Chapter XVI

The Witch of Prague

by F. Marion Crawford

The Wanderer glanced at Unorna's face and saw the expression of
relentless hatred which had settled upon her features. He neither
understood it nor attempted to account for it. So far as he knew,
Israel Kafka was mad, a man to be pitied, to be cared for, to be
controlled perhaps, but assuredly not to be maltreated. Though the
memories of the last half hour were confused and distorted, the
Wanderer began to be aware that the young Hebrew had been made to
suffer almost beyond the bounds of human endurance. So far as it was
possible to judge, Israel Kafka's fault consisted in loving a woman
who did not return his love, and his worst misdeed had been his
sudden intrusion upon an interview in which the Wanderer could recall
nothing which might not have been repeated to the whole world with
impunity.

During the last month he had lived a life of bodily and mental
indolence, in which all his keenest perceptions and strongest
instincts had been lulled into a semi-dormant state. Unknown to
himself, the mainspring of all thought and action had been taken out
of his existence together with the very memory of it. For years he
had lived and moved and wandered over the earth in obedience to one
dominant idea. By a magic of which he knew nothing that idea had been
annihilated, temporarily, if not for ever, and the immediate
consequence had been the cessation of all interest and of all desire
for individual action. The suspension of all anxiety, restlessness
and mental suffering had benefited the physical man though it had
reduced the intelligence to a state bordering upon total apathy.

But organisations, mental or physical, of great natural
strength, are never reduced to weakness by a period of inactivity. It
is those minds and bodies which have been artificially developed by a
long course of training to a degree of power they were never intended
to possess, which lose that force almost immediately in idleness. The
really very strong man has no need of constant gymnastic exercise; he
will be stronger than other men whatever he does. The strong
character needs not be constantly struggling against terrible odds in
the most difficult situations in order to be sure of its own
solidity, nor must the deep intellect be ever plodding through the
mazes of intricate theories and problems that it may feel itself
superior to minds of less compass. There is much natural inborn
strength of body and mind in the world, and on the whole those who
possess either accomplish more than those in whom either is the
result of long and well- regulated training.

The belief in a great cruelty and a greater injustice roused the
man who throughout so many days had lived in calm indifference to
every aspect of the humanity around him. Seeing that Israel Kafka
could not be immediately restored to consciousness, he rose to his
feet again and stood between the prostrate victim and Unorna.

"You are killing this man instead of saving him," he said. "His
crime, you say, is that he loves you. Is that a reason for using all
your powers to destroy him in body and mind?"

"Perhaps," answered Unorna calmly, though there was still a
dangerous light in her eyes.

"No. It is no reason," answered the Wanderer with a decision to
which Unorna was not accustomed. "Keyork tells me that the man is
mad. He may be. But he loves you and deserves mercy of you."

"Mercy!" exclaimed Unorna with a cruel laugh. "You heard what he
said --you were for silencing him yourself. You could not have done
it. I have--and most effectually."

"Whatever your art really may be, you use it badly and cruelly.
A moment ago I was blinded myself. If I had understood clearly while
you were speaking that you were making this poor fellow suffer in
himself the hideous agony you described I would have stopped you. You
blinded me, as you dominated him. But I am not blind now. You shall
not torment him any longer.

"And how would you have stopped me? How can you hinder me now?"
asked Unorna.

The Wanderer gazed at her in silence for some moments. There was
an expression in his face which she had never seen there. Towering
above her he looked down. The massive brows were drawn together, the
eyes were cold and impenetrable, every feature expressed strength.

"By force, if need be," he answered very quietly.

The woman before him was not of those who fear or yield. She met
his glance boldly. Scarcely half an hour earlier she had been able to
steal away his senses and make him subject to her. She was ready to
renew the contest, though she realised that a change had taken place
in him.

"You talk of force to a woman!" she exclaimed, contemptuously.
"You are indeed brave!"

"You are not a woman. You are the incarnation of cruelty. I have
seen it."

His eyes were cold and his voice was stern. Unorna felt a very
sharp pain and shivered as though she were cold. Whatever else was
bad and cruel and untrue in her wild nature, her love for him was
true and passionate and enduring. And she loved him the more for the
strength he was beginning to show, and for his determined opposition.
The words he had spoken had hurt her as he little guessed they could,
not knowing that he alone of men had power to wound her.

"You do not know," she answered. "How should you?" Her glance
fell and her voice trembled.

"I know enough," he said. He turned coldly from her and knelt
again beside Israel Kafka.

