[*] The deeds here described were done in Prague on thetwenty-first day of February in the year 1694. Lazarus andhis accomplice Levi Kurtzhandel, or Brevimanus, or “theshort-handed,” were betrayed by their own people. Lazarushanged himself in prison, and Levi suffered death by thewheel—repentant, it is said, and himself baptized. A fullaccount of the trial, written in Latin, was printed, and acopy of it may be seen in the State Museum in Prague. Thebody of Simon Abeles was exhumed and rests in the TeynKirche, in the chapel on the left of the high altar. Theslight extension of certain scenes not fully described inthe Latin volume will be pardoned in a work of fiction.
Unorna’s voice sank from the tone of anger to a lower pitch. She spoke quietly and very distinctly as though to impress every word upon the ear of the man who was in her power. The Wanderer listened, too, scarcely comprehending at first, but slowly yielding to the influence she exerted until the vision rose before him also with all its moving scenes, in all its truth and in all its horror. As in a dream the deeds that had been passed before him, the desolate burial-ground was peopled with forms and faces of other days, the gravestones rose from the earth and piled themselves into gloomy houses and remote courts and dim streets and venerable churches, the dry and twisted trees shrank down, and broadened and swung their branches as arms, and drew up their roots out of the ground as feet under them and moved hither and thither. And the knots and bosses and gnarls upon them became faces, dark, eagle-like and keen, and the creaking and crackling of the boughs and twigs under the piercing blast that swept by, became articulate and like the voices of old men talking angrily together. There were sudden changes from day to night and from night to day. In dark chambers crouching men took counsel of blood together under the feeble rays of a flickering lamp. In the uncertain twilight of winter, muffled figures lurked at the corner of streets, waiting for some one to pass, who must not escape them. As the Wanderer gazed and listened, Israel Kafka was transformed. He no longer stood with outstretched arms, his back against a crumbling slab, his filmy eyes fixed on Unorna’s face. He grew younger; his features were those of a boy of scarcely thirteen years, pale, earnest and brightened by a soft light which followed him hither and thither, and he was not alone. He moved with others through the old familiar streets of the city, clothed in a fashion of other times, speaking in accents comprehensible but unlike the speech of to-day, acting in a dim and far-off life that had once been.
The Wanderer looked, and, as in dreams, he knew that what he saw was unreal, he knew that the changing walls and streets and houses and public places were built up of gravestones which in truth were deeply planted in the ground, immovable and incapable of spontaneous motion; he knew that the crowds of men and women were not human beings but gnarled and twisted trees rooted in the earth, and that the hum of voices which reached his ears was but the sound of dried branches bending in the wind; he knew that Israel Kafka was not the pale-faced boy who glided from place to place followed everywhere by a soft radiance; he knew that Unorna was the source and origin of the vision, and that the mingling speeches of the actors, now shrill in angry altercation, now hissing in low, fierce whisper, were really formed upon Unorna’s lips and made audible through her tones, as the chorus of indistinct speech proceeded from the swaying trees. It was to him an illusion of which he understood the key and penetrated the secret, but it was marvellous in its way, and he was held enthralled from the first moment when it began to unfold itself. He understood further that Israel Kafka was in a state different from this, that he was suffering all the reality of another life, which to the Wanderer was but a dream. For the moment all his faculties had a double perception of things and sounds, distinguishing clearly between the fact and the mirage that distorted and obscured it. For the moment he was aware that his reason was awake though his eyes and his ears might be sleeping. Then the unequal contest between the senses and the intellect ceased, and while still retaining the dim consciousness that the source of all he saw and heard lay in Unorna’s brain, he allowed himself to be led quickly from one scene to another, absorbed and taken out of himself by the horror of the deeds done before him.
At first, indeed, the vision, though vivid, seemed objectless and of uncertain meaning. The dark depths of the Jews’ quarter of the city were opened, and it was towards evening. Throngs of gowned men, crooked, bearded, filthy, vulture-eyed, crowded upon each other in a narrow public place, talking in quick, shrill accents, gesticulating, with hands and arms and heads and bodies, laughing, chuckling, chattering, hook-nosed and loose-lipped, grasping fat purses in lean fingers, shaking greasy curls that straggled out under caps of greasy fur, glancing to right and left with quick, gleaming looks that pierced the gloom like fitful flashes of lightning, plucking at each other by the sleeve and pointing long fingers and crooked nails, two, three and four at a time, as markers, in their ready reckoning, a writhing mass of humanity, intoxicated by the smell of gold, mad for its possession, half hysteric with the fear of losing it, timid, yet dangerous, poisoned to the core by the sweet sting of money, terrible in intelligence, vile in heart, contemptible in body, irresistible in the unity of their greed—the Jews of Prague, two hundred years ago.
