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.