He raised the pale head and supported it upon his knee, and
gazed anxiously into the face, raising the lids with his finger as
though to convince himself that the man was not dead. Indeed there
seemed to be but little life left in him as he lay there with
outstretched arms and twisted fingers, scarcely breathing. In such a
place, without so much as the commonest restorative to aid him, the
Wanderer saw that he had but little chance of success.

Unorna stood aside, not looking at the two men. It was nothing
to her whether Kafka lived or died. She was suffering herself, more
than she had ever suffered in her life. He had said that she was not
a woman-- she whose whole woman's nature worshiped him. He had said
that she was the incarnation of cruelty--and it was true, though it
was her love for him that made her cruel to the other. Could he know
what she had felt, when she had understood that Israel Kafka had
heard her passionate words and seen her eager face, and had laughed
her to scorn? Could any woman at such a time be less than cruel? Was
not her hate for the man who loved her as great as her love for the
man who loved her not? Even if she possessed instruments of torture
for the soul more terrible than those invented in darker ages to rack
the human body, was she not justified in using them all? Was not
Israel Kafka guilty of the greatest of all crimes, of loving when he
was not loved, and of witnessing her shame and discomfiture? She
could not bear to look at him, lest she should lose herself and try
to thrust the Wanderer aside and kill the man with her hands.

Then she heard footsteps on the frozen path, and turning quickly
she saw that the Wanderer had lifted Kafka's body from the ground and
was moving rapidly away, towards the entrance of the cemetery. He was
leaving her in anger, without a word. She turned very pale and
hesitated. Then she ran forward to overtake him, but he, hearing her
approach, quickened his stride, seeming but little hampered in his
pace by the burden he bore. But Unorna, too, was fleet of foot and
strong.

"Stop!" she cried, laying her hand upon his arm. "Stop! Hear me!
Do not leave me so!"

But he would not pause, and hurried onward towards the gate,
while she hung upon his arm, trying to hinder him and speaking in
desperate agitation. She felt that if she let him go now, he would
leave her for ever. In that moment even her hatred of Kafka sank into
insignificance. She would do anything, bear anything, promise
anything rather than lose what she loved so wildly.

"Stop!" she cried again. "I will save him--I will obey you--I
will be kind to him--he will die in your arms if you do not let me
help you-- oh! for the love of Heaven, wait one moment! Only one
moment!"

She so thrust herself in the Wanderer's path, hanging upon him
and trying to tear Kafka from his arms, that he was forced to stand
still and face her.

"Let me pass!" he exclaimed, making another effort to advance.
But she clung to him and he could not move.

"No,--I will not let you go," she murmured. "You can do nothing
without me, you will only kill him, as I would have done a moment
ago--"

"And as you will do now," he said sternly, "if I let you have
your way."

"By all that is Holy in Heaven, I will save him--he shall not
even remember--"

"Do not swear. I shall not believe you."

"You will believe when you see--you will forgive me--you will
understand."

Without answering he exerted his strength and clasping the
insensible man more firmly in his arms he made one or two steps
forward. Unorna's foot slipped on the frozen ground and she would
have fallen to the earth, but she clung to him with desperate energy.
Seeing that she was in danger of some bodily hurt if he used greater
force, the Wanderer stopped again, uncertain how to act; Unorna stood
before him, panting a little from the struggle, her face as white as
death.

"Unless you kill me," she said, "you shall not take him away so.
Hold him in your arms, if you will, but let me speak to him."

"And how shall I know that you will not hurt him, you who hate
him as you do?"

"Am I not at your mercy?" asked Unorna. "If I deceive you, can
you not do what you will with me, even if I try to resist you, which
I will not? Hold me, if you choose, lest I should escape you, and if
Israel Kafka does not recover his strength and his consciousness,
then take me with you and deliver me up to justice as a witch--as a
murderess, if you will."

The Wanderer was silent for a moment. Then he realised that what
she said was true. She was in his power.

"Restore him if you can," he said.

Unorna laid her hands upon Kafka's forehead and bending down
whispered into his ear words which were inaudible even to the man who
held him. The mysterious change from sleep to consciousness was
almost instantaneous. He opened his eyes and looked first at Unorna
and then at the Wanderer. There was neither pain nor passion in his
face, but only wonder. A moment more and his limbs regained their
strength, he stood upright and passed his hand over his eyes as
though trying to remember what had happened.

"How came I here?" he asked in surprise. "What has happened to
me?"

"You fainted," said Unorna quietly. "You remember that you were
very tired after your journey. The walk was too much for you. We will
take you home."