In one corner of the dusky place there was a little light. A boy stood there, beside a veiled woman, and the light that seemed to cling about him was not the reflection of gold. He was very young. His pale face had in it all the lost beauty of the Jewish race, the lips were clearly cut, even, pure in outline and firm, the forehead broad with thought, the features noble, aquiline—not vulture-like. Such a face might holy Stephen, Deacon and Protomartyr, have turned upon the young men who laid their garments at the fee of the unconverted Saul.
He stood there, looking on at the scene in the market-place, not wondering, for nothing of it was new to him, not scorning, for he felt no hate, not wrathful, for he dreamed of peace. He would have had it otherwise—that was all. He would have had the stream flow back upon its source and take a new channel for itself, he would have seen the strength of his people wielded in cleaner deeds for nobler aims. The gold he hated, the race for it he despised, the poison of it he loathed, but he had neither loathing nor contempt nor hatred for the men themselves. He looked upon them and he loved to think that the carrion vulture might once again be purified and lifted on strong wings and become, as in old days, the eagle of the mountains.
For many minutes he gazed in silence. Then he sighed and turned away. He held certain books in his hand, for he had come from the school of the synagogue where, throughout the short winter days, the rabbis taught him and his companions the mysteries of the sacred tongue. The woman by his side was a servant in his father’s house, and it was her duty to attend him through the streets, until the day when, being judged a man, he should be suddenly freed from the bondage of childish things.
“Let us go,” he said in a low voice. “The air is full of gold and heavy. I cannot breathe it.”
“Whither?” asked the woman.
“Thou knowest,” he answered. And suddenly the faint radiance that was always about him grew brighter, and spread out arms behind him, to the right and left, in the figure of a cross.
They walked together, side by side, quickly and often glancing behind them as though to see whether they were followed. And yet it seemed as though it was not they who moved, but the city about them which changed. The throng of busy Jews grew shadowy and disappeared, their shrill voices were lost in the distance. There were other people in the street, of other features and in different garbs, of prouder bearing and hot, restless manner, broad-shouldered, erect, manly, with spur on heel and sword at side. The outline of the old synagogue melted into the murky air and changed its shape, and stood out again in other and ever-changing forms. Now they were passing before the walls of a noble palace, now beneath long, low galleries of arches, now again across the open space of the Great Ring in the midst of the city—then all at once they were standing before the richly carved doorway of the Teyn Kirche, the very doorway out of which the Wanderer had followed the fleeting shadow of Beatrice’s figure but a month ago. And then they paused, and looked again to the right and left, and searched the dark corners with piercing glances.
“Thy life is in thine hand,” said the woman, speaking close to the boy’s ear. “It is yet time. Turn with me and let us go back.”
The mysterious radiance lit up the youth’s beautiful face in the dark street and showed the fearless yet gentle smile that was on his lips.
“What is there to fear?” he asked.
“Death,” answered the woman in a trembling tone. “They will kill thee, and it shall be upon my head.”
“And what is Death?” he asked again, and the smile was still upon his face as he led the way up the steps.
The woman bowed her head and drew her veil more closely about her and followed him. Then they were within the church, darker, more ghostly, less rich in those days than now. The boy stood beside the hewn stone basin wherein was the blessed water, and he touched the frozen surface with his fingers, and held them out to his companion.
“Is it thus?” he asked. And the heavenly smile grew more radiant as he made the sign of the Cross.
Again the woman inclined her head.
“Be it not upon me!” she exclaimed earnestly. “Though I would it might be for ever so with thee.”
“It is for ever,” the boy answered.
He went forward and prostrated himself before the high altar, and the soft light hovered above him. The woman knelt at a little distance from him, with clasped hands and upturned eyes. The church was very dark and silent.
An old man in a monk’s robe came forward out of the shadow of the choir and stood behind the marble rails and looked down at the boy’s prostrate figure, wonderingly. Then the low gateway was opened and he descended the three steps and bent down to the young head.
“What wouldest thou?” he asked.
Simon Abeles rose until he knelt, and looked up into the old man’s face.
“I am a Jew. I would be a Christian. I would be baptized.”
“Fearest thou not thy people?” the monk asked.
“I fear not death,” answered the boy simply.
“Come with me.”
Trembling, the woman followed them both, and all were lost in the gloom of the church. They were not to be seen, and all was still for a space. Suddenly a clear voice broke the silence.
“Ego baptizo te in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
Then the woman and the boy were standing again without the entrance in the chilly air, and the ancient monk was upon the threshold under the carved arch; his thin hands, white in the darkness, were lifted high, and he blessed them, and they went their way.
