was to die by his hand, and why. He had no object 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 escape him and that no warning could save her.
The Wanderer understood most of these things as he hastened towards her house through the darkening streets. Not a carriage was to be seen, and he was obliged to traverse the distance on foot, as often happens at supreme moments, when everything might be gained by the saving of a few minutes in conveying a warning.
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 he would never, if possible, set eyes on her again. Scarcely two hours earlier, he had been speaking to her of the sincere friendship 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 he had learned, too, to despise her, he 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. And yet, he found it impossible to detect any inconsistency in his own conduct. As he had been conscious of doing his utmost to save Israel Kafka from her, so now he knew that he was doing all he could to save Unorna from the Moravian, and he recognised the fact that no man with the commonest feelings of humanity could have done less in either case. But he was conscious, also, of a change in himself which he did not attempt to a.n.a.lyse. His indolent, self-satisfied apathy was gone, the strong interests of human life and death stirred him, mind and body together acquired their activity and he was at all points once more a man. He was ignorant, indeed, of what had been taken from him. The memory of Beatrice was gone, and he fancied himself one who had never loved woman. He looked back with horror and amazement upon the emptiness of his past life, wondering how such an existence as he had led, or fancied he had led, could have been possible.
But there was scant time for reflection upon the problem of his own mission in the world as he hastened towards Unorna"s house. His present mission was clear enough and simple enough, though by no means easy of accomplishment. What Israel Kafka had told him was very true. Should he attempt a denunciation, he would have little chance of being believed.
It would be easy enough for Kafka to bring witnesses to prove his own love for Unorna and the Wanderer"s intimacy with her during the past month, and the latter"s consequent interest in disposing summarily of his Moravian rival. A stranger in the land would have small hope of success against a man whose antecedents were known, whose fortune was reputed great, and who had at his back the whole gigantic strength of the Jewish interest in Prague, if he chose to invoke the a.s.sistance of his people. The matter would end in a few days in the Wanderer being driven from the country, while Israel Kafka would be left behind to work his will as might seem best in his own eyes.
There was Keyork Arabian. So far as it was possible to believe in the sincerity of any of the strange persons among whom the Wanderer found himself, it seemed certain that the sage was attached to Unorna by some bond of mutual interests which he would be loth to break. Keyork had many acquaintances and seemed to posses everywhere a certain amount of respect, whether because he was perhaps a member of some widespread, mysterious society of which the Wanderer knew nothing, or whether this importance of his was due to his personal superiority of mind and wide experience of travel, no one could say. But it seemed certain that if Unorna could be placed for the time being in a safe refuge, it would be best to apply to Keyork to insure her further protection. Meanwhile that refuge must be found and Unorna must be conveyed to it without delay.
The Wanderer was admitted without question. He found Unorna in her accustomed place. She had thrown aside her furs and was sitting in an att.i.tude of deep thought. Her dress was black, and in the soft light of the shaded lamps she was like a dark, marble statue set in the midst of thick shrubbery in a garden. Her elbow rested on her knee, her chin upon her beautiful, heavy hand; only in her hair there was bright colour.
She knew the Wanderer"s footstep, but she neither moved her body nor turned her head. She felt that she grew paler than before, and she could hear her heart beating strongly.
"I come from Israel Kafka," said the Wanderer, standing still before her.
She knew from his tone how hard his face must be, and she would not look up.
"What of him?" she asked in a voice without expression. "Is he well?"
"He bids me say to you that he has promised before Heaven to take your life, and that there is no escape from a man who is ready to lay down his own."
Unorna turned her head slowly towards him, and a very soft look stole over her strange face.
"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 impa.s.sive.
"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 att.i.tude, 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.
"I loved you from the moment when I first saw you," said Unorna, trying to speak calmly. "But you loved another woman. Do you remember her? Her name was Beatrice, and she was very dark, as I am fair. You had lost her and you had sought her for years. You entered my house, thinking that she had gone in before you. Do you remember that morning? It was a month ago to-day. You told me the story."
"You have dreamed it," said the Wanderer in cold surprise. "I never loved any woman yet."
Unorna laughed bitterly.