"Yes--yes--I must have fainted. Forgive me--it comes over me
sometimes."

He evidently had complete control of his faculties at the
present moment, when he glanced curiously from the one to the other
of his two companions, as they all three began to walk towards the
gate. Unorna avoided his eyes, and seemed to be looking at the
irregular slabs they passed on their way.

The Wanderer had intended to free himself from her as soon as
Kafka regained his senses, but he had not been prepared for such a
sudden change. He saw, now, that he could not exchange a word with
her without exciting the man's suspicion, and he was by no means sure
that the first emotion might not produce a sudden and dangerous
effect. He did not even know how great the change might be, which
Unorna's words had brought about. That Kafka had forgotten at once
his own conduct and the fearful vision which Unorna had imposed upon
him was clear, but it did not follow that he had ceased to love her.
Indeed, to one only partially acquainted with the laws which govern
hypnotics, such a transition seemed very far removed from
possibility. He who in one moment had himself been made to forget
utterly the dominant passion and love of his life, was so completely
ignorant of the fact that he could not believe such a thing possible
in any case whatsoever.

In the dilemma in which he found himself there was nothing to be
done but to be guided by circumstances. He was not willing to leave
Kafka alone with the woman who hated him, and he saw no means of
escaping her society so long as she chose to impose it upon them
both. He supposed, too, that Unorna realized this as well as he did,
and he tried to be prepared for all events by revolving all the
possibilities in his mind.

But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to
time she stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern
and cold as ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A
terrible anxiety overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable,
that he would henceforth avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not
reckoned upon such a nature as his, capable of being roused to
implacable anger by mere sympathy for the suffering of another. Then,
understanding it at last, she had thought it would be enough that
those sufferings should be forgotten by him upon whom they had been
inflicted. She could not comprehend the horror he felt for herself
and for her hideous cruelty. She had entered the cemetery in the
consciousness of her strong will and of her mysterious powers certain
of victory, sure that having once sacrificed her pride and stooped so
low as to command what should have come of itself, she should see his
face change and hear the ring of passion in that passionless voice.
She had failed in that, and utterly. She had been surprised by her
worst enemy. She had been laughed to scorn in the moment of her
deepest humiliation, and she had lost the foundations of friendship
in the attempt to build upon them the hanging gardens of an
artificial love. In that moment, as they reached the gate, Unorna was
not far from despair.

A Jewish boy, with puffed red lips and curving nostrils, was
loitering at the entrance. The Wanderer told him to find a
carriage.

"Two carriages," said Unorna, quickly. The boy ran out. "I will
go home alone," she added. "You two can drive together."

The Wanderer inclined his head in assent, but said nothing.
Israel Kafka's dark eyes rested upon hers for a moment.

"Why not go together?" he asked.

Unorna started slightly and turned as though about to make a
sharp answer. But she checked herself, for the Wanderer was looking
at her. She spoke to him instead of answering Kafka.

"It is the best arrangement--do you not think so?" she asked.

"Quite the best."

"I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him," she
said, glancing at Kafka.

The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard.

"Have you been in pain? Do you feel as though you had been
suffering?" she asked of the younger man, in a tone of sympathy and
solicitude.

"No. Why do you ask?"

Unorna smiled and looked at the Wanderer, with intention. He did
not heed her. At that moment two carriages appeared and drew up at
the end of the narrow alley which leads from the street to the
entrance of the cemetery. All three walked forward together. Kafka
went forward and opened the door of one of the conveyances for Unorna
to get in. The Wanderer, still anxious for the man's safety, would
have taken his place, but Kafka turned upon him almost defiantly.

"Permit me," he said. "I was before you here."

The Wanderer stood civilly aside and lifted his hat. Unorna held
out her hand, and he took it coldly, not being able to do
otherwise.

"You will let me know, will you not?" she said. "I am anxious
about him."

He raised his eyebrows a little and dropped her hand.

"You shall be informed," he said.

Kafka helped her to get into the carriage. She drew him by the
hand so that his head was inside the door and the other man could not
hear her words.

"I am anxious about you," she said very kindly. "Make him come
himself to me and tell me how you are."

"Surely--if you have asked him--"

"He hates me," whispered Unorna quickly. "Unless you make him
come he will send no message."

"Then let me come myself--I am perfectly well--"

"Hush--no!" she answered hurriedly. "Do as I say--it will be
best for you--and for me. Good-bye."

"Your word is my law," said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were
bright and his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had
spoken so kindly to him. A ray of hope entered his life.

