“Take it, or take it not—­as you will.”  Unorna glanced at his angry face and quickly looked away.

“Take it?  Yes, and more too, whether you will give it or not,” answered Israel Kafka, moving nearer to her.  “Yes.  Whether you will, or whether you will not, I have all, your friendship, your love, your life, your breath, your soul—­all, or nothing!”

“You are wise to suggest the latter alternative as a possibility,” said Unorna coldly and not heeding his approach.

The young man stood still, and folded his arms.  The colour had returned to his face and a deep flush was rising under his olive skin.

“Do you mean what you say?” he asked slowly.  “Do you mean that I shall not have all, but nothing?  Do you still dare to mean that, after all that has passed between you and me?”

Unorna raised her eyes and looked steadily into his.

“Israel Kafka, do not speak to me of daring.”

But the young man’s glance did not waver.  The angry expression of his features did not relax; he neither drew back nor bent his head.  Unorna seemed to be exerting all the strength of her will in the attempt to dominate him, but without result.  In the effort she made to concentrate her determination her face grew pale and her lips trembled.  Kafka faced her resolutely, his eyes on fire, the rich colour mantling in his cheeks.

“Where is your power now?” he asked suddenly.  “Where is your witchery?  You are only a woman, after all.  You are only a weak woman!”

Very slowly he drew nearer to her side, his lithe figure bending a little as he looked down upon her.  Unorna leaned far back, withdrawing her face from his as far as she could, but still trying to impose her will upon him.

“You cannot,” he said between his teeth, answering her thought.

Men who have tamed wild beasts alone know what such a moment is like.  A hundred times the brave man has held the tiger spell-bound and crouching under his cold, fearless gaze.  The beast, ever docile and submissive, has cringed at his feet, fawned to his touch, and licked the hand that snatched away the half-devoured morsel.  Obedient to voice and eye, the giant strength and sinewy grace have been debased to make the sport of multitudes; the noble, pliant frame has contorted itself to execute the mean antics of the low-comedy ape—­to counterfeit death like a poodle dog; to leap through gaudily-painted rings at the word of command; to fetch and carry like a spaniel.  A hundred times the changing crowd has paid its paltry fee to watch the little play that is daily acted behind the stout iron bars by the man and the beast.  The man, the nobler, braver creature, is arrayed in a wretched flimsy finery of tights and spangles, parading his physical weakness and inferiority in the toggery of a mountebank.  The tiger, vast, sleepy-eyed, mysterious, lies motionless in the front of his cage, the gorgeous stripes of his velvet coat