“Are you angry with me?” asked Unorna, almost humbly, and hardly knowing what she said.  The question had risen to her lips without warning, and was asked almost unconsciously.

“I do not understand.  Angry?  At what?  Why should you think I am angry?”

“You are so silent,” she answered, regaining courage from the mere sound of her own words.  “We have been walking a long time, and you have said nothing.  I thought you were displeased.”

“You must forgive me.  I am often silent.”

“I thought you were displeased,” she repeated.  “I think that you were, though you hardly knew it.  I should be very sorry if you were angry.”

“Why would you be sorry?” asked the Wanderer with a civil indifference that hurt Unorna more than any acknowledgment of his displeasure could have done.

“Because I would help you, if you would let me.”

He looked at her with sudden keenness.  In spite of herself she blushed and turned her head away.  He hardly noticed the fact, and, if he had, would assuredly not have put upon it any interpretation approaching to the truth.  He supposed that she was flushed with walking.

“No one has ever helped me, least of all in the way you mean,” he said.  “The counsels of wise men—­of the wisest—­have been useless, as well as the dreams of women who fancy they have the gift of mental sight beyond the limit of bodily vision.”

“Who fancy they see!” exclaimed Unorna, almost glad to find that she was still strong enough to feel annoyance at the slight.

“I beg your pardon.  I do not mean to doubt your powers, of which I have had no experience.”

“I did not offer to see for you.  I did not offer you a dream.”

“Would you show me that which I already see, waking and sleeping?  Would you bring to my hearing the sound of a voice which I can hear even now?  I need no help for that.”

“I can do more than that—­for you.”

“And why for me?” he asked with some curiosity.

“Because—­because you are Keyork Arabian’s friend.”  She glanced at his face, but he showed no surprise.

“You have seen him this afternoon, of course,” he remarked.

And odd smile passed over Unorna’s face.

“Yes.  I have seen him this afternoon.  He is a friend of mine, and of yours—­do you understand?”

“He is the wisest of men,” said the Wanderer.  “And also the maddest,” he added thoughtfully.

“And you think it was in his madness, rather than in his wisdom, that he advised you to come to me?”

“Possibly.  In his belief in you, at least.”

“And that may be madness?” She was gaining courage.

“Or wisdom—­if I am mad.  He believes in you.  That is certain.”

“He has no beliefs.  Have you known him long, and do not know that?  With him there is nothing between knowledge and ignorance.”

“And he knows, of course, by experience what you can do and what you cannot do?”