In the moving vision the radiance was brighter still and illuminated the streets as they moved on. Then a cloud descended over all, and certain days and weeks passed, and again the boy was walking swiftly toward the church. But the woman was not with him, and he believed that he was alone, though the messengers of evil were upon him. Two dark figures moved in the shadow, silent, noiseless in their walk, muffled in long garments. He went on, no longer deigning to look back, beyond fear as he had ever been, and beyond even the expectation of a danger. He went into the church, and the two men made gestures, and spoke in low tones, and hid themselves in the shade of the buttresses outside.
The vision grew darker and a terrible stillness was over everything, for the church was not opened to the sight this time. There was a horror of long waiting with the certainty of what was to come. The narrow street was empty to the eye, and yet there was the knowledge of evil presence, of two strong men waiting in the dark to take their victim to the place of expiation. And the horror grew in the silence and the emptiness, until it was unbearable.
The door opened and the boy was with the monk under the black arch. The old man embraced him and blessed him and stood still for a moment watching him as he went down. Then he, also, turned and went back, and the door was closed.
Swiftly the two men glided from their hiding-place and sped along the uneven pavement. The boy paused and faced them, for he felt that he was taken. They grasped him by the arms on each side, Lazarus his father, and Levi, surnamed the Short-handed, the strongest and the cruellest and the most relentless of the younger rabbis. Their grip was rough, and the older man held a coarse woollen cloth in his hand with which to smother the boy’s cries if he should call out for help. But he was very calm and did not resist them.
“What would you?” he asked.
“And what doest thou in a Christian church?” asked Lazarus in low fierce tones.
“What Christians do, since I am one of them,” answered the youth, unmoved.
Lazarus said nothing, but he struck the boy on the mouth with his hard hand so that the blood ran down.
“Not here!” exclaimed Levi, anxiously looking about.
And they hurried him away through dark and narrow lanes. He opposed no resistance to Levi’s rough strength, not only suffering himself to be dragged along but doing his best to keep pace with the man’s long strides, nor did he murmur at the blows and thrusts dealt him from time to time by his father from the other side. During some minutes they were still traversing the Christian part of the city. A single loud cry for help would have brought a rescue, a few words to the rescuers would have roused a mob of fierce men and the two Jews would have paid with their lives for the deeds they had not yet committed. But Simon Abeles uttered no cry and offered no resistance. He had said that he feared not death, and he had spoken the truth, not knowing what manner of death was to be his. Onward they sped, and in the vision the way they traversed seemed to sweep past them, so that they remained always in sight though always hurrying on. The Christian quarter was passed; before them hung the chain of one of those gates which gave access to the city of the Jews. With a jeer and an oath the bearded sentry watched them pass—the martyr and his torturers. One word to him, even then, and the butt of his heavy halberd would have broken Levi’s arm and laid the boy’s father in the dust. The word was not spoken. On through the filthy ways, on and on, through narrow courts and tortuous passages to a dark low doorway. Then, again, the vision showed but an empty street and there was silence for a space, and a horror of long waiting in the falling night.
Lights moved within the house, and then one window after another was bolted and barred from within. Still the silence endured until the ear was grown used to it and could hear sounds very far off, from deep down below the house itself, but the walls did not open and the scene did not change. A dull noise, bad to hear, resounded as from beneath a vault, and then another and another—the sound of cruel blows upon a human body. Then a pause.
“Wilt thou renounce it?” asked the voice of Lazarus.
“Kyrie eleison, Christie eleison!” came the answer, brave and clear.
“Lay on, Levi, and let thy arm be strong!”
And again the sound of blows, regular, merciless, came up from the bowels of the earth.
“Dost thou repent? Dost thou renounce? Dost thou deny?”
“I repent of my sins—I renounce your ways—I believe in the Lord—”
The sacred name was not heard. A smothered groan as of one losing consciousness in extreme torture was all that came up from below.
“Lay on, Levi, lay on!”
“Nay,” answered the strong rabbi, “the boy will die. Let us leave him here for this night. Perchance cold and hunger will be more potent than stripes, when he shall come to himself.”
“As though sayest,” answered the father in angry reluctance.
Again all was silent. Soon the rays of light ceased to shine through the crevices of the outer shutters, and sleep descended upon the quarter of the Jews. Still the scene in the vision changed not. After a long stillness a clear young voice was heard speaking.
“Lord, if it be Thy will that I die, grant that I may bear all in Thy name, grant that I, unworthy, may endure in this body the punishments due to me in spirit for my sins. And if it be Thy will that I live, let my life be used also for Thy glory.”
The voice ceased and the cloud of passing time descended upon the vision and was lifted again and again. And each time the same voice was heard and the sound of torturing blows, but the voice of the boy was weaker every night, though it was not less brave.
“I believe,” it said, always. “Do what you will, you have power over the body, but I have the Faith over which you have no power.”
