San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1891-12-24
6uTH0R or Rr lSAaCS.' or

was already enueQ Dy Tue certainty
that his love was hopeless and on
the other hand, fatalist as he was, he
believed that Unorna could not es-
cape him, and that no warning could
save her.
The Wanderer understood m )st of
these things as he fastened toward her
house through the darkening streets.
He saw himself in very strange
position. Half an hour had not
elapsed since he had watched Unorna
driving away from the cemetery, and
had inwardly determined that he
would never, if possible, set eyes
on her again. Scarcely two hours
earlier he had been speak
ing to her of the sincere friend
ship which he felt was growing up for
| her in his heart. Since then he had
learned, almost beyond the possibility
| of doubt, that she loved him, and
| that he had learned, too, TO despise
her. He had left her, meaning that
the parting should be final, and now
he was hurrying to her house to give
her the warning which alone could
save u6F lfOu ueSITuCIlOu.
But there was scant time for rehec-
ton upon the problem OF his own mis-
| sion ir the world as he FASTENED to-
ward Unorna's house. His present
mission was clear and simple enough,
though by no means easy OF accom-
| plishment. What Israel kafka had
told him was true. Should he attempt
I ,aio hn
chance Of being believed. 1t would be
easy enough for Kafka TO bring wit
nesses to prove his own love for
Unorna and the Wanderers intimacy
with her during the past month, and
| the latter consequent interest ia dis
posing summallly of his Moravian
The Wanderer was admitted with.
out question. He found Unorna in
her accustomed place. She had
thrown aside her fur5, and was sitting
in an attitude of deep thought Her
dress was black, and in the soft light
of the shaded lamp she was like a
dark, marble statue, set in the midst
of thick shrubbery in garden. Her
! elbow rested on her knee, her chin
upon her beautiful, heavy hand; only
in her hair there was bright color.
Il come from Israel Kafka" said
the Wanderer. standing still before
her.
What of him." she asked, in
voice without expression. is he
, well?'
He bids me say to you that he has
promised before heaven to take your
life, and that there is no escape from
a man who is ready to lay down his
! own
And you have brought me this
message-this warning-to save me?"
she said.
LAS | tried to save him from you
an hour ago. But there is little time.
The man is desperate, whether mad
or sane cannot tell. Make haste.
Determine where 10 go for safety, and
will take you there.
IL fancy it will not be safe to hest
tate long" he said. He is in earn
est"
Il do not fear Israel Kafka, and ]
fear death less, answered Unorna. de-
liberately.
''Why, does he mean to kill me?"
81 think that in his place most very
human men would feel as he does,
though religion or prudence, or fear
or all three together might prevent
them from doing what they would wish
to do"
You, too? And which of the
three would prevent you from murder
ing me?"
None, perhaps - though pity
might"
Il want no pity. least of all from
you. What | have done, l have done
for you, and for you only"
You do not seem surprised" said
Unorna. You know that love you"
Il know it,"
81 must repeat that, in my opinion,
you have not much time to spare. he
said. If you are not in a place OF
safety in half an hour cannot
answer for the consequences.
mo timep There is all eternity.
What is eternity or time or life to me?
will wait for him here. Why did
you tell him what did, if you wished
me to liveg'
''Why-since there are to be ques-
tions-why did you exercise your cru
city upon an innocent man who loves
you?"
why? There are reasons |
enough" Unorna's voice trembled !
slightly. You do not know what
happened. How should you2 You |
were asleep. You may as well know,
since may be beyond telling you in
an hour from now. You may as well |