the great northern stars, its mighty form was robed in the mantle of majesty set with the diamonds of suns and worlds, great and small, far and near—­not one tiny spark of all the myriad million gems was darkened by a breath of wind-blown mist.  The earth was very still, all wrapped in peace and lulled in love.  The great trees pointed their dark spires upwards from the temple of the forest to the firmament of the greater temple on high.  In the starlight the year’s first roses breathed out the perfume gathered from the departed sun, and every dewdrop in the short, sweet grass caught in its little self the reflection of heaven’s vast glory.  Only, in the universal stillness, the nightingale sang the song of songs, and bound the angel of love with the chains of her linked melody and made him captive in bonds stronger than his own.”

Israel Kafka spoke dreamily, resting against the stone beside him, seemingly little conscious of the words that fell in oriental imagery from his lips.  In other days Unorna had heard him speak like this to her, and she had loved the speech, though not the man, and sometimes for its sake she had wished her heart could find its fellow in his.  And even now, the tone and the words had a momentary effect upon her.  What would have sounded as folly, overwrought, sentimental, almost laughable, perhaps, to other women, found an echo in her own childish memories and a sympathy in her belief in her own mysterious nature.  The Wanderer had heard men talk as Israel Kafka talked, in other lands, where speech is prized by men and women not for its tough strength but for its wealth of flowers.

“And love was her first captive,” said the Moravian, “and her first slave.  Yes, I will tell you the story of Unorna’s life.  She is angry with me now.  Well, let it be.  It is my fault—­or hers.  What matter?  She cannot quite forget me out of mind—­and I?  Has Lucifer forgotten God?”

He sighed, and a momentary light flashed in his eyes.  Something in the blasphemous strength of the words attracted the Wanderer’s attention.  Utterly indifferent himself, he saw that there was something more than madness in the man before him.  He found himself wondering what encouragement Unorna had given the seed of passion that it should have grown to such strength, and he traced the madness back to the love, instead of referring the love to the madness.  But he said nothing.

“So she was born,” continued Kafka, dreaming on.  “She was born amid the perfume of the roses, under the starlight, when the nightingale was singing.  And all things that lived, loved her, and submitted to her voice and hand, and to her eyes and to her unspoken will, as running water follows the course men give it, winding and gliding, falling and rushing, full often of a roar of resistance that covers the deep, quick-moving stream, flowing in spite of itself through the channel that is dug for it to the determined end.  And nothing resisted her.