“If you are in your right mind,” he said at last, beginning to walk towards the corner, “you will see that what you wish to do is utterly against reason. I will not allow you to run the risk of meeting Israel Kafka to-night, but I cannot take you with me. No--I will hold you, if you try to escape me, and I will bring you to a place of safety by force, if need be.”
“And you will leave me there, and I shall never see you again. I will not go, and you will find it hard to take me anywhere in the crowded city by force. You are not Israel Kafka, with the whole Jews’ quarter at your command in which to hide me.”
The Wanderer was perplexed. He saw, however, that if he would yield the point and give his word to return to her, she might be induced to follow his advice.
“If I promise to come back to you, will you do what I ask?” he inquired.
“Did you promise that other woman that you would never love again, I wonder? If so, you are faithful indeed. But you have forgotten that. Will you come back to me if I let you take me where I shall be safe to-night?”
“I will come back whenever you send for me.”
“Very well. I will go to that house where I first stayed when I came here. Take me there quickly--no--not quickly either--let it be very long! I shall not see you until to-morrow.”
A carriage was passing at a foot pace. The Wanderer stopped it, and helped Unorna to get in. The place was very near, and neither spoke, though he could feel her hand upon his arm. He made no attempt to shake her off. At the gate they both got out, and he rang a bell that echoed through vaulted passages far away in the interior.
“To-morrow,” said Unorna, touching his hand.
He could see even in the dark the look of love she turned upon him.
“Good-night,” he said, and in the next moment she had disappeared within.