So the days and the nights passed, and though the prayer came up in feeble tones, it was born of a mighty spirit and it rang in the ears of the tormentors as the voice of an angel which they had no power to silence, appealing from them to the tribunal of the Throne of God Most High.
Day by day, also, the rabbis and the elders began to congregate together at evening before the house of Lazarus and to talk with him and with each other, debating how they might break the endurance of his son and bring him again into the synagogue as one of themselves. Chief among them in their councils was Levi, the Short-handed, devising new tortures for the frail body to bear and boasting how he would conquer the stubborn boy by the might of his hands to hurt. Some of the rabbis shook their heads.
“He is possessed of a devil,” they said. “He will die and repent not.”
But others nodded approvingly and wagged their filthy heads and said that when the fool had been chastised the evil spirit would depart from him.
Once more the cloud of passing time descended and was lifted. Then the walls of the house were opened and in a low arched chamber the rabbis sat about a black table. It was night and a single smoking lamp was lighted, a mere wick projecting out of a three-cornered vessel of copper which was full of oil and was hung from the vault with blackened wires. Seven rabbis sat at the board, and at the head sat Lazarus. Their crooked hands and claw-like nails moved uneasily and there was a lurid fire in their vulture’s eyes. They bent forward, speaking to each other in low tones, and from beneath their greasy caps their anointed side curls dangled and swung as they moved their heads. But Levi the Short-handed was not among them. Their muffled talk was interrupted from time to time by the sound of sharp, loud blows, as of a hammer striking upon nails, and as though a carpenter were at work not far from the room in which they sat.
“He has not repented,” said Lazarus, from his place. “Neither many stripes, nor cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, have moved him to righteousness. It is written that he shall be cut off from his people.”
“He shall be cut off,” answered the rabbis with one voice.
“It is right and just that he should die,” continued the father. “Shall we give him over to the Christians that he may dwell among them and become one of them, and be shown before the world to our shame?”
“We will not let him go,” said the dark man, and an evil smile flickered from one face to another as a firefly flutters from tree to tree in the night—as though the spirit of evil had touched each one in turn.
“We will not let him go,” said each again.
Lazarus also smiled as though in assent, and bowed his head a little before he spoke.
“I am obedient to your judgment. It is yours to command and mine to obey. If you say that he must die, let him die. He is my son. Take him. Did not our father Abraham lay Isaac upon the altar and offer him as a burnt sacrifice before the Lord?”
“Let him die,” said the rabbis.
“Then let him die,” answered Lazarus. “I am your servant. It is mine to obey.”
“His blood be on our heads,” they said. And again, the evil smile went round.
“It is then expedient that we determine of what manner his death shall be,” continued the father, inclining his body to signify his submission.
“It is not lawful to shed his blood,” said the rabbis. “And we cannot stone him, lest we be brought to judgment of the Christians. Determine thou the manner of his death.”
“My masters, if you will it, let him be brought once more before us. Let us all hear with our ears his denial, and if he repent at the last, it is well, let him live. But if he harden his heart against our entreaties, let him die. Levi hath brought certain pieces of wood hither to my house, and is even now at work. If the youth is still stubborn in his unbelief, let him die even as the Unbeliever died—by the righteous judgment of the Romans.”
“Let it be so. Let him be crucified!” said the rabbis with one voice.
Then Lazarus rose and went out, and, in the vision, the rabbis remained seated, motionless in their places awaiting his return. The noise of Levi’s hammer echoed through the low vaulted chamber, and at each blow the smoking lamp quivered a little, casting strange shadows upon the evil faces beneath its light. At last footsteps, slow and uncertain, were heard without, the low door opened, and Lazarus entered, holding up the body of his son before him.
“I have brought him before you for the last time,” he said. “Question him and hear his condemnation out of his own mouth. He repents not, though I have done my utmost to bring him back to the paths of righteousness. Question him, my masters, and let us see what he will say.”
White and exhausted with long hunger and thirst, his body broken by torture, scarcely any longer sensible to bodily pain, Simon Abeles would have fallen to the ground had his father not held him under the arms. His head hung forward and the pale and noble face was inclined towards the breast, but the deep, dark eyes were open and gazed calmly upon those who sat in judgment at the table. A rough piece of linen cloth was wrapped about the boy’s shoulders and body, but his thin arms were bare.
“Hearest thou, Simon, son of Lazarus?” asked the rabbis. “Knowest thou in whose presence thou standest?”
“I hear you and I know you all.” There was no fear in the voice though it trembled from weakness.
“Renounce then thy errors, and having suffered the chastisement of thy folly, return to the ways of thy father and of thy father’s house and of all thy people.”
“I renounce my sins, and whatsoever is yet left for me to suffer, I will, by God’s help, so bear it as to be not unworthy of Christ’s mercy.”
