found her. A moment later the distant door turned softly upon its hinges
and a light footfall broke the stillness. There was no need for Unorna
to speak in order that the sound of her voice might guide the new comer
to her retreat. The footsteps approached swiftly and surely. A young man
of singular beauty came out of the green shadows and stood beside the
chair in the open space.

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