The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He
understood that in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some
mischief. Her carriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter
the one intended for them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his
lodgings. Then he sank back into the corner, exhausted and conscious
of his extreme weakness. A short silence followed.

"You are in need of rest," said the Wanderer, watching him
curiously.

"Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill."

"You have suffered enough to tire the strongest."

"In what way?" asked Kafka. "I have forgotten what happened. I
know that I followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house,
and I saw you afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I
came back from my long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred.
Did she make me sleep? I feel as I have felt before when I have
fancied that she has hypnotised me."

The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked
as naturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of
little or no weight.

"Yes," he answered. "She made you sleep."

"Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have
forgotten it."

The Wanderer hesitated a moment.

"I cannot answer your question," he said, at length.

"Ah--she told me that you hated her," said Kafka, turning his
dark eyes to his companion. "But, yet," he added, "that is hardly a
reason why you should not tell me what happened."

"I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I
have no right to say to a stranger--which I could not easily say to a
friend."

"You need not spare me--"

"It might save you."

"Then say it--though I do not know from what danger I am to be
saved. But I can guess, perhaps. You would advise me to give up the
attempt to win her."

"Precisely. I need say no more."

"On the contrary," said Kafka with sudden energy, "when a man
gives such advice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his
reasons."

The Wanderer looked at him calmly as he answered.

"One man need hardly give a reason for saving another man's
life. Yours is in danger."

"I see that you hate her, as she said you did."

"You and she are both mistaken in that. I am not in love with
her and I have ceased to be her friend. As for my interest in you, it
does not even pretend to be friendly--it is that which any man may
feel for a fellow-being, and what any man would feel who had seen
what I have seen this afternoon."

The calm bearing and speech of the experienced man of the world
carried weight with it in the eyes of the young Moravian, whose hot
blood knew little of restraint and less of caution; with the keen
instinct of his race in the reading of character he suddenly
understood that his companion was at once generous and disinterested.
A burst of confidence followed close upon the conviction.

"If I am to lose her love, I would rather lose my life also, and
by her hand," he said hotly. "You are warning me against her. I feel
that you are honest and I see that you are in earnest. I thank you.
If I am in danger, do not try to save me. I saw her face a few
moments ago, and she spoke to me. I cannot believe that she is
plotting my destruction."

The Wanderer was silent. He wondered whether it was his duty to
do or say more. Unorna was a changeable woman. She might love the man
to-morrow. But Israel Kafka was too young to let the conversation
drop. Boy-like he expected confidence for confidence, and was
surprised at his companion's taciturnity.

"What did she say to me when I was asleep?" he asked, after a
short pause.

"Did you ever hear the story of Simon Abeles?" the Wanderer
inquired by way of answer.

Kafka frowned and looked round sharply.

"Simon Abeles? He was a renegade Hebrew boy. His father killed
him. He is buried in the Teyn Kirche. What of him? What has he to do
with Unorna, or with me? I am myself a Jew. The time has gone by when
we Jews hid our heads. I am proud of what I am, and I will never be a
Christian. What can Simon Abeles have to do with me?"

"Little enough, now that you are awake."

"And when I was asleep, what then? She made me see him,
perhaps?"

"She made you live his life. She made you suffer all that he
suffered--"

"What?" cried Israel Kafka in a loud and angry tone.

"What I say," returned the other quietly.

"And you did not interfere? You did not stop her? No, of course,
I forgot that you are a Christian."

The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. It had not struck him
that Israel Kafka might be a man of the deepest religious
convictions, a Hebrew of the Hebrews, and that what he would resent
most would be the fact that in his sleep Unorna had made him play the
part and suffer the martyrdom of a convert to Christianity. This was
exactly what took place. He would have suffered anything at Unorna's
hands, and without complaint, even to bodily death, but his wrath
rose furiously at the thought that she had been playing with what he
held most sacred, that she had forced from his lips the denial of the
faith of his people and the confession of the Christian belief,
perhaps the very words of the hated Creed. The modern Hebrew of
Western Europe might be indifferent in such a case, as though he had
spoken in the delirium of a fever, but the Jew of the less civilised
East is a different being, and in some ways a stronger. Israel Kafka
represented the best type of his race, and his blood boiled at the
insult that had been put upon him. The Wanderer saw, and understood,
and at once began to respect him, as men who believe firmly in
opposite creeds have been known to respect each other even in a life
and death struggle.

"I would have stopped her if I could," he said.

"Were you sleeping, too?" asked Kafka hotly.