The rabbis gazed at the brave young face, and smiled and wagged their beards, talking one with another in low tones.
“It is as we feared,” they said. “He is unrepentant and he is worthy of death. It is not expedient that the young adder should live. There is poison under his tongue, and he speaks things not lawful for an Israelite to hear. Let him die, that we may see him no more, and that our children be not corrupted by his false teachings.”
“Hearest thou? Thou shalt die.” It was Lazarus who spoke, while holding up the boy before the table and hissing the words into his ear.
“I hear. I am ready. Lead me forth.”
“There is yet time to repent. If thou wilt but deny what thou hast said these many days, and return to us, thou shalt be forgiven and thy days shall be long among us, and thy children’s days after thee, and the Lord shall perchance have mercy and increase thy goods among thy fellows.”
“Let him alone,” said the rabbis. “He is unrepentant.”
“Lead me forth,” said Simon Abeles.
“Lead him forth,” repeated the rabbis. “Perchance, when he sees the manner of his death before his eyes, he will repent at the last.”
The boy’s fearless eyes looked from one to the other.
“Whatsoever it be,” he said, “I have but one life. Take it as you will. I die in the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ, and into His hands I commend my spirit—which you cannot take.”
“Lead him forth! Let him be crucified!” cried the rabbis together. “We will hear him no longer.”
Then Lazarus led his son away from them, and left them talking together and shaking their heads and wagging their filthy beards. And in the vision the scene changed. The chamber with its flickering lamp and its black table and all the men who were in it grew dim and faded away, and in its place there was a dim inner court between high houses, upon which only the windows of the house of Lazarus opened. There, upon the ground, stood a lantern of horn, and the soft yellow light of it fell upon two pieces of wood, nailed one upon the other to form a small cross—small, indeed, but yet tall enough and broad enough and strong enough to bear the slight burden of the boy’s frail body. And beside it stood Lazarus and Levi, the Short-handed, the strong rabbi, holding Simon Abeles between them. On the ground lay pieces of cord, ready, wherewith to bind him to the cross, for they held it unlawful to shed his blood.
It was soon done. The two men took up the cross and set it, with the body hanging thereon, against the wall of the narrow court, over against the house of Lazarus.
“Thou mayest still repent—during this night,” said the father, holding up the horn lantern and looking into his son’s tortured face.
“Ay—there is yet time,” said Levi, brutally. “He will not die so soon.”
“Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” said the weak voice once more.
Then Lazarus raised his hand and struck him once more on the mouth, as he had done on that first night when he had seized him near the church. But Levi, the Short-handed, as though in wrath at seeing all his torments fail, dealt him one heavy blow just where the ear joins the neck, and it was over at last. A radiant smile of peace flickered over the pale face, the eyelids quivered and closed, the head fell forward upon the breast and the martyrdom of Simon Abeles was consummated.
Into the dark court came the rabbis one by one from the inner chamber, and each as he came took up the horn lantern and held it to the dead face and smiled and spoke a few low words in the Hebrew tongue and then went out into the street, until only Lazarus and Levi were left alone with the dead body. Then they debated what they should do, and for a time they went into the house and refreshed themselves with food and wine, and comforted each other, well knowing that they had done an evil deed. And they came back when it was late and wrapped the body in the coarse cloth and carried it out stealthily and buried it in the Jewish cemetery, and departed again to their own houses.
“And there he lay,” said Unorna, “the boy of your race who was faithful to death. Have you suffered? Have you for one short hour known the meaning of such great words as you dared to speak to me? Do you know now what it means to be a martyr, to suffer for standing on the very spot where he lay, you have felt in some small degree a part of what he must have felt. You live. Be warned. If again you anger me, your life shall not be spared you.”
The visions had all vanished. Again the wilderness of gravestones and lean, crooked trees appeared, wild and desolate as before. The Wanderer roused himself and saw Unorna standing before Israel Kafka’s prostrate body. As though suddenly released from a spell he sprang forward and knelt down, trying to revive the unconscious man by rubbing his hands and chafing his temples.
The Wanderer glanced at Unorna’s face and saw the expression of relentless hatred which had settled upon her features. He neither understood it nor attempted to account for it. So far as he knew, Israel Kafka was mad, a man to be pitied, to be cared for, to be controlled perhaps, but assuredly not to be maltreated. Though the memories of the last half hour were confused and distorted, the Wanderer began to be aware that the young Hebrew had been made to suffer almost beyond the bounds of human endurance. So far as it was possible to judge, Israel Kafka’s fault consisted in loving a woman who did not return his love, and his worst misdeed had been his sudden intrusion upon an interview in which the Wanderer could recall nothing which might not have been repeated to the whole world with impunity.
