he must die. To draw back, to let his glance waver, to show so much as
the least sign of fear, is death. The moment is supreme, and he knows
it.

Unorna grasped the arms of her chair as though seeking for physical
support in her extremity. She could not yield. Before her eyes arose a
vision unlike the reality in all its respects. She saw an older face,
a taller figure, a look of deeper thought between her and the angry man
who was trying to conquer her resistance with a glance. Between her and
her mistake the image of what should be stood out, bright, vivid, and
strong. A new conviction had taken the place of the old, a real passion
was flaming upon the altar whereon she had fed with dreams the semblance
of a sacred fire.

"You do not really love me," she said softly.

Israel Kafka started, as a man who is struck unawares. The monstrous
untruth which filled the words broke down his guard, sudden tears veiled
the penetrating sharpness of his gaze, and his hand trembled.

"I do not love you? I! Unorna--Unorna!"

The first words broke from him in a cry of horror and stupefaction. But
her name, when he spoke it, sounded as the death moan of a young wild
animal wounded beyond all power to turn at bay.

He moved unsteadily and laid hold of the tall chair in which she sat.
He was behind her now, standing, but bending down so that his forehead
pressed his fingers. He could not bear to look upon her hair, still less
upon her face. Even his hands were white and bloodless. Unorna could