The Witch of Prague Part 31

"You need not spare me--"

"It might save you."

"Then say it--though I do not know from what danger I am to be saved.

But I can guess, perhaps. You would advise me to give up the attempt to win her."

"Precisely. I need say no more."

"On the contrary," said Kafka with sudden energy, "when a man gives such advice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his reasons."

The Wanderer looked at him calmly as he answered.

"One man need hardly give a reason for saving another man's life. Yours is in danger."

"I see that you hate her, as she said you did."

"You and she are both mistaken in that. I am not in love with her and I have ceased to be her friend. As for my interest in you, it does not even pretend to be friendly--it is that which any man may feel for a fellow-being, and what any man would feel who had seen what I have seen this afternoon."

The calm bearing and speech of the experienced man of the world carried weight with it in the eyes of the young Moravian, whose hot blood knew little of restraint and less of caution; with the keen instinct of his race in the reading of character he suddenly understood that his companion was at once generous and disinterested. A burst of confidence followed close upon the conviction.

"If I am to lose her love, I would rather lose my life also, and by her hand," he said hotly. "You are warning me against her. I feel that you are honest and I see that you are in earnest. I thank you. If I am in danger, do not try to save me. I saw her face a few moments ago, and she spoke to me. I cannot believe that she is plotting my destruction."

The Wanderer was silent. He wondered whether it was his duty to do or say more. Unorna was a changeable woman. She might love the man to-morrow. But Israel Kafka was too young to let the conversation drop.

Boy-like he expected confidence for confidence, and was surprised at his companion's taciturnity.

"What did she say to me when I was asleep?" he asked, after a short pause.

"Did you ever hear the story of Simon Abeles?" the Wanderer inquired by way of answer.

Kafka frowned and looked round sharply.

"Simon Abeles? He was a renegade Hebrew boy. His father killed him.

He is buried in the Teyn Kirche. What of him? What has he to do with Unorna, or with me? I am myself a Jew. The time has gone by when we Jews hid our heads. I am proud of what I am, and I will never be a Christian.

What can Simon Abeles have to do with me?"

"Little enough, now that you are awake."

"And when I was asleep, what then? She made me see him, perhaps?"

"She made you live his life. She made you suffer all that he suffered--"

"What?" cried Israel Kafka in a loud and angry tone.

"What I say," returned the other quietly.

"And you did not interfere? You did not stop her? No, of course, I forgot that you are a Christian."

The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. It had not struck him that Israel Kafka might be a man of the deepest religious convictions, a Hebrew of the Hebrews, and that what he would resent most would be the fact that in his sleep Unorna had made him play the part and suffer the martyrdom of a convert to Christianity. This was exactly what took place. He would have suffered anything at Unorna's hands, and without complaint, even to bodily death, but his wrath rose furiously at the thought that she had been playing with what he held most sacred, that she had forced from his lips the denial of the faith of his people and the confession of the Christian belief, perhaps the very words of the hated Creed. The modern Hebrew of Western Europe might be indifferent in such a case, as though he had spoken in the delirium of a fever, but the Jew of the less civilised East is a different being, and in some ways a stronger. Israel Kafka represented the best type of his race, and his blood boiled at the insult that had been put upon him. The Wanderer saw, and understood, and at once began to respect him, as men who believe firmly in opposite creeds have been known to respect each other even in a life and death struggle.

"I would have stopped her if I could," he said.

"Were you sleeping, too?" asked Kafka hotly.

"I cannot tell. I was powerless though I was conscious. I saw only Simon Abeles in it all, though I seemed to be aware that you and he were one person. I did interfere--so soon as I was free to move. I think I saved your life. I was carrying you away in my arms when she waked you."

"I thank you--I suppose it is as you tell me. You could not move--but you saw it all, you say. You saw me play the part of the apostate, you heard me confess the Christian's faith?"

"Yes--I saw you die in agony, confessing it still."

Israel Kafka ground his teeth and turned his face away. The Wanderer was silent. A few moments later the carriage stopped at the door of Kafka's lodging. The latter turned to his companion, who was startled by the change in the young face. The mouth was now closely set, the features seemed bolder, the eyes harder and more manly, a look of greater dignity and strength was in the whole.

"You do not love her?" he asked. "Do you give me your word that you do not love her?"

"If you need so much to a.s.sure you of it, I give you my word. I do not love her."

"Will you come with me for a few moments? I live here."

The Wanderer made a gesture of a.s.sent. In a few moments they found themselves in a large room furnished almost in Eastern fas.h.i.+on, with few objects, but those of great value. Israel Kafka was alone in the world and was rich. There were two or three divans, a few low, octagonal, inlaid tables, a dozen or more splendid weapons hung upon the wall, and the polished wooden floor was partly covered with extremely rich carpets.

"Do you know what she said to me, when I helped her into the carriage?"

asked Kafka.

"No, I did not attempt to hear."

"She did not mean that you should hear her. She made me promise to send you to her with news of myself. She said that you hated her and would not go to her unless I begged you to do so. Is that true?"

"I have told you that I do not hate her. I hate her cruelty. I will certainly not go to her of my own choice."

"She said that I had fainted. That was a lie. She invented it as an excuse to attract you, on the ground of her interest in my condition."

"Evidently."

"She hates me with an extreme hatred. Her real interest lay in showing you how terrible that hatred could be. It is not possible to conceive of anything more diabolically bad than what she did to me. She made me her sport--yours, too, perhaps, or she would at least have wished it. On that holy ground where my people lie in peace she made me deny my faith, she made me, in your eyes and her own, personate a renegade of my race, she made me confess in the Christian creed, she made me seem to die for a belief I abhor. Can you conceive of anything more devilish? A moment later she smiles upon me and presses my hand, and is anxious to know of my good health. And but for you, I should never have known what she had done to me. I owe you grat.i.tude, though it be for the worst pain I have ever suffered. But do you think I will forgive her?"

"You would be very forgiving if you could," said the Wanderer, his own anger rising again at the remembrance of what he had seen.

"And do you think that I can love still?"

"No."

Israel Kafka walked the length of the room and then came back and stood before the Wanderer and looked into his eyes. His face was very calm and resolute, the flush had vanished from his thin cheeks, and the features were set in an expression of irrevocable determination. Then he spoke, slowly and distinctly.

"You are mistaken. I love her with all my heart. I will therefore kill her."

The Wanderer had seen many men in many lands and had witnessed the effects of many pa.s.sions. He gazed earnestly into Israel Kafka's face, searching in vain for some manifestation of madness. But he was disappointed. The Moravian had formed his resolution in cold blood and intended to carry it out. His only folly appeared to lie in the announcement of his intention. But his next words explained even that.

"She made me promise to send you to her if you would go," he said. "Will you go to her now?"

"What shall I tell her? I warn you that since--"