During the last month he had lived a life of bodily and mental indolence, in which all his keenest perceptions and strongest instincts had been lulled into a semi-dormant state. Unknown to himself, the mainspring of all thought and action had been taken out of his existence together with the very memory of it. For years he had lived and moved and wandered over the earth in obedience to one dominant idea. By a magic of which he knew nothing that idea had been annihilated, temporarily, if not for ever, and the immediate consequence had been the cessation of all interest and of all desire for individual action. The suspension of all anxiety, restlessness and mental suffering had benefited the physical man though it had reduced the intelligence to a state bordering upon total apathy.
But organisations, mental or physical, of great natural strength, are never reduced to weakness by a period of inactivity. It is those minds and bodies which have been artificially developed by a long course of training to a degree of power they were never intended to possess, which lose that force almost immediately in idleness. The really very strong man has no need of constant gymnastic exercise; he will be stronger than other men whatever he does. The strong character needs not be constantly struggling against terrible odds in the most difficult situations in order to be sure of its own solidity, nor must the deep intellect be ever plodding through the mazes of intricate theories and problems that it may feel itself superior to minds of less compass. There is much natural inborn strength of body and mind in the world, and on the whole those who possess either accomplish more than those in whom either is the result of long and well-regulated training.
The belief in a great cruelty and a greater injustice roused the man who throughout so many days had lived in calm indifference to every aspect of the humanity around him. Seeing that Israel Kafka could not be immediately restored to consciousness, he rose to his feet again and stood between the prostrate victim and Unorna.
“You are killing this man instead of saving him,” he said. “His crime, you say, is that he loves you. Is that a reason for using all your powers to destroy him in body and mind?”
“Perhaps,” answered Unorna calmly, though there was still a dangerous light in her eyes.
“No. It is no reason,” answered the Wanderer with a decision to which Unorna was not accustomed. “Keyork tells me that the man is mad. He may be. But he loves you and deserves mercy of you.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Unorna with a cruel laugh. “You heard what he said—you were for silencing him yourself. You could not have done it. I have—and most effectually.”
“Whatever your art really may be, you use it badly and cruelly. A moment ago I was blinded myself. If I had understood clearly while you were speaking that you were making this poor fellow suffer in himself the hideous agony you described I would have stopped you. You blinded me, as you dominated him. But I am not blind now. You shall not torment him any longer.
“And how would you have stopped me? How can you hinder me now?” asked Unorna.
The Wanderer gazed at her in silence for some moments. There was an expression in his face which she had never seen there. Towering above her he looked down. The massive brows were drawn together, the eyes were cold and impenetrable, every feature expressed strength.
“By force, if need be,” he answered very quietly.
The woman before him was not of those who fear or yield. She met his glance boldly. Scarcely half an hour earlier she had been able to steal away his senses and make him subject to her. She was ready to renew the contest, though she realised that a change had taken place in him.
“You talk of force to a woman!” she exclaimed, contemptuously. “You are indeed brave!”
“You are not a woman. You are the incarnation of cruelty. I have seen it.”
His eyes were cold and his voice was stern. Unorna felt a very sharp pain and shivered as though she were cold. Whatever else was bad and cruel and untrue in her wild nature, her love for him was true and passionate and enduring. And she loved him the more for the strength he was beginning to show, and for his determined opposition. The words he had spoken had hurt her as he little guessed they could, not knowing that he alone of men had power to wound her.
“You do not know,” she answered. “How should you?” Her glance fell and her voice trembled.
“I know enough,” he said. He turned coldly from her and knelt again beside Israel Kafka.
He raised the pale head and supported it upon his knee, and gazed anxiously into the face, raising the lids with his finger as though to convince himself that the man was not dead. Indeed there seemed to be but little life left in him as he lay there with outstretched arms and twisted fingers, scarcely breathing. In such a place, without so much as the commonest restorative to aid him, the Wanderer saw that he had but little chance of success.
Unorna stood aside, not looking at the two men. It was nothing to her whether Kafka lived or died. She was suffering herself, more than she had ever suffered in her life. He had said that she was not a woman—she whose whole woman’s nature worshiped him. He had said that she was the incarnation of cruelty—and it was true, though it was her love for him that made her cruel to the other. Could he know what she had felt, when she had understood that Israel Kafka had heard her passionate words and seen her eager face, and had laughed her to scorn? Could any woman at such a time be less than cruel? Was not her hate for the man who loved her as great as her love for the man who loved her not? Even if she possessed instruments of torture for the soul more terrible than those invented in darker ages to rack the human body, was she not justified in using them all? Was not Israel Kafka guilty of the greatest of all crimes, of loving when he was not loved, and of witnessing her shame and discomfiture? She could not bear to look at him, lest she should lose herself and try to thrust the Wanderer aside and kill the man with her hands.
