“Will you say it, only say the three words once?”

“I forgive you,” said the Wanderer quietly.  It cost him nothing, and, to him, meant less.

Unorna bent her head and was silent.  It was something to have heard him say it though he could not guess the least of the sins which she made it include.  She herself hardly knew why she had so insisted.  Perhaps it was only the longing to hear words kind in themselves, if not in tone, nor in his meaning of them.  Possibly, too, she felt a dim presentiment of her coming end, and would take with her that infinitesimal grain of pardon to the state in which she hoped for no other forgiveness.

“It was good of you to say it,” she said at last.

A long silence followed during which the thoughts of each went their own way.  Suddenly Israel Kafka stirred in his sleep.  The Wanderer went quickly forward and knelt down beside him and arranged the silken pillow as best he could.  Unorna was on the other side almost as soon.  With a tenderness of expression and touch which nothing can describe she moved the sleeping head into a comfortable position and smoothed the cushion, and drew up the furs disturbed by the nervous hands.  The Wanderer let her have her way.  When she had finished their eyes met.  He could not tell whether she was asking his approval and a word of encouragement, but he withheld neither.

“You are very gentle with him.  He would thank you if he could.”

“Did you not tell me to be kind to him?” she said.  “I am keeping my word.  But he would not thank me.  He would kill me if he were awake.”

The Wanderer shook his head.

“He was ill and mad with pain,” he answered.  “He did not know what he was doing.  When he wakes, it will be different.”

Unorna rose, and the Wanderer followed her.

“You cannot believe that I care,” she said, as she resumed her seat.  “He is not you.  My soul would not be the nearer to peace for a word of his.”

For a long time she sat quite still, her hands lying idly in her lap, her head bent wearily as though she bore a heavy burden.

“Can you not rest?” the Wanderer asked at length.  “I can watch alone.”

“No.  I cannot rest.  I shall never rest again.”

The words came slowly, as though spoken to herself.

“Do you bid me go?” she asked after a time, looking up and seeing his eyes fixed on her.

“Bid you go?  In your own house?” The tone was one of ordinary courtesy.  Unorna smiled sadly.

“I would rather you struck me than that you spoke to me like that!” she exclaimed.  “You have no need of such civil forbearance with me.  If you bid me go, I will go.  If you bid me stay, I will not move.  Only speak frankly.  Say which you would prefer.”

“Then stay,” said the Wanderer simply.

She bowed her head slightly and was silent again.  A distant clock chimed the hour.  The morning was slowly drawing near.