San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1891-12-29


Kafka's sleeping face and outstretched
form.
Yes" she said, Il was mad. You
cannot understand it. | dare say you
cannot even understand how | can
speak of it now, and yet cannot help
speaking"
"Unorna," he said, gravely,, 're-
member that you are leaving me no
choice. | cannot leave you alone with
that poor fellow, and so whatever you
wish to say must hear"
You are not so hard with me as
you were," she said, thoughtfully,
after a moments hesitation, and there
was touch Of gratitude in her voice.
lit is not for me to be hard, as you
call it." he said quietly. There was
scarcely perceptible smile on his
face, brought there not by any feeling
of satisfaction, but by his sense of his
own almost laughable perplexity.
He saw that he was very near being
driven to the ridiculous necessity OF
giving her some advice of the
parental kind. 1T is not for
me, either, to talk to you OF what you
have done to Israel Kafka to-day" he
continued. do not oblige me to say
anything about it. 1t will be much
safer. You know it all better than l
do, and you understand your own
reasons as 1 never can. Ii you are
sorry for him now, so much the better
you will not hurt him any more If
you can help it. If you will say that
much about the future shall be very
glad, confess"
DO you think there is anything
which will not do-if you ask it?"
Unorna asked very earnestly. 80.
| Il do not know" the Wanderer
answered, trying to seem to ignore the
meaning conveyed by her tone.
'Some things are harder to do than
| others"
ASK me the hardestr' she ex-
claimed. ASK me 10 tell you the
whole truth"
NO" he said, firmly in the hope
of checking an outburst of passionate
speech. What you have thought
and done is no concern Of mine.
IL could tell you'll you would let
| me-"
.Do not tell me-" ne Interrupted
81 repeat that do not wish to know. "
| Shall we be friends again?"
Unorna asked second time, in low
tone Shall We 60 back to the be-
ginning"
Il do not see how that is possible, "
he answered, slowly.
You might have spared me that!'
she said, turning her face away.
A few hours earlier his answer
would have brought fire TO her eyes
and anger to her voice. But real
change had come over her, not last
ing, perhaps, but strong in its i'm
mediate effects.
"Not even a little friendship left?"
she said, breaking the silence that
followed.
II cannot change myself" he an
swered, almost wishing that he could.
Il ought, perhaps" he added, as
though speaking to himself. ii have
done enough harm as it is"
"HarmP To wbomP" She looked
round suddenly and saw the moisture
in his eye.
ITO him." he replied, glancing at
Kafka, land to you. You loved him
once. have ruined his life"
Loved him? No-I never loved
him" She shook her head, wonder
ing whether she spoke the truth.
you must have made him think
So.
Up No-he is mad" But she
shrunk before his honest look and
suddenly broke down. Mo- will
not lie to you-you are too true-yes,
/ loved him, or thought l did, until
you came, and saw that there was
| no one"
what is justice?" she asked.
Then she turned her head away again.
eff you knew what justice means for
me you would not ask me to be just.
You would be more merciful."
"You exaggerate--"
mo. You do not know, that Is all.
And you can never guess.
She relapsed into silence Before
her rose the dim altar in The church,
the shadowy figure of Beatrice stand
ing up in the dark, the horrible sacri-
lege that was TO have been done. Her
face grew dark with dread of her own
soul. The Wanderer went 90 far as
to try and distract her from her
gloomy thoughts, out of pure kindness
of heart.
you see, the Wanderer said,
gently, Il am to blame for it all"
"For it all? No-not for the thou
| sandtb part of IL all. What blame