Then she heard footsteps on the frozen path, and turning quickly she saw that the Wanderer had lifted Kafka’s body from the ground and was moving rapidly away, towards the entrance of the cemetery. He was leaving her in anger, without a word. She turned very pale and hesitated. Then she ran forward to overtake him, but he, hearing her approach, quickened his stride, seeming but little hampered in his pace by the burden he bore. But Unorna, too, was fleet of foot and strong.
“Stop!” she cried, laying her hand upon his arm. “Stop! Hear me! Do not leave me so!”
But he would not pause, and hurried onward towards the gate, while she hung upon his arm, trying to hinder him and speaking in desperate agitation. She felt that if she let him go now, he would leave her for ever. In that moment even her hatred of Kafka sank into insignificance. She would do anything, bear anything, promise anything rather than lose what she loved so wildly.
“Stop!” she cried again. “I will save him—I will obey you—I will be kind to him—he will die in your arms if you do not let me help you—oh! for the love of Heaven, wait one moment! Only one moment!”
She so thrust herself in the Wanderer’s path, hanging upon him and trying to tear Kafka from his arms, that he was forced to stand still and face her.
“Let me pass!” he exclaimed, making another effort to advance. But she clung to him and he could not move.
“No,—I will not let you go,” she murmured. “You can do nothing without me, you will only kill him, as I would have done a moment ago—”
“And as you will do now,” he said sternly, “if I let you have your way.”
“By all that is Holy in Heaven, I will save him—he shall not even remember—”
“Do not swear. I shall not believe you.”
“You will believe when you see—you will forgive me—you will understand.”
Without answering he exerted his strength and clasping the insensible man more firmly in his arms he made one or two steps forward. Unorna’s foot slipped on the frozen ground and she would have fallen to the earth, but she clung to him with desperate energy. Seeing that she was in danger of some bodily hurt if he used greater force, the Wanderer stopped again, uncertain how to act; Unorna stood before him, panting a little from the struggle, her face as white as death.
“Unless you kill me,” she said, “you shall not take him away so. Hold him in your arms, if you will, but let me speak to him.”
“And how shall I know that you will not hurt him, you who hate him as you do?”
“Am I not at your mercy?” asked Unorna. “If I deceive you, can you not do what you will with me, even if I try to resist you, which I will not? Hold me, if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if Israel Kafka does not recover his strength and his consciousness, then take me with you and deliver me up to justice as a witch—as a murderess, if you will.”
The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what she said was true. She was in his power.
“Restore him if you can,” he said.
Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka’s forehead and bending down whispered into his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who held him. The mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was almost instantaneous. He opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna and then at the Wanderer. There was neither pain nor passion in his face, but only wonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their strength, he stood upright and passed his hand over his eyes as though trying to remember what had happened.
“How came I here?” he asked in surprise. “What has happened to me?”
“You fainted,” said Unorna quietly. “You remember that you were very tired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will take you home.”
“Yes—yes—I must have fainted. Forgive me—it comes over me sometimes.”
He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the present moment, when he glanced curiously from the one to the other of his two companions, as they all three began to walk towards the gate. Unorna avoided his eyes, and seemed to be looking at the irregular slabs they passed on their way.
The Wanderer had intended to free himself from her as soon as Kafka regained his senses, but he had not been prepared for such a sudden change. He saw, now, that he could not exchange a word with her without exciting the man’s suspicion, and he was by no means sure that the first emotion might not produce a sudden and dangerous effect. He did not even know how great the change might be, which Unorna’s words had brought about. That Kafka had forgotten at once his own conduct and the fearful vision which Unorna had imposed upon him was clear, but it did not follow that he had ceased to love her. Indeed, to one only partially acquainted with the laws which govern hypnotics, such a transition seemed very far removed from possibility. He who in one moment had himself been made to forget utterly the dominant passion and love of his life, was so completely ignorant of the fact that he could not believe such a thing possible in any case whatsoever.
In the dilemma in which he found himself there was nothing to be done but to be guided by circumstances. He was not willing to leave Kafka alone with the woman who hated him, and he saw no means of escaping her society so long as she chose to impose it upon them both. He supposed, too, that Unorna realized this as well as he did, and he tried to be prepared for all events by revolving all the possibilities in his mind.
But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to time she stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern and cold as ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A terrible anxiety overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable, that he would henceforth avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not reckoned upon such a nature as his, capable of being roused to implacable anger by mere sympathy for the suffering of another. Then, understanding it at last, she had thought it would be enough that those sufferings should be forgotten by him upon whom they had been inflicted. She could not comprehend the horror he felt for herself and for her hideous cruelty. She had entered the cemetery in the consciousness of her strong will and of her mysterious powers certain of victory, sure that having once sacrificed her pride and stooped so low as to command what should have come of itself, she should see his face change and hear the ring of passion in that passionless voice. She had failed in that, and utterly. She had been surprised by her worst enemy. She had been laughed to scorn in the moment of her deepest humiliation, and she had lost the foundations of friendship in the attempt to build upon them the hanging gardens of an artificial love. In that moment, as they reached the gate, Unorna was not far from despair.
