"Is it so hard?" she asked softly. "Is it even harder for you to give
than for me to ask? Shall we part like this--not to meet again--each
bearing a wound, when both might be whole? Can you not say the word?"

"What is it to you whether I forgive you or not?"

"Since I ask it, believe that it is much to me," she answered, slowly
turning her head until, without catching sight of his face, she could
just see where his fingers were resting on her chair. Then, over her
shoulder, she touched them, and drew them to her cheek. He made no
resistance.

"Shall we part without one kind thought?" Her voice was softer still and
so low and sweet that it seemed as though the words were spoken in the
ripple of the tiny fountain. There was magic in the place, in the air,
in the sounds, above all in the fair woman's touch.

"Is this friendship?" asked Kafka. Then he sank upon his knees beside
her, and looked up into her face.

"It is friendship; yes--why not? Am I like other women?"

"Then why need there be any parting?"

"If you will be my friend there need be none. You have forgiven me
now--I see it in your eyes. Is it not true?"

He was at her feet, passive at last under the superior power which he
had never been able to resist. Unorna's fascination was upon him, and
he could only echo her words, as he would have executed her slightest