"I cannot tell. I was powerless though I was conscious. I saw
only Simon Abeles in it all, though I seemed to be aware that you and
he were one person. I did interfere--so soon as I was free to move. I
think I saved your life. I was carrying you away in my arms when she
waked you."

"I thank you--I suppose it is as you tell me. You could not
move--but you saw it all, you say. You saw me play the part of the
apostate, you heard me confess the Christian's faith?"

"Yes--I saw you die in agony, confessing it still."

Israel Kafka ground his teeth and turned his face away. The
Wanderer was silent. A few moments later the carriage stopped at the
door of Kafka's lodging. The latter turned to his companion, who was
startled by the change in the young face. The mouth was now closely
set, the features seemed bolder, the eyes harder and more manly, a
look of greater dignity and strength was in the whole.

"You do not love her?" he asked. "Do you give me your word that
you do not love her?"

"If you need so much to assure you of it, I give you my word. I
do not love her."

"Will you come with me for a few moments? I live here."

The Wanderer made a gesture of assent. In a few moments they
found themselves in a large room furnished almost in Eastern fashion,
with few objects, but those of great value. Israel Kafka was alone in
the world and was rich. There were two or three divans, a few low,
octagonal, inlaid tables, a dozen or more splendid weapons hung upon
the wall, and the polished wooden floor was partly covered with
extremely rich carpets.

"Do you know what she said to me, when I helped her into the
carriage?" asked Kafka.

"No, I did not attempt to hear."

"She did not mean that you should hear her. She made me promise
to send you to her with news of myself. She said that you hated her
and would not go to her unless I begged you to do so. Is that
true?"

"I have told you that I do not hate her. I hate her cruelty. I
will certainly not go to her of my own choice."

"She said that I had fainted. That was a lie. She invented it as
an excuse to attract you, on the ground of her interest in my
condition."

"Evidently."

"She hates me with an extreme hatred. Her real interest lay in
showing you how terrible that hatred could be. It is not possible to
conceive of anything more diabolically bad than what she did to me.
She made me her sport--yours, too, perhaps, or she would at least
have wished it. On that holy ground where my people lie in peace she
made me deny my faith, she made me, in your eyes and her own,
personate a renegade of my race, she made me confess in the Christian
creed, she made me seem to die for a belief I abhor. Can you conceive
of anything more devilish? A moment later she smiles upon me and
presses my hand, and is anxious to know of my good health. And but
for you, I should never have known what she had done to me. I owe you
gratitude, though it be for the worst pain I have ever suffered. But
do you think I will forgive her?"

"You would be very forgiving if you could," said the Wanderer,
his own anger rising again at the remembrance of what he had seen.

"And do you think that I can love still?"

"No."

Israel Kafka walked the length of the room and then came back
and stood before the Wanderer and looked into his eyes. His face was
very calm and resolute, the flush had vanished from his thin cheeks,
and the features were set in an expression of irrevocable
determination. Then he spoke, slowly and distinctly.

"You are mistaken. I love her with all my heart. I will
therefore kill her."

The Wanderer had seen many men in many lands and had witnessed
the effects of many passions. He gazed earnestly into Israel Kafka's
face, searching in vain for some manifestation of madness. But he was
disappointed. The Moravian had formed his resolution in cold blood
and intended to carry it out. His only folly appeared to lie in the
announcement of his intention. But his next words explained even
that.

"She made me promise to send you to her if you would go," he
said. "Will you go to her now?"

"What shall I tell her? I warn you that since--"

"You need not warn me. I know what you would say. But I will be
no common murderer. I will not kill her as she would have killed me.
Warn her, not me. Go to her and say, 'Israel Kafka has promised
before God that he will take your blood in expiation, and there is no
escape from the man who is himself ready to die.' Tell her to fly for
her life, and that quickly."

"And what will you gain by doing this murder?" asked the
Wanderer, calmly. He was revolving schemes for Unorna's safety, and
half amazed to find himself forced in common humanity to take her
part.

"I shall free myself of my shame in loving her, at the price of
her blood and mine. Will you go?"

"And what is to prevent me from delivering you over to safe
keeping before you do this deed?"

"You have no witness," answered Kafka with a smile. "You are a
stranger in the city and in this country, and I am rich. I shall
easily prove that you love Unorna, and that you wish to get rid of me
out of jealousy."

"That is true," said the Wanderer, thoughtfully. "I will go."

"Go quickly, then," said Israel Kafka, "for I shall follow
soon."

As the Wanderer left the room he saw the Moravian turn toward
the place where the keen, splendid Eastern weapons hung upon the
wall.