Unorna sighed, and turned away, for the sight hurt her and accused her.

"No, you have not understood. Is it my fault? Israel Kafka, that hand is
not yours to hold."

"Not mine? Unorna!" Yet he could not quite believe what she said.

"I am in earnest," she answered, not without a lingering tenderness in
the intonation. "Do you think I am jesting with you, or with myself?"

Neither of the two stirred during the silence which followed. Unorna sat
quite still, staring fixedly into the green shadows of the foliage, as
though not daring to meet the gaze she felt upon her. Israel Kafka still
knelt beside her, motionless and hardly breathing, like a dangerous wild
animal startled by an unexpected enemy, and momentarily paralysed in
the very act of springing, whether backward in flight, or forward in the
teeth of the foe, it is not possible to guess.

"I have been mistaken," Unorna continued at last. "Forgive--forget--"

Israel Kafka rose to his feet and drew back a step from her side.
All his movements were smooth and graceful. The perfect man is most
beautiful in motion, the perfect woman in repose.

"How easy it is for you!" exclaimed the Moravian. "How easy! How simple!
You call me, and I come. You let your eyes rest on me, and I kneel
before you. You sigh, and I speak words of love. You lift your hand and
I crouch at your feet. You frown--and I humbly leave you. How easy!"