And he who dies for you, Unorna--of him you ask nothing, save that he will crawl away and die alone, and not disturb your delicate life with such an unseemly sight." "You talk of death!" exclaimed Unorna scornfully.

"You talk of dying for me because you are ill to-day.

To-morrow, Keyork Arabian will have cured you, and then, for aught I know, you will talk of killing me instead.
This is child's talk, boy's talk.

If we are to listen to you, you must be more eloquent.

You must give us such a tale of woe as shall draw tears from our eyes and sobs from our breasts--then we will applaud you and let you go.