A Jewish boy, with puffed red lips and curving nostrils, was loitering at the entrance. The Wanderer told him to find a carriage.
“Two carriages,” said Unorna, quickly. The boy ran out. “I will go home alone,” she added. “You two can drive together.”
The Wanderer inclined his head in assent, but said nothing. Israel Kafka’s dark eyes rested upon hers for a moment.
“Why not go together?” he asked.
Unorna started slightly and turned as though about to make a sharp answer. But she checked herself, for the Wanderer was looking at her. She spoke to him instead of answering Kafka.
“It is the best arrangement—do you not think so?” she asked.
“Quite the best.”
“I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him,” she said, glancing at Kafka.
The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard.
“Have you been in pain? Do you feel as though you had been suffering?” she asked of the younger man, in a tone of sympathy and solicitude.
“No. Why do you ask?”
Unorna smiled and looked at the Wanderer, with intention. He did not heed her. At that moment two carriages appeared and drew up at the end of the narrow alley which leads from the street to the entrance of the cemetery. All three walked forward together. Kafka went forward and opened the door of one of the conveyances for Unorna to get in. The Wanderer, still anxious for the man’s safety, would have taken his place, but Kafka turned upon him almost defiantly.
“Permit me,” he said. “I was before you here.”
The Wanderer stood civilly aside and lifted his hat. Unorna held out her hand, and he took it coldly, not being able to do otherwise.
“You will let me know, will you not?” she said. “I am anxious about him.”
He raised his eyebrows a little and dropped her hand.
“You shall be informed,” he said.
Kafka helped her to get into the carriage. She drew him by the hand so that his head was inside the door and the other man could not hear her words.
“I am anxious about you,” she said very kindly. “Make him come himself to me and tell me how you are.”
“Surely—if you have asked him—”
“He hates me,” whispered Unorna quickly. “Unless you make him come he will send no message.”
“Then let me come myself—I am perfectly well—”
“Hush—no!” she answered hurriedly. “Do as I say—it will be best for you—and for me. Good-bye.”
“Your word is my law,” said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were bright and his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had spoken so kindly to him. A ray of hope entered his life.
The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He understood that in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some mischief. Her carriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter the one intended for them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his lodgings. Then he sank back into the corner, exhausted and conscious of his extreme weakness. A short silence followed.
“You are in need of rest,” said the Wanderer, watching him curiously.
“Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill.”
“You have suffered enough to tire the strongest.”
“In what way?” asked Kafka. “I have forgotten what happened. I know that I followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I saw you afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I came back from my long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred. Did she make me sleep? I feel as I have felt before when I have fancied that she has hypnotised me.”
The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked as naturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of little or no weight.
“Yes,” he answered. “She made you sleep.”
“Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have forgotten it.”
The Wanderer hesitated a moment.
“I cannot answer your question,” he said, at length.
“Ah—she told me that you hated her,” said Kafka, turning his dark eyes to his companion. “But, yet,” he added, “that is hardly a reason why you should not tell me what happened.”
“I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have no right to say to a stranger—which I could not easily say to a friend.”
“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 assure 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 assent. In a few moments they found themselves in a large room furnished almost in Eastern fashion, 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 gratitude, 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 passions. 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—”
“You need not warn me. I know what you would say. But I will be no common murderer. I will not kill her as she would have killed me. Warn her, not me. Go to her and say, ‘Israel Kafka has promised before God that he will take your blood in expiation, and there is no escape from the man who is himself ready to die.’ Tell her to fly for her life, and that quickly.”
“And what will you gain by doing this murder?” asked the Wanderer, calmly. He was revolving schemes for Unorna’s safety, and half amazed to find himself forced in common humanity to take her part.
“I shall free myself of my shame in loving her, at the price of her blood and mine. Will you go?”
“And what is to prevent me from delivering you over to safe keeping before you do this deed?”
“You have no witness,” answered Kafka with a smile. “You are a stranger in the city and in this country, and I am rich. I shall easily prove that you love Unorna, and that you wish to get rid of me out of jealousy.”
“That is true,” said the Wanderer, thoughtfully. “I will go.”
“Go quickly, then,” said Israel Kafka, “for I shall follow soon.”
As the Wanderer left the room he saw the Moravian turn toward the place where the keen, splendid Eastern weapons hung upon the wall.